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diff --git a/10892-h/10892-h.htm b/10892-h/10892-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c6c7ae3 --- /dev/null +++ b/10892-h/10892-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,28515 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dawn, by H. Rider Haggard</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10892 ***</div> + +<h1>Dawn</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by H. Rider Haggard</h2> + +<h3>1884</h3> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XXXVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER XXXIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER XL.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap41">CHAPTER XLI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap42">CHAPTER XLII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap43">CHAPTER XLIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap44">CHAPTER XLIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap45">CHAPTER XLV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap46">CHAPTER XLVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap47">CHAPTER XLVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap48">CHAPTER XLVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap49">CHAPTER XLIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap50">CHAPTER L.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap51">CHAPTER LI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap52">CHAPTER LII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap53">CHAPTER LIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap54">CHAPTER LIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap55">CHAPTER LV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap56">CHAPTER LVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap57">CHAPTER LVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap58">CHAPTER LVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap59">CHAPTER LIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap60">CHAPTER LX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap61">CHAPTER LXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap62">CHAPTER LXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap63">CHAPTER LXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap64">CHAPTER LXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap65">CHAPTER LXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap66">CHAPTER LXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap67">CHAPTER LXVII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap68">CHAPTER LXVIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap69">CHAPTER LXIX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap70">CHAPTER LXX.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap71">CHAPTER LXXI.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap72">CHAPTER LXXII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap73">CHAPTER LXXIII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap74">CHAPTER LXXIV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap75">CHAPTER LXXV.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap76">CHAPTER LXXVI.</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="poem"> +“Our natures languish incomplete;<br/> +Something obtuse in this our star<br/> +Shackles the spirit’s winged feet;<br/> +But a glory moves us from afar,<br/> +And we know that we are strong and fleet.”<br/> +Edmund Ollier. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<p class="poem"> +“Once more I behold the face of her<br/> +Whose actions all had the character<br/> +Of an inexpressible charm, expressed;<br/> +Whose movements flowed from a centre of rest,<br/> +And whose rest was that of a swallow, rife<br/> +With the instinct of reposing life;<br/> +Whose mirth had a sadness all the while<br/> +It sparkled and laughed, and whose sadness lay<br/> +In the heaven of such a crystal smile<br/> +That you longed to travel the self-same way<br/> +To the brightness of sorrow. For round her breathed<br/> +A grace like that of the general air,<br/> +Which softens the sharp extremes of things,<br/> +And connects by its subtle, invisible stair<br/> +The lowest and the highest. She interwreathed<br/> +Her mortal obscureness with so much light<br/> +Of the world unrisen, that angel’s wings<br/> +Could hardly have given her greater right<br/> +To float in the winds of the Infinite.”<br/> +Edmund Ollier. +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>DAWN</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<p> +“You lie; you always were a liar, and you always will be a liar. You told +my father how I spent the money.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and what if I did? I had to look after myself, I suppose. You +forget that I am only here on sufferance, whilst you are the son of the house. +It does not matter to you, but he would have turned me out of doors,” +whined George. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! curse your fine words; it’s you who forget, you swab. Ay, +it’s you who forget that you asked me to take the money to the gambling- +tent, and made me promise that you should have half of what we won, but that I +should play for both. What, are you beginning to remember now—is it +coming back to you after a whole month? I am going to quicken your memory up +presently, I can tell you; I have got a good deal to pay off, I’m +thinking. I know what you are at; you want to play cuckoo, to turn +‘Cousin Philip’ out that ‘Cousin George’ may fill the +nest. You know the old man’s soft points, and you keep working him up +against me. You think that you would like the old place when he’s +gone—ay, and I daresay that you will get it before you have done, but I +mean to have my penn’orth out of you now, at any rate,” and, +brushing the tears of anger that stood in his brown eyes away with the back of +his hand, the speaker proceeded to square up to George in a most determined +way. +</p> + +<p> +Now Philip, with his broad shoulders and his firm-knit frame, would, even at +eighteen, have been no mean antagonist for a full-grown man; much more then did +he look formidable to the lankly, overgrown stripling crouching against the +corner of the wall that prevented his further retreat. +</p> + +<p> +“Philip, you’re not going to strike me, are you, when you know you +are so much stronger?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I am, though; if I can’t match you with my tongue, at any +rate I will use my fists. Look out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Philip, don’t! I’ll tell your father.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him! why, of course you will, I know that; but you shall have +something to lie about this time,” and he advanced to the attack with a +grim determination not pleasant for his cousin to behold. +</p> + +<p> +Finding that there was no escape, George turned upon him with so shrill a curse +that it even frightened from his leafy perch in the oak above the tame +turtle-dove, intensely preoccupied as he was in cooing to a new-found mate. He +did more than curse; he fought like a cornered rat, and with as much chance as +the rat with a trained fox-terrier. In a few seconds his head was as snugly +tucked away in the chancery of his cousin’s arm as ever any property was +in the court of that name, and, to speak truth, it seemed quite possible that, +when it emerged from its retreat, it would, like the property, be much +dilapidated and extensively bled. +</p> + +<p> +Let us not dwell upon the scene; for George it was a very painful one, so +painful that he never quite forgot it. His nose, too, was never so straight +again. It was soon over, though to one of the parties time went with unnatural +slowness. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think you’ve had about enough for once,” +soliloquized Philip, as he critically surveyed the writhing mass on the ground +before him; and he looked a very handsome lad as he said it. +</p> + +<p> +His curly black hair hung in waving confusion over his forehead, and flung +changing lights and shadows into the depths of his brown eyes, whilst his +massive and somewhat heavy features were touched into a more active life by the +light of that pleasing excitement which animates nine men out of every ten of +the Anglo-Saxon race when they are engaged on killing or hurting some other +living creature. The face, too, had a certain dignity about it, a little of the +dignity of justice; it was the face of one who feels that if his action has +been precipitate and severe, it has at any rate been virtuous. The full but +clear-cut lips also had their own expression on them, half serious, half +comical; humour, contempt, and even pity were blended in it. Altogether Philip +Caresfoot’s appearance in the moment of boyish vengeance was pleasing and +not uninteresting. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, however, something of the same change passed over his face that we +see in the sky when a cloud passes over the sun; the light faded out of it. It +was astonishing to note how dull and heavy—ay, more, how bad it made him +look all in a breath. +</p> + +<p> +“There will be a pretty business about this,” he murmured, and +then, administering a sharp kick to the prostrate and groaning form on the +ground before him, he said, “Now, then, get up; I’m not going to +touch you again. Perhaps, though, you won’t be in quite such a hurry to +tell lies about me another time, though I suppose that one must always expect a +certain amount of lying from a half-bred beggar like you. Like mother, like +son, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +This last sentence was accompanied by a bitter laugh, and produced a decided +effect on the grovelling George, who slowly raised himself upon his hands, and, +lifting his head, looked his cousin full in the face. +</p> + +<p> +It was not the ghastly appearance of his mangled and blood-soaked countenance +that made Philip recoil so sharply from the sight of his own handiwork—he +had fought too often at school to be chicken-hearted about a little bloodshed; +and, besides, he knew that his cousin was only knocked about, not really +injured—but rather the intense and almost devilish malignity of the +expression that hovered on the blurred features and in the half-closed eyes. +But no attempt was made by George to translate the look into words, and indeed +Philip felt that it was untranslatable. He also felt dimly that the hate and +malice with which he was regarded by the individual at his feet was of a more +concentrated and enduring character than most men have the power to originate. +In the lurid light of that one glance he was able, though he was not very +clever, to pierce the darkest recesses of his cousin’s heart, and to see +his inmost thought, no longer through a veil, but face to face. And what he saw +was sufficient to make the blood leave his ruddy cheek, and to fix his eyes +into an expression of fear. +</p> + +<p> +Next second George dropped his head on to the ground again, and began to moan +in an ostentatious manner, possibly in order to attract some one whose +footsteps could be plainly heard proceeding slowly down a shrubbery-path on the +other side of the yard wall. At any rate, that was the effect produced; for +next moment, before Philip could think of escape, had he wished to escape, a +door in the wall was opened, and a gentleman, pausing on the threshold, +surveyed the whole scene, with the assistance of a gold-mounted eye-glass, with +some evident surprise and little apparent satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +The old gentleman, for he was old, made so pretty a picture, framed as he was +in the arched doorway, and set off by a natural background of varying shades of +green, that his general appearance is worth sketching as he stood. To begin +with, he was dressed in the fashion of the commencement of this century, and, +as has been said, old, though it was difficult to say how old. Indeed, so +vigorous and comparatively youthful was his bearing that he was generally taken +to be considerably under seventy, but, as a matter of fact, he was but a few +years short of eighty. He was extremely tall, over six feet, and stood upright +as a lifeguardsman; indeed, his height and stately carriage would alone have +made him a remarkable-looking man, had there been nothing else unusual about +him; but, as it happened, his features were as uncommon as his person. They +were clear-cut and cast in a noble mould. The nose was large and aquiline, the +chin, like his son Philip’s, square and determined; but it was his eyes +that gave a painful fascination to his countenance. They were steely blue, and +glittered under the pent-house of his thick eyebrows, that, in striking +contrast to the snow-white of his hair, were black in hue, as tempered steel +glitters in a curtained room. It was those eyes, in conjunction with sundry +little peculiarities of temper, that had earned for the old man the title of +“Devil Caresfoot,” a sobriquet in which he took peculiar pride. So +pleased was he with it, indeed, that he caused it to be engraved in solid oak +letters an inch long upon the form of a life-sized and life-like portrait of +himself that hung over the staircase in the house. +</p> + +<p> +“I am determined,” he would say to his son, “to be known to +my posterity as I was known to my contemporaries. The picture represents my +person not inaccurately; from the nickname my descendants will be able to +gather what the knaves and fools with whom I lived thought of my character. Ah! +boy, I am wearing out; people will soon be staring at that portrait and +wondering if it was like me. In a very few years I shall no longer be +‘devil,’ but ‘devilled,’” and he would chuckle at +his grim and ill-omened joke. +</p> + +<p> +Philip felt his father’s eyes playing upon him, and shrunk from them. His +face had, at the mere thought of the consequences of his chastisement of his +cousin, lost the beauty and animation that had clothed it a minute before; now +it grew leaden and hard, the good died away from it altogether, and, instead of +a young god bright with vengeance, there was nothing but a sullen youth with +dull and frightened eyes. To his son, as to most people who came under his +influence, “Devil” Caresfoot was a grave reality. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the picture in the doorway opened its mouth and spoke in a singularly +measured, gentle voice. +</p> + +<p> +“You will forgive me, Philip, for interrupting your <i>tête-à-tête</i>, +but may I ask what is the meaning of this?” +</p> + +<p> +Philip returned no answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Since your cousin is not in a communicative mood, George, perhaps you +will inform me why you are lying on your face and groaning in that unpleasant +and aggressive manner?” +</p> + +<p> +George lifted his blood-stained face from the stones, and, looking at his +uncle, groaned louder than ever. +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask you, Philip, if George has fallen down and hurt himself, or if +there has been an—an—altercation between you?” +</p> + +<p> +Here George himself got up and, before Philip could make any reply, addressed +himself to his uncle. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” he said, “I will answer for Philip; there <i>has</i> +been an altercation, and he in the scuffle knocked me down, and I +confess,” here he put his hand up to his battered face, “that I am +suffering a good deal, but what I want to say is, that I beg you will not blame +Philip. He thought that I had wronged him, and, though I am quite innocent, and +could easily have cleared myself had he given me a chance, I must admit that +appearances are to a certain extent against me——” +</p> + +<p> +“He lies!” broke in Philip, sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +“You will wonder, sir,” went on the blood-stained George, +“how I allowed myself to be drawn into such a brutal affair, and one so +discreditable to your house. I can only say that I am very sorry,”— +which indeed he was—“and that I should never have taken any notice +of his words—knowing that he would regret them on reflection—had he +not in an unguarded moment allowed himself to taunt me with my birth. Uncle, +you know the misfortune of my father’s marriage, and that she was not his +equal in birth, but you know too that she was my mother and I love her memory +though I never saw her, and I could not bear to hear her spoken of like that, +and I struck him. I hope that both you and he will forgive me; I cannot say any +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“He lies again, he cannot speak the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Philip, will you allow me to point out,” remarked his father in +his blandest voice, “that the continued repetition of the very ugly word +‘lie’ is neither narrative nor argument. Perhaps you will be so +kind as to tell me your side of the story; you know I always wish to be +perfectly impartial.” +</p> + +<p> +“He lied to you this morning about the money. It’s true enough that +I gambled away the ten pounds at Roxham fair, instead of paying it into the +bank as you told me, but he persuaded me to it, and he was to have shared the +profits if we won. I was a blackguard, but he was a bigger blackguard; why +should I have all the blame and have that fellow continually shoved down my +throat as a saint? And so I thrashed him, and that is all about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, I am sorry to contradict Philip, but indeed he is in error; the +recollection of what took place has escaped him. I could, if necessary, bring +forward evidence—Mr. Bellamy——” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no need, George, for you to continue,” and then, fixing +his glittering eye on Philip: “it is very melancholy for me, having only +one son, to know him to be such a brute, such a bearer of false witness, such +an impostor as you are. Do you know that I have just seen Mr. Bellamy, the head +clerk at the bank, and inquired if he knew anything of what happened about that +ten pounds, and do you know what he told me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t, and I don’t want to.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I really must beg your attention: he told me that the day following +the fair your cousin George came to the bank with ten pounds, and told him how +you had spent the ten pounds I gave you to pay in, and that he brought the +money, his own savings, to replace what you had gambled away; and Bellamy added +that, under all the circumstances, he did not feel justified in placing it to +my credit. What have you to say to that?” +</p> + +<p> +“What have I to say? I have to say that I don’t believe a word of +it. If George had meant to do me a good turn he would have paid the money in +and said nothing to Bellamy about it. Why won’t you trust me a little +more, father? I tell you that you are turning me into a scoundrel. I am being +twisted up into a net of lies till I am obliged to lie myself to keep clear of +ruin. I know what this sneak is at; he wants to work you into cutting me out of +the property which should be mine by right. He knows your +weaknesses——” +</p> + +<p> +“My weaknesses, sir—my weaknesses!” thundered his father, +striking his gold-headed cane on to the stones; “what do you mean by +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, uncle, he meant nothing,” broke in George. +</p> + +<p> +“Meant nothing! Then for an idle speech it is one that may cost him dear. +Look you here, Philip Caresfoot, I know very well that our family has been +quite as remarkable for its vices as its virtues, but for the last two hundred +and fifty years we have been gentlemen, and you are not a gentleman; we have +not been thieves, and you have proved yourself a thief; we have spoken the +truth, and you are, what you are so fond of calling your cousin, who is worth +two of you, a liar. Now listen. However imperious I may have grown in my old +age, I can still respect the man who thwarts me even though I hate him; but I +despise the man who deceives me, as I despise you, my dear son Philip—and +I tell you this, and I beg you to lay it to heart, that if ever again I find +that you have deceived me, by Heaven I will disinherit you in favour +of—<i>oh, oh!</i>” and the old man fell back against the grey wall, +pressing his hands to his breast and with the cold perspiration starting on to +his pallid countenance. +</p> + +<p> +Both the lads sprang forward, but before they reached him he had recovered +himself. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing,” he said, in his ordinary gentle voice, “a +trifling indisposition. I wish you both good morning, and beg you to bear my +words in mind.” +</p> + +<p> +When he was fairly gone, George came up to his cousin and laid his hand upon +his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you insist upon quarrelling with me, Philip? it always ends like +this, you always get the worst of it.” +</p> + +<p> +But Philip’s only reply was to shake him roughly off, and to vanish +through the door towards the lake. George regarded his departing form with a +peculiar smile, which was rendered even more peculiar by the distortion of his +swollen features. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<p> +It is difficult to imagine any study that would prove more fascinating in +itself or more instructive in its issues, than the examination of the leading +characteristics of individual families as displayed through a series of +generations. But it is a subject that from its very nature is more or less +unapproachable, since it is but little that we know even of our immediate +ancestors. Occasionally in glancing at the cracking squares of canvas, many of +which cannot even boast a name, but which alone remain to speak of the real and +active life, the joys and griefs, the sins and virtues that centred in the +originals of those hard daubs and of ourselves, we may light upon a face that +about six generations since was the counterpart of the little boy upon our +shoulder, or the daughter standing at our side. In the same way, too, partly +through tradition and partly by other means, we are sometimes able to trace in +ourselves and in our children the strong development of characteristics that +distinguished the race centuries ago. +</p> + +<p> +If local tradition and such records of their individual lives as remained are +worthy of any faith, it is beyond a doubt that the Caresfoots of Bratham Abbey +had handed down their own hard and peculiar cast of character from father to +son unaffected in the main by the continual introduction of alien blood on the +side of the mother. +</p> + +<p> +The history of the Caresfoot family had nothing remarkable about it. They had +been yeomen at Bratham from time immemorial, perhaps ever since the village had +become a geographical fact; but it was on the dissolution of the monasteries +that they first became of any importance in the county. Bratham Abbey, which +had shared the common fate, was granted by Henry VIII. to a certain courtier, +Sir Charles Varry by name. For two years the owner never came near his new +possession, but one day he appeared in the village, and riding to the house of +Farmer Caresfoot, which was its most respectable tenement, he begged him to +show him the Abbey house and the lands attached. It was a dark November +afternoon, and by the time the farmer and his wearied guest had crossed the +soaked lands and reached the great grey house, the damps and shadows of the +night had begun to curtain it and to render its appearance, forsaken as it was, +inexpressibly dreary and lonesome. +</p> + +<p> +“Damp here, my friend, is it not?” said Sir Charles with a shudder, +looking towards the lake, into which the rain was splashing. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, it be.” +</p> + +<p> +“And lonely too, now that the old monks have gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but they do say that the house be mostly full of the spirits of the +dead,” and the yeoman sank his voice to an awed whisper. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Charles crossed himself and muttered, “I can well believe it,” +and then, addressing his companion— +</p> + +<p> +“You do not know of any man who would buy an abbey with all its rights +and franchises, do you, friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not rightly, sir; the land be so poor it hath no heart in it; it doth +scarce repay the tillage, and what the house is you may see. The curse of the +monks is on it. But still, sir, if you have a mind to be rid of the place, I +have a little laid by and a natural love for the land, having been bred on it, +and taken the colour of my mind and my stubby growth therefrom, and I will give +you—” and this astutest of all the Caresfoots whispered a very +small sum into Sir Charles’ ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Your price is very small, good friend, it doth almost vanish into +nothing; and methinks the land that reared you cannot be so unkind as you would +have me think. The monks did not love bad land, but yet, if thou hast it in the +gold, I will take it; it will pay off a debt or two, and I care not for the +burden of the land.” +</p> + +<p> +And so Farmer Caresfoot became the lawful owner of Bratham Abbey with its two +advowsons, its royal franchises of treasure-trove and deodand, and more than a +thousand acres of the best land in Marlshire. +</p> + +<p> +The same astuteness that had enabled this wise progenitor to acquire the estate +enabled his descendants to stick tightly to it, and though, like other +families, they had at times met with reverses, they never lost their grip of +the Abbey property. During the course of the first half of the nineteenth +century the land increased largely in value, and its acreage was considerably +added to by the father of the present owner, a man of frugal mind, but with the +family mania for the collection of all sorts of plate strongly developed. But +it was Philip’s father, “Devil Caresfoot,” who had, during +his fifty years’ tenure of the property, raised the family to its present +opulent condition, firstly, by a strict attention to business and the large +accumulations resulting from his practice of always living upon half his +income, and secondly, by his marriage late in middle life with Miss Bland, the +heiress of the neighbouring Isleworth estates, that stretched over some two +thousand acres of land. +</p> + +<p> +This lady, who was Philip’s mother, did not live long to enjoy her wealth +and station. Her husband never spoke a rough word to her, and yet it is no +exaggeration to say that she died of fear of him. The marriage had been one of +convenience, not of affection; indeed poor Anna Bland had secretly admired the +curate at Isleworth, and hated Mr. Caresfoot and his glittering eye. But she +married him for all that, to feel that till she died that glance was always +playing round her like a rapier in the hands of a skilled fencer. And very soon +she did die, Mr. Caresfoot receiving her last words and wishes with the same +exquisite and unmoved politeness that he had extended to every remark she had +made to him in the course of their married life. Having satisfactorily eyed +Mrs. Caresfoot off into a better world, her husband gave up all idea of further +matrimonial ventures, and set himself to heap up riches. But a little before +his wife’s death, and just after his son’s birth, an event had +occurred in the family that had disturbed him not a little. +</p> + +<p> +His father had left two sons, himself and a brother, many years his junior. Now +this brother was very dear to Mr. Caresfoot; his affection for him was the one +weak point in his armour; nor was it rendered any the less sincere, but rather +the more touching, by the fact that its object was little better than +half-witted. It is therefore easy to imagine his distress and anger when he +heard that a woman who had till shortly before been kitchen-maid at the Abbey +House, and was now living in the village, had been confined of a son which she +fixed upon his brother, whose wife she declared herself to be. Investigation +only brought out the truth of the story; his weak-minded brother had been +entrapped into a glaring <i>mésalliance</i>. +</p> + +<p> +But Mr. Caresfoot proved himself equal to the occasion. So soon as his +“sister-in-law,” as it pleased him to call her sardonically, had +sufficiently recovered, he called upon her. What took place at the visit never +transpired, but next day Mrs. E. Caresfoot left her native place never to +return, the child remaining with the father, or rather with the uncle. That boy +was George. At the time when this story opens both his parents were dead: his +father from illness resulting from entire failure of brain power, the mother +from drink. +</p> + +<p> +Whether it was that he considered the circumstance of the lad’s birth +entitled him to peculiar consideration, or that he transferred to him the +affection he bore his father, the result was that his nephew was quite as dear +if not even dearer to Mr. Caresfoot than his own son. Not, however, that he +allowed his preference to be apparent, save in the negative way that he was +blind to faults in George that he was sufficiently quick to note in Philip. To +observers this partiality seemed the more strange when they thought upon +Philip’s bonny face and form, and then noted how the weak-brained father +and coarse-blooded mother had left their mark in George’s thick lips, +small, restless eyes, pallid complexion, and loose-jointed form. +</p> + +<p> +When Philip shook off his cousin’s grasp and vanished towards the lake, +he did so with bitter wrath and hatred in his heart, for he saw but too clearly +that he had deeply injured himself in his father’s estimation, and, what +was more, he felt that so much as he had sunk his side of the balance, by so +much he had raised up that of George. He was inculpated; a Bellamy came upon +the scene to save George, and, what was worse, an untruthful Bellamy; he was +the aggressor, and George the meek in spirit with the soft answer that turneth +away wrath. It was intolerable; he hated his father, he hated George. There was +no justice in the world, and he had not wit to play rogue with such a one as +his cousin. Appearances were always against him; he hated everybody. +</p> + +<p> +And then he began to think that there was in the very next parish somebody whom +he did not hate, but who, on the contrary, interested him, and was always ready +to listen to his troubles, and he also became aware of the fact that whilst his +mind had been thinking his legs had been walking, and that he was very near the +abode of that person—almost at its gates, in short. He paused and looked +at his watch; it had stopped at half-past eleven, the one blow that George had +succeeded in planting upon him having landed on it, to the great detriment of +both the watch and the striker’s knuckles; but the sun told him that it +was about half-past twelve, not too early to call. So he opened the gate, and, +advancing up an avenue of old beeches to a square, red-brick house of the time +of Queen Anne, boldly rang the bell. +</p> + +<p> +Was Miss Lee at home? Yes, Miss Lee was in the greenhouse; perhaps Mr. Philip +would step into the garden, which Mr. Philip did accordingly. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Philip? I’m delighted to see you; you’ve just +come in time to help in the slaughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Slaughter, slaughter of what—a pig?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, green fly. I’m going to kill thousands.” +</p> + +<p> +“You cruel girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“I daresay it is cruel, but I don’t care. Grumps always said that I +had no heart, and, so far as green fly are concerned, Grumps was certainly +right. Now, just look at this lily. It is an auratum. I gave three-and-six (out +of my own money) for that bulb last autumn, and now the bloom is not worth +twopence, all through green fly. If I were a man I declare I should swear. +Please swear for me, Philip. Go outside and do it, so that I mayn’t have +it on my conscience. But now for vengeance. Oh, I say, I forgot, you know, I +suppose. I ought to be looking very sorry——” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what’s the matter? Any one dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, so much better than that. <i>It’s got Grumps.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Got her, what has got her? What is ‘it’?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Chancery, of course. I always call Chancery ‘it.’ I +wouldn’t take its name in vain for worlds. I am too much afraid. I might +be made to ‘show a cause why,’ and then be locked up for contempt, +which frequently happens after you have tried to ‘show a cause.’ +That is what has happened to Grumps. She is now showing a cause; shortly she +will be locked up. When she comes out, if she ever does come out, I think that +she will avoid wards in Chancery in future; she will have too much sympathy +with them, and too much practical experience of their position.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what on earth do you mean, Maria? What has happened to Miss +Gregson?” (<i>anglice</i> Grumps). +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you remember one of my guardians, or rather his wife, got +‘it’ to appoint her my chaperon, but my other guardian wanted to +appoint somebody else, and after taking eighteen months to do it, he has moved +the court to show that Grumps is not a ‘fit and proper person.’ The +idea of calling Grumps improper. She nearly fainted at it, and swore that, +whether she lived through it or whether she didn’t, she would never come +within a mile of me or any other ward if she could help it, not even the ward +of an hospital. I told her to be careful, or she would be ‘committing +contempt,’ which frightened her so that she hardly spoke again till she +left yesterday. Poor Grumps! I expect she is on bread and water now; but if she +makes herself half as disagreeable to the Vice-Chancellor as she did to me, I +don’t believe that they will keep her long. She’ll wear the gaolers +out; she will wear the walls out; she will wear ‘it’ down to the +bone; and then they will let her loose upon the world again. Why, there is the +bell for lunch, and not a single green fly the less! Never mind, I will do for +them to-morrow. How it would add to her sufferings in her lonely cell if she +could see us going to a <i>tête-à-tête</i> lunch. Come on, Philip, come quick, +or the cutlets will get cold, and I hate cold cutlets.” And off she +tripped, followed by the laughing Philip, who, by the way, was now looking +quite handsome again. +</p> + +<p> +Maria Lee was not very pretty at her then age—just eighteen—but she +was a perfect specimen of a young English country girl; fresh as a rose, and +sound as a bell, and endowed besides with a quick wit and a ready sympathy. She +was essentially one of that class of Englishwomen who make the English upper +middle class what it is—one of the finest and soundest in the world. +Philip, following her into the house, thought that she was charming; nor, being +a Caresfoot, and therefore having a considerable eye to the main chance, did +the fact of her being the heiress to fifteen hundred a year in land detract +from her charms. +</p> + +<p> +The cutlets were excellent, and Maria ate three, and was very comical about the +departed Grumps; indeed, anybody not acquainted with the circumstances would +have gathered that that excellent lady was to be shortly put to the question. +Philip was not quite so merry; he was oppressed both by recollections of what +had happened and apprehensions of what might happen. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Philip?” she asked, when they had left the +table to sit under the trees on the lawn. “I can see that something is +the matter. Tell me all about it, Philip.” +</p> + +<p> +And Philip told her what had happened that morning, laying bare all his +heart-aches, and not even concealing his evil deeds. When he had done, she +pondered awhile, tapping her little foot upon the turf. +</p> + +<p> +“Philip,” she said at last, in quite a changed voice, “I do +not think that you are being well treated. I do not think that your cousin +means kindly by you, but—but I do not think that you have behaved rightly +either. I don’t like that about the ten pounds; and I think that you +should not have touched George; he is not so strong as you. Please try to do as +your father—dear me, I am sure I don’t wonder that you are afraid +of him; I am—tells you, and regain his affection, and make it up with +George; and, if you get into any more troubles, come and tell me about them +before you do anything foolish; for though, according to Grumps, I am silly +enough, two heads are better than one.” +</p> + +<p> +The tears stood in the lad’s brown eyes as he listened to her. He gulped +them down, however, and said— +</p> + +<p> +“You are awfully kind to me; you are the only friend I have. Sometimes I +think that you are an angel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Philip. If ‘it’ heard you talk like that, you +would join Grumps. Don’t let me hear any more such stuff,” but, +though she spoke sharply, somehow she did not look displeased. +</p> + +<p> +“I must be off,” he said at length. “I promised to go with my +father to see a new building on Reynold’s farm. I have only twenty +minutes to get home;” and rising they went into the house through a +French window opening on to the lawn. +</p> + +<p> +In the dining-room he turned, and, after a moment’s hesitation, stuttered +out— +</p> + +<p> +“Maria, don’t be angry with me, but may I give you a kiss?” +</p> + +<p> +She blushed vividly. +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you suggest such a thing?—but—but as Grumps has +gone, and there is no new Grumps to refer to, and therefore I can only consult +my own wishes, perhaps if you really wish to, Philip, why, Philip, you +may.” +</p> + +<p> +And he did. +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone she leant her head against the cold marble mantelpiece. +</p> + +<p> +“I do love him,” she murmured, “yes, that I do.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<p> +Philip was not very fond of taking walks with his father, since he found that +in nine cases out of ten they afforded opportunities for inculcation of facts +of the driest description with reference to estate management, or to the +narration by his parent of little histories of which his conduct upon some +recent occasion would adorn the moral. On this particular occasion the prospect +was particularly unpleasant, for his father would, he was well aware, overflow +with awful politeness, indeed, after the scene of the morning, it could not be +otherwise. Oh, how much rather would he have spent that lovely afternoon with +Maria Lee! Dear Maria, he would go and see her again the very next day. +</p> + +<p> +When he arrived, some ten minutes after time in the antler-hung hall of the +Abbey House, he found his father standing, watch in hand, exactly under the big +clock, as though he was determined to make a note by double entry of every +passing second. +</p> + +<p> +“When I asked you to walk with me this afternoon, Philip, I, if my memory +does not deceive me, was careful to say that I had no wish to interfere with +any prior engagement. I was aware how little interest, compared to your cousin +George, you take in the estate, and I had no wish to impose an uncongenial +task. But, as you kindly volunteered to accompany me, I regret that you did not +find it convenient to be punctual to the time you fixed. I have now waited for +you for seventeen minutes, and let me tell you that at my time of life I cannot +afford to lose seventeen minutes. May I ask what has delayed you?” +</p> + +<p> +This long speech had given Philip the opportunity of recovering the breath that +he had lost in running home. He replied promptly— +</p> + +<p> +“I have been lunching with Miss Lee.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed, then I no longer wonder that you kept me waiting, and I must +say that in this particular I commend your taste. Miss Lee is a young lady of +good family, good manners, and good means. If her estate went with this +property it would complete as pretty a five thousand acres of mixed soil as +there is in the county. Those are beautiful old meadows of hers, beautiful. +Perhaps——” but here the old man checked himself. +</p> + +<p> +On leaving the house they had passed together down a walk called the tunnel +walk, on account of the arching boughs of the lime-trees that interlaced +themselves overhead. At the end of this avenue, and on the borders of the lake, +there stood an enormous but still growing oak, known as Caresfoot’s +Staff. It was the old squire’s favourite tree, and the best topped piece +of timber for many miles round. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder,” said Philip, by way of making a little pleasant +conversation, “why that tree was called Caresfoot’s Staff.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your ignorance astonishes me, Philip, but I suppose that there are some +people who can live for years in a place and yet imbibe nothing of its +traditions. Perhaps you know that the monks were driven out of these ruins by +Henry VIII. Well, on the spot where that tree now stands there grew a still +greater oak, a giant tree, its trunk measured sixteen loads of timber; which +had, as tradition said, been planted by the first prior of the Abbey when +England was still Saxon. The night the monks left a great gale raged over +England. It was in October, when the trees were full of leaf, and its fiercest +gust tore the great oak from its roothold, and flung it into the lake. Look! do +you see that rise in the sand, there, by the edge of the deep pool, in the +eight foot water? That is there it is supposed to lie. Well, the whole +country-side said that it was a sign that the monks had gone for ever from +Bratham Abbey, and the country-side was right. But when your ancestor, old +yeoman Caresfoot, bought this place and came to live here, in a year when there +was a great black frost that set the waters of the lake like one of the +new-fangled roads, he asked his neighbours, ay, and his labouring folk, to come +and dine with him and drink to the success of his purchase. It was a proud day +for him, and when dinner was done and they were all mellow with strong ale, he +bade them step down to the borders of the lake, as he would have them be +witness to a ceremony. When they reached the spot they saw a curious sight, for +there on a strong dray, and dragged by Farmer Caresfoot’s six best +horses, was an oak of fifty years’ growth coming across the ice, earth, +roots and all. +</p> + +<p> +“On that spot where it now stands there had been a great hole, ten feet +deep by fourteen feet square, dug to receive it, and into that hole Caresfoot +Staff was tilted and levered off the dray. And when it had been planted, and +the frozen earth well trodden in, your grandfather in the ninth degree brought +his guests back to the old banqueting-hall, and made a speech which, as it was +the first and last he ever made, was long remembered in the country-side. It +was, put into modern English, something like this: +</p> + +<p> +“‘Neighbours,—Prior’s Oak has gone into the water, and +folks said that it was for a sign that the monks would never come back to +Bratham, and that it was the Lord’s wind that put it there. And, +neighbours, as ye know, the broad Bratham lands and the fat marshes down by the +brook passed by king’s grant to a man that knew not clay from loam, or +layer from pasturage, and from him they passed by the Lord’s will to me, +as I have asked you here to-day to celebrate. And now, neighbours, I have a +mind, and though it seem to you but a childish thing, yet I have a mind, and +have set myself to fulfil it. When I was yet a little lad, and drove the swine +out to feed on the hill yonder, when the acorns had fallen, afore Farmer +Gyrton’s father had gracious leave from the feoffees to put up the fence +that doth now so sorely vex us, I found one day a great acorn, as big as a +dow’s egg, and of a rich and wondrous brown, and this acorn I bore home +and planted in kind earth in the corner of my dad’s garden, thinking that +it would grow, and that one day I would hew its growth and use it for a staff. +Now that was fifty long years ago, lads, and there where grew Prior’s +Oak, there, neighbours, I have set my Staff to-day. The monks have told us how +in Israel every man planted his fig and his vine. For the fig I know not +rightly what that is; but for the vine, I will plant no creeping, clinging +vine, but a hearty English oak, that, if they do but give it good room to +breathe in, and save their heirloom from the axe, shall cast shade and grow +acorns, and burst into leaf in the spring and grow naked in the winter, when +ten generations of our children, and our children’s children, shall have +mixed their dust with ours yonder in the graveyard. And now, neighbours, I have +talked too long, though I am better at doing than talking; but ye will even +forgive me, for I will not talk to you again, though on this the great day of +my life I was minded to speak. But I will bid you every man pledge a health to +the Caresfoot’s Staff, and ask a prayer that, so long as it shall push +its leaves, so long may the race of my loins be here to sit beneath its shade, +and even mayhap when the corn is ripe and the moon is up, and their hearts grow +soft towards the past, to talk with kinsman or with sweetheart of the old man +who struck it in this kindly soil.’” +</p> + +<p> +The old squire’s face grew tender as he told this legend of the forgotten +dead, and Philip’s young imagination summoned up the strange old-world +scene of the crowd of rustics gathered in the snow and frost round this very +tree. +</p> + +<p> +“Philip,” said his father, suddenly, “you will hold the +yeoman’s Staff one day; be like it of an oaken English heart, and you +will defy wind and weather as it has done, and as your forbears have done. +Come, we must go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, Philip,” he continued, after a while, “you will +remember what I said to you this morning—I hope that you will remember +it, though I spoke in anger—never try to deceive me again, or you will +regret it. And now I have something to say to you. I wish you to go to college +and receive an education that will fit you to hold the position you must in the +course of Nature one day fill in the county. The Oxford term begins in a few +days, and you have for some years been entered at Magdalen College. I do not +expect you to be a scholar, but I do expect you to brush off your rough ways +and your local ideas, and to learn to become such a person both in your conduct +and your mind as a gentleman of your station should be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is George to go to college too?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; I have spoken to him on the subject, and he does not wish it. He +says very wisely that, with his small prospects, he would rather spend the time +in learning how to earn his living. So he is going to be articled to the Roxham +lawyers, Foster and Son, or rather Foster and Bellamy, for young Bellamy, who +is a lawyer by profession, came here this morning, not to speak about you, but +on a message from the firm to say that he is now a junior partner, and that +they will be very happy to take George as an articled clerk. He is a +hard-working, shrewd young man, and it will be a great advantage to George to +have his advice and example before him.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip assented, and went on in silence, reflecting on the curious change in +his immediate prospects that this walk had brought to light. He was much +rejoiced at the prospect of losing sight of George for a while, and was +sufficiently intelligent to appreciate the advantages, social and mental, that +the University would offer him; but it struck him that there were two things +which he did not like about the scheme. The first of these was, that whilst he +was pursuing his academical studies, George would practically be left on the +spot—for Roxham was only six miles off—to put in motion any schemes +he might have devised; and Philip was sure that he had devised schemes. And the +second, that Oxford was a long way from Maria Lee. However, he kept his +objections to himself. In due course they reached the buildings they had set +out to examine, and the old squire, having settled what was to be done, and +what was to be left undone, with characteristic promptitude and shrewdness, +they turned homewards. +</p> + +<p> +In passing through the shrubberies, on their way back to the house, they +suddenly came upon a stolid-looking lad of about fifteen, emerging from a +side-walk with a nest full of young blackbirds in his hand. Now, if there was +one thing in this world more calculated than another to rouse the most +objectionable traits of the old squire’s character into rapid action, it +was the discovery of boys, and more especially bird-nesting boys, in his +plantations. In the first place, he hated trespassers; and in the second, it +was one of his simple pleasures to walk in the early morning and listen to the +singing of the birds that swarmed around. Accordingly, at the obnoxious sight +he stopped suddenly, and, drawing himself up to his full height, addressed the +trembling youth in his sweetest voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Your name is, I believe—Brady—Jim Brady—correct me if +I am wrong— and you have come here, +you—you—young—villain—to steal my birds.” +</p> + +<p> +The frightened boy walked slowly backwards, followed by the old man with his +fiery eyes fixed upon his face, till at last concussion against the trunk of a +great tree prevented further retreat. Here he stood for about thirty seconds, +writhing under the glance that seemed to pierce him through and through, till +at last he could stand it no longer, but flung himself on the ground, roaring: +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! don’t ee, squire; don’t ee now look at me with that +‘ere eye. Take and thrash me, squire, but don’t ee fix me so! I +hayn’t had no more nor twenty this year, and a nest of spinxes, and Tom +Smith he’s had fifty-two and a young owl. Oh! oh!” +</p> + +<p> +Enraged beyond measure at this last piece of information, Mr. Caresfoot took +his victim at his word, and, ceasing his ocular experiments, laid into the less +honourable portion of his form with the gold-headed malacca cane in a way that +astonished the prostrate Jim, though he was afterwards heard to declare that +the squire’s cane “warn’t not nothing compared with the +squire’s eye, which wore a hot coal, it wore, and frizzled your innards +as sich.” +</p> + +<p> +When Jim Brady had departed, never to return again, and the old man had +recovered his usual suavity of manner, he remarked to his son: +</p> + +<p> +“There is some curious property in the human eye; a property that is, I +believe, very much developed in my own. Did you observe the effect of my glance +upon that boy? I was trying an experiment on him. I remember it was always the +same with your poor mother. She could never bear me to look at her.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip made no reply, but he thought that, if she had been the object of +experiments of that nature, it was not very wonderful. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly after their return home he received a note from Miss Lee. It ran thus: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“My dear Philip, + +“What <i>do</i> you think? Just after you had gone away, I got by the +mid-day post, which Jones (the butcher) brought from Roxham, several letters, +amongst them one from Grumps and one from Uncle Tom. Grumps has shown a cause. +Why? ‘It’ said she was not an improper person; but, for all that, +she is so angry with Uncle Tom that she will not come back, but has accepted an +offer to go to Canada as companion to a lady; so farewell Grumps.<br/> + +“Now for Uncle Tom. ‘It’ suggested that I should live with +some of my relations till I came of age, and pay them four hundred a year, +which I think a good deal. I am sure it can’t cost four hundred a year to +feed me, though I have such an appetite. I had no idea they were all so fond of +me before; they all want me to come and live with them, except Aunt Chambers, +who, you know, lives in Jersey. Uncle Tom says in his letter that he shall be +glad if his daughters can have the advantage of my example, and of studying my +polished manners (just fancy <i>my</i> polished manners; and I know, because +little Tom, who is a brick, told me, that only last year he heard his father +tell Emily—that’s the eldest—that I was a dowdy, snub-nosed, +ill-mannered miss, but that she must keep in with me and flatter me up). No, I +will not live with Uncle Tom, and I will tell ‘it’ so. If I must +leave my home, I will go to Aunt Chambers at Jersey. Jersey is a beautiful +place for flowers, and one learns French there without the trouble of learning +it; and I like Aunt Chambers, and she has no children, and nothing but the +memory of a dear departed. But I don’t like leaving home, and feel very +much inclined to cry. <i>Hang</i> the Court of Chancery, and Uncle Tom and his +interference too!—<i>there</i>. I suppose you can’t find time to +come over to-morrow morning to see me off? Good-bye, dear Philip,<br/> + “Your affectionate friend, “Maria Lee.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip did manage to find time next morning, and came back looking very +disconsolate. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<p> +Philip went to college in due course, and George departed to learn his business +as a lawyer in Roxham, but it will not be necessary for us to enter into the +details of their respective careers during this period of their lives. +</p> + +<p> +At college Philip did fairly well, and, being a Caresfoot, did not run into +debt. He was, as his great bodily strength gave promise of, a first-class +athlete, and for two years stroked the Magdalen boat. Nor did he altogether +neglect his books, but his reading was of a desultory and out-of-the-way order, +and much directed towards the investigation of mystical subjects. Fairly well +liked amongst the men with whom he mixed, he could hardly be called popular; +his temperament was too uncertain for that. At times he was the gayest of the +gay, and then when the fit took him he would be plunged into a state of gloomy +depression that might last for days. His companions, to whom his mystical +studies were a favourite jest, were wont to assert that on these occasions he +was preparing for a visit from his familiar, but the joke was one that he never +could be prevailed upon to appreciate. The fact of the matter was that these +fits of gloom were constitutional with him, and very possibly had their origin +in the state of his mother’s mind before his birth, when her whole +thoughts were coloured by her morbid and fanciful terror of her husband, and +her frantic anxiety to conciliate him. +</p> + +<p> +During the three years that he spent at college, Philip saw but little of +George, since, when he happened to be down at Bratham, which was not often, for +he spent most of his vacations abroad, George avoided coming there as much as +possible. Indeed, there was a tacit agreement between the two young men that +they would see as little of each other as might be convenient. But, though he +did not see much of him himself, Philip was none the less aware that +George’s influence over his father was, if anything, on the increase. The +old squire’s letters were full of him and of the admirable way in which +he managed the estate, for it was now practically in his hands. Indeed, to his +surprise and somewhat to his disgust, he found that George began to be spoken +of indifferently with himself as the “young squire.” Long before +his college days had come to an end Philip had determined that he would do his +best, as soon as opportunity offered, to reduce his cousin to his proper place, +not by the violent means to which he had resorted in other days, but rather by +showing himself to be equally capable, equally assiduous, and equally +respectful and affectionate. +</p> + +<p> +At last the day came when he was to bid farewell to Oxford for good, and in due +course he found himself in a second-class railway carriage —thinking it +useless to waste money, he always went second—and bound for Roxham. +</p> + +<p> +Just before the train left the platform at Paddington, Philip was agreeably +surprised out of his meditations by the entry into his carriage of an extremely +elegant and stately young lady, a foreigner as he judged from her strong accent +when she addressed the porter. With the innate gallantry of twenty-one, he +immediately laid himself out to make the acquaintance of one possessed of such +proud, yet melting blue eyes, such lovely hair, and a figure that would not +have disgraced Diana; and, with this view, set himself to render her such +little services as one fellow-traveller can offer to another. They were +accepted reservedly at first, then gratefully, and before long the reserve +broke down entirely, and this very handsome pair dropped into a conversation as +animated as the lady’s broken English would allow. The lady told him that +her name was Hilda von Holtzhausen, that she was of a German family, and had +come to England to enter a family as companion, in order to obtain a perfect +knowledge of the English language. She had already been to France and acquired +French; when she knew English, then she had been promised a place as +school-mistress under government in her own country. Her father and mother were +dead, and she had no brothers or sisters, and very few friends. +</p> + +<p> +Where was she going to? She was going to a place called Roxham; here it was +written on the ticket. She was going to be companion to a dear young lady, very +rich, like all the English, whom she had met when she had travelled with her +French family to Jersey, a Miss Lee. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t say so!” said Philip. “Has she come back to +Rewtham?” +</p> + +<p> +“What, do you, then, know her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—that is, I used to three years ago. I live in the next +parish.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! then perhaps you are the gentleman of whom I have heard her to +speak, Mr. Car-es-foot, whom she did seem to appear to love; is not that the +word?—to be very fond, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip laughed, blushed, and acknowledged his identity with the gentleman whom +Miss Lee “did seem to appear to love.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I am glad; then we shall be friends, and see each other often— +shall we not?” +</p> + +<p> +He declared unreservedly that she should see him very often. +</p> + +<p> +From Fräulein von Holtzhausen Philip gathered in the course of their journey a +good many particulars about Miss Lee. It appeared that, having attained her +majority, she was coming back to live at her old home at Rewtham, whither she +had tried to persuade her Aunt Chambers to accompany her, but without success, +that lady being too much attached to Jersey to leave it. During the course of a +long stay on the island, the two girls had become fast friends, and the +friendship had culminated in an offer being made by Maria Lee to Fräulein von +Holtzhausen to come and live with her as a companion, a proposal that exactly +suited the latter. +</p> + +<p> +The mention of Miss Lee’s name had awakened pleasant recollections in +Philip’s mind, recollections that, at any other time, might have tended +towards the sentimental; but, when under fire from the blue eyes of this +stately foreigner, it was impossible for him to feel sentimental about anybody +save herself. “The journey is over all too soon,” was the secret +thought of each as they stepped on to the Roxham platform. Before they had +finally said good-bye, however, a young lady with a dainty figure, in a shady +hat and pink and white dress, came running along the platform. +</p> + +<p> +“Hilda, Hilda, here I am! How do you do, dear? Welcome home,” and +she was about to seal her welcome with a kiss, when her eye fell upon Philip +standing by. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Philip!” she cried with a blush, “don’t you know +me? Have I changed much? I should have known you anywhere; and I am glad to see +you, awfully glad (excuse the slang, but it is such a relief to be able to say +‘awful’ without being pulled up by Aunt Chambers). Just think, it +is three years since we met. Do you remember Grumps? How do I look? Do you +think you will like me as much as you used to?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that you are looking the same dear girl that you always used to +look, only you have grown very pretty, and it is not possible that I shall like +you more than I used to.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think they must teach you to pay compliments at Oxford, Philip,” +she answered, flushing with pleasure, “but it is all rubbish for you to +say that I am pretty, because I know I am not”—and then, +confidentially, glancing round to see that there was nobody within hearing +(Hilda was engaged with a porter in looking after her things): “Just look +at my nose, and you will soon change your mind. It’s broader, and +flatter, and snubbier than ever. I consider that I have got a bone to pick with +Providence about that nose. Ah! here comes Hilda. Isn’t she lovely! +There’s beauty for you if you like. She hasn’t got a nose. Come and +show us to the carriage. You will come and lunch with us to-morrow, won’t +you? I am so glad to get back to the old house again; and I mean to have such a +garden! ‘Life is short, and joys are fleeting,’ as Aunt Chambers +always says, so I mean to make the best of it whilst it lasts. I saw your +father yesterday. He is a dear old man, though he has such awful eyes. I never +felt so happy in my life as I do now. Good-bye. One o’clock.” And +she was gone, leaving Philip with something to think about. +</p> + +<p> +Philip’s reception at home was cordial and reassuring. He found his +father considerably aged in appearance, but as handsome and upright as ever, +and to all appearance heartily glad to see him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to see you back, my boy,” he said. “You come to +take your proper place. If you look at me, you will see that you won’t +have long to wait before you take mine. I can’t last much longer, Philip, +I feel that. Eighty-two is a good age to have reached. I have had my time, and +put the property in order, and now I suppose I must make room. I went with the +clerk, old Jakes, and marked out my grave yesterday. There’s a nice +little spot the other side of the stone that they say marks where old yeoman +Caresfoot, who planted Caresfoot’s Staff, laid his bones, and +that’s where I wish to be put, in his good company. Don’t forget +that when the time comes, Philip. There’s room for another if you care to +keep it for yourself, but perhaps you will prefer the vault.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not talk of dying yet, father. You will live many years +yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Philip; perhaps one, perhaps two, not more than two, perhaps a +month, perhaps not a day. My life hangs on a thread now.” And he pointed +to his heart. “It may snap any day, if it gets a strain. By the way, +Philip, you see that cupboard? Open it! Now, you see that stoppered bottle with +the red label? Good. Well now, if ever you see me taken with an attack of the +heart (I have had one since you were away, you know, and it nearly carried me +off), you run for that as hard as you can go, and give it me to drink, half at +a time. It is a tremendous restorative of some sort, and old Caley says that, +if I do not take it when the next attack comes, there’ll be an end of +‘Devil Caresfoot’;” and he rapped his cane energetically on +the oak floor. +</p> + +<p> +“And so, Philip, I want you to go about and make yourself thoroughly +acquainted with the property, so that you may be able to take things over when +I die without any hitch. I hope that you will be careful and do well by the +land. Remember that a big property like this is a sacred trust. +</p> + +<p> +“And now there are two more things that I will take this opportunity to +say a word to you about. First, I see that you and your cousin George +don’t get on well, and it grieves me. You have always had a false idea of +George, always, and thought that he was underhand. Nothing could be more +mistaken than such a notion. George is a most estimable young man, and my dear +brother’s only son. I wish you would try to remember that, +Philip—blood is thicker than water, you know— and you will be the +only two Caresfoots left when I am gone. Now, perhaps you may think that I +intend enriching George at your expense, but that is not so. Take this key and +open the top drawer of that secretaire, and give me that bundle. This is my +will. If you care to look over it, and can understand it—which is more +than I can—you will see that everything is left to you, with the +exception of that outlying farm at Holston, those three Essex farms that I +bought two years ago, and twelve thousand pounds in cash. Of course, as you +know, the Abbey House, and the lands immediately round, are entailed—it +has always been the custom to entail them for many generations. There, put it +back. And now the last thing is, I want you to get married, Philip. I should +like to see a grandchild in the house before I die. I want you to marry Maria +Lee. I like the girl. She comes of a good old Marlshire stock—our family +married into hers in the year 1703. Besides, her property would put yours into +a ring-fence. She is a sharp girl too, and quite pretty enough for a wife. I +hope you will think it over, Philip.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father; but perhaps she will not have me. I am going to lunch there +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you need be afraid, Philip; but I won’t keep +you any longer. Shake hands, my boy. You’ll perhaps think of your old +father kindly when you come to stand in his shoes. I hope you will, Philip. We +have had many a quarrel, and sometimes I have been wrong, but I have always +wished to do my duty by you, my boy. Don’t forget to make the best of +your time at lunch to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip went out of his father’s study considerably touched by the +kindness and consideration with which he had been treated, and not a little +relieved to find his position with reference to his succession to the estate so +much better than he had anticipated, and his cousin George’s so much +worse. +</p> + +<p> +“That red-haired fox has plotted in vain,” he thought, with secret +exultation. And then he set himself to consider the desirability of falling in +with his father’s wishes as regards marriage. Of Maria he was, as the +reader is aware, very fond; indeed, a few years before he had been in love with +her, or something very like it; he knew too that she would make him a very good +wife, and the match was one that in every way commended itself to his common +sense and his interests. Yes, he would certainly take his father’s +advice. But every time he said this to himself—and he said it pretty +often that evening—there would arise before his mind’s eye a vision +of the sweet blue eyes of Miss Lee’s stately companion. What eyes they +were, to be sure! It made Philip’s blood run warm and quick merely to +think of them; indeed, he could almost find it in his heart to wish that Hilda +was Maria and Maria was in Hilda’s shoes. +</p> + +<p> +What between thoughts of the young lady he had set himself to marry, and of the +young lady he did not mean to marry, but whose eyes he admired, Philip did not +sleep so well as usual that night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<p> +Philip did not neglect to go to luncheon at Rewtham house, and a very pleasant +luncheon it was; indeed, it would have been difficult for him to have said +which he found the pleasantest: Maria’s cheerful chatter and flattering +preference, or Hilda’s sweet and gracious presence. +</p> + +<p> +After luncheon, at Maria’s invitation he gave Fräulein von Holtzhausen +her first lesson in writing in English character; and to speak truth he found +the task of guiding her fair hand through the mysteries of the English alphabet +a by no means uncongenial occupation. When he came away his admiration of +Hilda’s blue eyes was more pronounced than ever; but, on the other hand, +so was his conviction that he would be very foolish if he allowed it to +interfere with his intention of making Maria Lee his wife. +</p> + +<p> +He who would drive two women thus in double harness must needs have a light +hand and a ready lash, and it is certainly to the credit of Philip’s +cleverness that he managed so well as he did. For as time went on he discovered +his position to be this. Both Hilda and Maria were in love with him, the former +deeply and silently, the latter openly and ostensibly. Now, however gratifying +this fact might be to his pride, it was in some ways a thorny discovery, since +he dared not visibly pay his attentions to either. For his part he returned +Hilda von Holtzhausen’s devotion to a degree that surprised himself; his +passion for her burnt him like a fire, utterly searing away the traces of his +former affection for Maria Lee. Under these circumstances, most young men of +twenty-one would have thrown prudence to the winds and acknowledged, either by +acts or words, the object of their love; but not so Philip, who even at that +age was by no means deficient in the characteristic caution of the Caresfoot +family. He saw clearly that his father would never consent to his marriage with +Hilda, nor, to speak truth, did he himself at all like the idea of losing Miss +Lee and her estates. +</p> + +<p> +On the other hand, he knew Hilda’s proud and jealous mind. She was no +melting beauty who would sigh and submit to an affront, but, for all her +gracious ways, at heart a haughty woman, who, if she reigned at all, would +reign like Alexander, unrivalled and alone. That she was well aware of her +friend’s tendresse for Philip the latter very shortly guessed; indeed, as +he suspected, Maria was in the habit of confiding to her all her hopes and +fears connected with himself, a suspicion that made him very careful in his +remarks to that young lady. +</p> + +<p> +The early summer passed away whilst Philip was still thinking over his +position, and the face of the country was blushing with all the glory of July, +when one afternoon he found himself, as he did pretty frequently, in the shady +drawing-room at Miss Lee’s. As he entered, the sound of voices told him +that there were other visitors beside himself, and, as soon as his eyes had +grown accustomed to the light, he saw his cousin George, together with his +partner Mr. Bellamy, and a lady with whom he was not acquainted. +</p> + +<p> +George had improved in appearance somewhat since we last saw him meeting with +severe treatment at his cousin’s hands. The face had filled up a little, +with the result that the nose did not look so hooked, nor the thick lips so +coarse and sensual. The hair, however, was as red as ever, and as for the +small, light-blue eyes, they twinkled with the added sharpness and lustre that +four years of such experience of the shady side of humanity as can be gathered +in a lawyer’s office, is able to give to the student of men and manners. +</p> + +<p> +So soon as Philip had said how-do-you-do to Maria and Hilda, giving to each a +gentle pressure of the hand, George greeted him with warmth. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, Philip? delighted to see you; how is my uncle? Bellamy saw +him this morning, and thought that he did not look well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly did think, Mr. Philip,” said the gentleman alluded to, +a very young-looking, apple-faced little man, with a timid manner, who stood in +the background nervously rubbing his dry hands together—“I +certainly did think that the squire looked aged when I saw him this +morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see, Mr. Bellamy, eighty-two is a good age, is it not?” +said Philip, cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Philip, a good age, a very good age, for the <i>next +heir</i>,” and Mr. Bellamy chuckled softly somewhere down in his throat, +and retreated a little. +</p> + +<p> +“He is getting facetious,” broke in George, “that marriage +has done that for him. By the way, Philip, do you know Mrs. Bellamy? she has +only been down here a fortnight, you know. What, no! Then you have a pleasure +to come” (raising his voice so that it might be heard at the other end of +the room), “a very clever woman, and as handsome as she is clever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! I must ask you to introduce me presently, Mr. Bellamy. I only +recently heard that you were married.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Bellamy blushed and twisted and was about to speak, when George cut in +again. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I dare say you didn’t; sly dog, Bellamy; do you know what he +did? I introduced him to the lady when we were up in town together last +Christmas. I was dreadfully hard hit myself, I can assure you, and as soon as +my back was turned he went and cut me out of the water—and turned my +adored into Mrs. Bellamy.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you taking my name in vain about, Mr. Caresfoot?” said a +rich, low voice behind them. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless me, Anne, how softly you move, you quite startled me,” said +little Mr. Bellamy, putting on his spectacles in an agitated manner. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, a wife, like an embodied conscience, should always be at her +husband’s shoulder, especially when he does not know it.” +</p> + +<p> +Bellamy made no reply, but looked as though the sentiment was one of which he +did not approve; meantime the lady repeated her question to George, and the two +fell into a bantering conversation. Philip, having dropped back a little, had +an opportunity of carefully observing Mrs. Bellamy, an occupation not without +interest, for she was certainly worthy of notice. +</p> + +<p> +About twenty years of age, and of medium height, her figure was so finely +proportioned and so roomily made that it gave her the appearance of being +taller than she really was. The head was set squarely on the shoulders, the +hair was cut short, and clustered in ringlets over the low, broad brow; whilst +the clearly carved Egyptian features and square chin gave the whole face a +curious expression of resoluteness and power. The eyes were heavily-lidded and +greyish-green in hue, with enormously large dark pupils that had a strange +habit of expanding and contracting without apparent reason. +</p> + +<p> +Gazing at her, Philip was at a loss to know whether this woman so bizarrely +beautiful fascinated or repelled him; indeed, neither then nor at any future +time did he succeed in deciding the question. Whilst he was still +contemplating, and wondering how Bellamy of all people in the world had managed +to marry such a woman, and what previous acquaintance George had had with her, +he saw the lady whisper something to his cousin, who at once turned and +introduced him. +</p> + +<p> +“Philip,” he said, “let me introduce you to the most charming +lady of my acquaintance, Mrs. Bellamy.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip bowed and expressed himself delighted, whilst the lady curtsied with a +mixture of grace and dignity that became her infinitely well. +</p> + +<p> +“Your cousin has often spoken to me of you, Mr. Caresfoot, but he never +told me——” here she hesitated, and broke off. +</p> + +<p> +“What did he never tell you, Mrs. Bellamy? Nothing to my disadvantage, I +hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary, if you wish to know,” she said, in that tone of +flattering frankness which is sometimes so charming in a woman’s mouth, +“he never told me that you were young and handsome. I fancied you forty +at least.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should dearly like to tell you, Mrs. Bellamy, what my cousin George +never told <i>me</i>; but I won’t, for fear I should make Bellamy +jealous.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jealousy, Mr. Caresfoot, is a luxury that <i>my</i> husband is not +allowed to indulge in; it is very well for lovers, but what is a compliment in +a lover becomes an impertinence in a husband. But if I keep you here much +longer, I shall be drawing the enmity of Miss Lee, and—yes, of Fräulein +von Holtzhausen, too, on to my devoted head, and, as that is the only sort of +jealousy I have any fear of, or indeed any respect for, being as it is the +expression of the natural abhorrence of one woman for another, I had rather +avoid it.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip followed the direction of her sleepy eyes, and saw that both Miss Lee +and Hilda appeared to be put out. The former was talking absently to Mr. +Bellamy, and glancing continually in the direction of that gentleman’s +wife. The latter, too, whilst appearing to listen to some compliment from +George, was gazing at Mrs. Bellamy with a curious look of dislike and +apprehension in her face. +</p> + +<p> +“You see what I mean; Fräulein von Holtzhausen actually looks as though +she were afraid of me. Can you fancy any one being afraid of me, except my +husband, of course?—for as you know, when a woman is talking of men, her +husband is <i>always</i> excepted. Come, we must be going; but, Mr. Caresfoot, +bend a little nearer; if you will accept it from such a stranger, I want to +give you a bit of advice—make your choice pretty soon, or you will lose +them both.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean—how do you know——” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean nothing at all, or just as much as you like, and for the rest I +use my eyes. Come, let us join the others.” +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later Hilda put down her work, and, declaring that she felt hot, +threw open the French window and went out into the garden, whither, on some +pretext or other, Philip followed her. +</p> + +<p> +“What a lovely woman that is,” said Mrs. Bellamy, with enthusiasm, +to Miss Lee, as soon as Philip was out of earshot. “Her <i>tout +ensemble</i> positively kills one. I feel plain and dowdy as a milkmaid +alongside of a Court-beauty when I am in the room with her. Don’t you, +Miss Lee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know, I never thought about it, but of course she is +lovely and I’m plain, so there is no possibility of comparison between +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think you rate yourself rather low, if you will allow me to say +so; but most women would but ‘poorly satisfy the sight’ of a man +when she was present. I know that I should not care to trust my admirer (if I +had one), however devoted he might be, for a single day in her company; would +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I really don’t know; what <i>do</i> you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mean, Miss Lee, why I mean nothing at all; what should I mean, except +that beauty is a magnet which attracts all men; it serves them for a standard +of morality and a test of right and wrong. Men are different from women. If a +man is faithful to one of us, it is only because no other woman of sufficient +charm has become between him and us. You can never trust a man.” +</p> + +<p> +“What dreadful ideas you have.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so? I hope not. I only speak what I have observed. Take the +case of Fräulein von Holtzhausen, for instance. Did you not notice that whilst +she was in the room the eyes of the three gentlemen were all fixed upon her, +and as soon as she leaves it one of them follows her, as the others would have +done had they not been forestalled? One cannot blame them; they are simply +following a natural law. Any other man would do the same where such a charming +person is concerned.” +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly did not notice it; indeed, to speak the truth, I thought +that they were more occupied with you——” +</p> + +<p> +“With me! why, my dear Miss Lee, <i>I</i> don’t set up for being +good- looking. What a strange idea. But I dare say you are right, it is only +one of my theories based upon my own casual observations, and, after all, men +are not a very interesting subject, are they? Let’s talk of something +more exciting—dresses, for instance.” +</p> + +<p> +But poor Maria was too uncomfortable and disturbed to talk of anything else, so +she collapsed into silence, and shortly after Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy and George +made their adieux. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Philip and Hilda had been walking leisurely down the shrubberies +adjoining the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Why have you come out?” she asked in German, a language he +understood well. +</p> + +<p> +“To walk with you. Why do you speak to me in German?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because it is my pleasure to do so, and I never asked you to walk with +me. You are wanted in the drawing-room, you had better go back.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I won’t go, Hilda; that is, not until you have promised me +something.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not call me Hilda, if you please. I am the Fräulein von Holtzhausen. +What is it you want me to promise?” +</p> + +<p> +“I want you to meet me this evening at nine o’clock in the summer- +house.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think, Mr. Caresfoot, that you are forgetting a little what is due to +me, to yourself, and—to Miss Lee?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by due to Miss Lee?” +</p> + +<p> +“Simply that she is in love with you, and that you have encouraged her in +her affection; you need not contradict me, she tells me all about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Hilda; if you will meet me to-night, I will explain +everything; there is no need for you to be jealous.” +</p> + +<p> +She swept round upon him, tossing her head, and stamping her dainty foot upon +the gravel. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Caresfoot,” she said, “once and for all I am not +jealous, and I will not meet you; I have too much respect for myself, and too +little for you,” and she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Philip’s face, as he stood looking after her, was not pleasant to see; it +was very hard and angry. +</p> + +<p> +“Jealous, is she? I will give her something to be jealous for, the proud +minx;” and in his vexation he knocked off the head of a carnation with +his stick. +</p> + +<p> +“Philip, what <i>are</i> you doing? Those are my pet Australian +carnations; at least, I think they are Australian. How can you destroy them +like that?” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Maria; I was only plucking one for you. Won’t you put +it in your dress? Where are the others?” +</p> + +<p> +“They have all gone. Come in, it is so hot out there; and tell me what +you think of Mrs. Bellamy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that she is very handsome and very clever. I wonder where +Bellamy picked her up.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; I wish he hadn’t picked her up at all. I +don’t like her, she says unpleasant things; and, though I have only seen +her three times, she seems to know all about me and everybody else. I am not +very quick; but do you know just now I thought that she was insinuating that +you were in love with Hilda; that’s not true, is it, Philip? Don’t +think me forward if I ask you if that is true, and if I say that, if it is, it +is better that I should know it. I sha’n’t be angry, Philip;” +and the girl stood before him to await his answer, one hand pressed against her +bosom to still the beating of her heart, whilst with the other she screened her +blushing brow. +</p> + +<p> +And Philip too stood face to face with her sweet self, with conscience, and +with opportunity. “Now,” whispered conscience, “is the time, +before very much harm is done; now is the acceptable time to tell her all about +it, and, whilst forbidding her love, to enlist her sympathy and friendship. It +will be wrong to encourage her affection; when you ardently love another woman, +you cannot palter any more.” “Now,” whispered opportunity, +shouldering conscience aside, “is the time to secure her, her love, and +her possessions, and to reward Hilda for her pride. Do not sacrifice yourself +to an infatuation; do not tell her about Hilda—it would only breed +jealousies; you can settle with her afterwards. Take the goods the gods provide +you.” +</p> + +<p> +All this and more passed through his mind; and he had made his choice long +before the rich blood that mantled in the lady’s cheek had sunk back to +the true breast from whence it came. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, instant of time born to colour all eternity to thine own hue, for this man +thou hast come and gone! Oh, fleeting moment, bearing desolation or healing on +thy wings, how the angels, in whose charge lie the souls of men, must tremble +and turn pale, as they mark thy flight through the circumstances of a +man’s existence, and thence taking thy secrets with thee away to add thy +fateful store to the records of his past! +</p> + +<p> +He took her hand, the hand that was pressed upon her bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“Maria,” he said, “you should not get such ideas into your +head. I admire Hilda very much, and that is all. Why, dear, I have always +looked upon myself as half engaged to you—that is, so far as I am +concerned; and I have only been waiting till circumstances would allow me to do +so, to ask you if you think me worth marrying.” +</p> + +<p> +For a while she made no reply, but only blushed the more; at last she looked up +a little. +</p> + +<p> +“You have made me very happy, Philip.” That was all she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very glad, dear, that you can find anything in me to like; but if +you do care for me, and think me worth waiting for, I am going to ask something +of your affection: I am going to ask you to trust me as well as to love me. I +do not, for reasons that I will not enter into, but which I beg you to believe +are perfectly straightforward, wish anything to be said of our engagement at +present, not even to your friend Hilda. Do you trust me sufficiently to agree +to that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Philip, I trust you as much as I love you, and for years I have loved +you with all my heart. And now, dear, please go; I want to think.” +</p> + +<p> +In the hall a servant gave him a note; it was from Hilda, and ran thus— +</p> + +<p> +“I have changed my mind. I will meet you in the summer-house this +evening. I have something to say to you.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip whistled as he read it. +</p> + +<p> +“Devilish awkward,” he thought to himself; “if I am going to +marry Maria, she must leave this. But I cannot bear to part with her. I love +her! I love her!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<p> +It was some time before Philip could make up his mind whether or no he would +attend his tryst with Hilda. In the first place, he felt that it was an unsafe +proceeding generally, inasmuch as moonlight meetings with so lovely a person +might, should they come to the knowledge of Miss Lee, be open to +misconstruction; and particularly because, should she show the least tenderness +towards him, he knew in his heart that he could not trust himself, however much +he might be engaged in another direction. At twenty-one the affections cannot +be outraged with impunity, but have an awkward way of asserting themselves, +ties of honour notwithstanding. +</p> + +<p> +But as a rule, when in our hearts we wish to do anything, that thing must be +bad indeed if we cannot find a satisfactory excuse for doing it; and so it was +with Philip. Now, thought he to himself, would be his opportunity to inform +Hilda of his relations with Maria Lee, and to put an end to his flirtation with +her; for, ostensibly at any rate, it was nothing more than a very serious +flirtation—that is to say, though there had been words of love, and even +on her part a passionate avowal of affection, wrung in an unguarded moment from +the depths of her proud heart, there had been no formal engagement. It was a +thing that must be done, and now was the time to do it. And so he made up his +mind to go. +</p> + +<p> +But when, that night, he found himself sitting in the appointed place, and +waiting for the coming of the woman he was about to discard, but whom he loved +with all the intensity of his fierce nature, he began to view the matter in +other lights, and to feel his resolution oozing from him. Whether it was the +silence of the place that told upon his nerves, strained as they were with +expectation—for silence, and more especially silence by night, is a great +unveiler of realities,—or the dread of bitter words, or the prescience of +the sharp pang of parting —for he knew enough of Hilda to know that, what +he had to say once said, she would trouble him no more—whether it was +these things, or whatever it was that affected him, he grew most unaccountably +anxious and depressed. Moreover, in this congenial condition of the atmosphere +of his mind, all its darker and hidden characteristics sprang into a vigorous +growth. Superstitions and presentiments crowded in upon him. He peopled his +surroundings with the shades of intangible deeds that yet awaited doing, and +grew afraid of his own thoughts. He would have fled from the spot, but he could +not fly; he could only watch the flicker of the moonlight upon the peaceful +pool beside him, and—wait. +</p> + +<p> +At last she came with quick and anxious steps, and, though but a few minutes +before he had dreaded her coming, he now welcomed it eagerly. For our feelings, +of whatever sort, when directed towards each other, are so superficial as +compared with the intensity of our fears when we are terrified by calamity, or +the presence, real or fancied, of the unknown, that in any moment of emergency, +more especially if it be of a mental kind, we are apt to welcome our worst +enemy as a drowning man welcomes a spar. +</p> + +<p> +“At last,” he said, with a sigh of relief. “How late you +are!” +</p> + +<p> +“I could not get away. There were some people to dinner;” and then, +in a softened voice, “How pale you look! Are you ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, only a little tired.” +</p> + +<p> +After this there was silence, and the pair stood facing one another, each +occupied with their own thoughts, and each dreading to put them into words. +Once Philip made a beginning of speech, but his voice failed him; the beating +of his heart seemed to choke his utterance. +</p> + +<p> +At length she leaned, as though for support, against the trunk of a pine-tree, +in the boughs of which the night breeze was whispering, and spoke in a cold +clear voice. +</p> + +<p> +“You asked me to meet you here to-night. Have you anything to say to me? +No, do not speak; perhaps I had better speak first. I have something to say to +you, and what I have to say may influence whatever is in your mind. Listen; you +remember what passed between us nearly a month ago, when I was so weak as to +let you see how much I loved you?” +</p> + +<p> +Philip bowed his head in assent. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. I have come here to-night, not to give you any lover’s +meeting, but to tell you that no such words must be spoken again, and that I am +about to make it impossible that they should be spoken either by you or by me. +I am going away from here, <i>never</i>, I hope, to return.” +</p> + +<p> +“Going away!” he gasped. “When?” +</p> + +<p> +Here was the very thing he hoped for coming to pass, and yet the words that +should have been so full of comfort fell upon him cold as ice, and struck him +into misery. +</p> + +<p> +“When! why, to-morrow morning. A relation of mine is ill in Germany, the +only one I have. I never saw him, and care nothing for him, but it will give me +a pretext; and, once gone, I shall not return. I have told Maria that I must +go. She cried about it, poor girl.” +</p> + +<p> +At these words, all recollection of his purpose passed out of Philip’s +mind; all he realized was that, unless he could alter her determination, he was +about to lose the woman he so passionately adored, and whose haughty pride was +to him in itself more charming than all poor Maria’s gentle love. +</p> + +<p> +“Hilda, do not go,” he said, seizing her hand, which she +immediately withdrew; “do not leave me. You know how I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why should I not leave you, even supposing it to be true that you do +love me? To my cost I love you, and am I any longer to endure the daily +humiliation of seeing myself, the poor German companion, who has nothing but +her beauty, put aside in favour of another whom I also love. You say you love +me, and bid me stay; now, tell me what is your purpose towards me? Do you +intend to try to take advantage of my infatuation to make me your mistress? It +is, I am told, a common thing for such proposals to be made to women in my +position, whom it would be folly for wealthy gentlemen to marry. If so, abandon +that idea; for I tell you, Philip, that I would rather die than so disgrace my +ancient name to gratify myself. I know you money-loving English do not think +very much of race unless the bearers of the name are rich; but we do; and, +although you would think it a <i>mésalliance</i> to marry me, I, on the other +hand, should not be proud of an alliance with you. Why, Philip, my ancestors +were princes of royal blood when yours still herded the swine in these woods. I +can show more than thirty quarterings upon my shield, each the mark of a noble +house, and I will not be the first to put a bar sinister across them. Now, I +have spoken plainly, indelicately perhaps, and there is only one more word to +be said between us, and that word is <i>good-bye</i>,” and she held out +her hand. +</p> + +<p> +He did not seem to see it; indeed, he had scarcely heard the latter part of +what she said. Presently he lifted his face, and it bore traces of a dreadful +inward struggle. It was deadly pale, and great black rings had painted +themselves beneath the troubled eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Hilda,” he said, hoarsely, “don’t go; I cannot bear to +let you go. I will marry you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think of what you are saying, Philip, and do not be rash. I do not wish +to entrap you into marriage. You love money. Remember that Maria, with all her +possessions, asks nothing better than to become your wife, and that I have +absolutely nothing but my name and my good looks. Look at me,” and she +stepped out into a patch of moonlight that found its way between the trees, +and, drawing the filmy shawl she wore from her head and bare neck and bosom, +stood before him in all the brightness of her beauty, shaded as it was, and +made more lovely by the shadows of the night. +</p> + +<p> +“Examine me very carefully,” she went on, with bitter sarcasm, +“look into my features and study my form and carriage, or you may be +disappointed with your bargain, and complain that you have not got your +money’s worth. Remember, too, that an accident, an illness, and at the +best the passage of a few years, may quite spoil my value as a beautiful woman, +and reflect, before I take you at your word.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip had sat or rather crouched himself down upon the log of a tree that lay +outside the summer-house, and covered his face with his hand, as though her +loveliness was more than he could bear to look upon. Now, however, he raised +his eyes and let them dwell upon her scornful features. +</p> + +<p> +“I had rather,” he said slowly—“I had rather lose my +life than lose you; I love you so that I would buy you at the price even of my +honour. When will you marry me?” +</p> + +<p> +“What, have you made up your mind so quickly? Are you sure? +Then,”— and here she changed her whole tone and bearing, and +passionately stretched out her arms towards him,—“my dearest +Philip, my life, my love, I will marry you when you will.” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow, if you like!” +</p> + +<p> +“You must promise me something first.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“That you will keep the marriage a complete secret, and bear another name +until my father’s death. If you do not, he will most probably disinherit +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not like your terms, Philip. I do not like secret marriages; but +you are giving up much to marry me, so I suppose I must give up something to +marry you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You solemnly promise that nothing shall induce you to reveal that you +are my wife until I give you permission to do so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I promise—that is, provided you do not force me to in +self-defence.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not fear that,” he said. “But how shall we arrange +about getting married?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can meet you in London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. I will go up early to-morrow, and get a licence, and then on +Wednesday I can meet you, and we can be married.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you will, Philip; where shall I meet you?” +</p> + +<p> +He gave her an address which she carefully noted down. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” she said, “you must go, it is late. Yes, you may kiss +me now. There, that will do, now go.” In another minute he was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“I have won the game,” she mused; “poor Maria. I am sorry for +her, but perhaps hers is the better part. She will get over it, but mine is a +sad fate; I love passionately, madly, but I do not trust the man I love. Why +should our marriage be so secret? He cannot be entangled with Maria, or she +would have told me.” And she stretched out her arms towards the path by +which he had left her, and cried aloud, in the native tongue that sounded so +soft upon her lips, “Oh, my heart’s darling! if I could only trust +you as well as I love you, it is a happy woman that I should be +to-night.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<p> +Nothing occurred to interfere with the plan of action decided on by Hilda and +Philip; no misadventure came to mock them, dashing the Tantalus cup of joy to +earth before their eyes. On the contrary, within forty-eight hours of the +conversation recorded in the last chapter, they were as completely and +irrevocably man and wife, as a special licence and the curate of a city church, +assisted by the clerk and the pew-opener, could make them. +</p> + +<p> +Then followed a brief period of such delirium as turned the London lodgings, +dingy and stuffy as they were in the height of the hot summer, into an earthly +paradise, a garden of Eden, into which, alas! the serpent had no need to seek +an entrance. But, as was natural, when the first glory of realized happiness +was beginning to grow faint on their horizon, the young couple turned +themselves to consider their position, and found in it, mutually and severally, +many things that did not please them. For Philip, indeed, it was full of +anxieties, for he had many complications to deal with. First there was his +secret engagement to Maria Lee, of which, be it remembered, his wife was +totally ignorant, and which was in itself a sufficiently awkward affair for a +married man to have on his hands. Then there was the paramount need of keeping +his marriage with Hilda as secret as the dead, to say nothing of the necessity +of his living, for the most part, away from his wife. Indeed, his only +consolation was that he had plenty of money on which to support her, inasmuch +as his father had, from the date of his leaving Oxford, made him an allowance +of one thousand a year. +</p> + +<p> +Hilda had begun to discover that she was not without her troubles. For one +thing, her husband’s fits of moodiness and fretful anxiety troubled her, +and led her, possessed as she was with a more than ordinary share of womanly +shrewdness, to suspect that he was hiding something from her. But what chiefly +vexed her proud nature was the necessity of concealment, and all its attendant +petty falsehoods and subterfuges. It was not pleasant for Hilda Caresfoot to +have to pass as Mrs. Roberts, and to be careful not to show herself in public +places in the daytime, where there was a possibility of her being seen by any +one who might recognize in her striking figure the lady who had lived with Miss +Lee in Marlshire. It was not pleasant to her to be obliged to reply to Maria +Lee’s affectionate letters, full as they were of entreaty for her return, +by epistles that had to be forwarded to a country town in a remote district of +Germany to be posted, and which were in themselves full of lies that, however +white they might have seemed under all the circumstances, she felt in her +conscience to be very black indeed. In short, there was in their union none of +that sense of finality and of security that is, under ordinary circumstances, +the distinguishing mark of marriage in this country; it partook rather of the +nature of an illicit connection. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of a fortnight of wedded bliss all these little things had begun to +make themselves felt, and in truth they were but the commencement of evils. +For, one afternoon, Philip, for the first time since his wedding, tore himself +away from his wife’s side, and paid a visit to a club to which he had +been recently elected. Here he found no less than three letters from his +father, the first requesting his return, the second commanding it in +exceptionally polite language, and the third—which, written in mingled +anxiety and anger, had just arrived—coolly announcing his parent’s +intention, should he not hear of him by return, of setting detective officers +to work to discover his whereabouts. From this letter it appeared, indeed, that +his cousin George had already been despatched to London to look for him, and on +reference to the hall porter he discovered that a gentleman answering to his +description had already inquired for him several times. +</p> + +<p> +Cursing his own folly in not having kept up some communication with his father, +he made the best of his way back to his lodgings, to find Hilda waiting for him +somewhat disconsolately. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad you have come back, love,” she said, drawing him towards +her till his dark curls mingled with her own fair locks, and kissing him upon +the forehead. “I have missed you dreadfully. I don’t understand how +I can have lived all these years without you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid, dear, you will have to live without me for a while now; +listen,” and he read her the letters he had just received. +</p> + +<p> +She listened attentively till he had finished. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you going to do?” she asked, with some anxiety in her +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Do? why of course I must go home at once.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what am I to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t know; I suppose that you must stop here.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will be pleasant for me, will it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, dear, it will be pleasant neither for you nor me; but what can I do? +You know the man my father is to deal with; if I stop here in defiance to his +wishes, especially as he has been anxious about me, there is no knowing what +might not happen. Remember, Hilda, that we have to deal with George, whose +whole life is devoted to secret endeavours to supplant me. If I were to give +him such an opportunity as I should by stopping away now, I should deserve all +I got, or rather all I did not get.” +</p> + +<p> +Hilda sighed and acquiesced; had she been a softer-minded woman she would have +wept and relieved her feelings, but she was not soft- minded. And so, before +the post went out, he wrote an affectionate letter to his father, expressing +his sorrow at the latter’s anxiety at his own negligence in not having +written to him, the fact of the matter being, he said, that he had been taken +up with visiting some of his Oxford friends, and had not till that afternoon +been near his club to look for letters. He would, however, he added, return on +the morrow, and make his apologies in person. +</p> + +<p> +This letter he handed to his wife to read. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that will do?” he asked, when she had finished. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes!” she replied, with a touch of her old sarcasm, “it +is a masterpiece of falsehood.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip looked very angry, and fumed and fretted; but he made no reply, and on +the following morning he departed to Bratham Abbey. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Philip, Philip!” said his father, under the mellow influence +of his fourth glass of port, on the night of his arrival. “I know well +enough what kept you up in town. Well, well, I don’t complain, young men +will be young men; but don’t let these affairs interfere with the +business of life. Remember Maria Lee, my boy; you have serious interests in +that direction, interests that must not be trifled with, interests that I have +a right to expect you will <i>not</i> trifle with.” +</p> + +<p> +His son made no reply, but sipped his wine in silence, aching at his heart for +his absent bride, and wondering what his father would say did he really know +what had “kept him in town.” +</p> + +<p> +After this, matters went on smoothly enough for a month or more; since, +fortunately for Philip, the great Maria Lee question, a question that the more +he considered it the more thorny did it appear, was for the moment shelved by +the absence of that young lady on a visit to her aunt in the Isle of Wight. +Twice during that month he managed, on different pretexts, to get up to London +and visit his wife, whom he found as patient as was possible under the +circumstances, but anything but happy. Indeed, on the second occasion, she +urged on him strongly the ignominy of her position, and even begged him to make +a clean breast of it to his father, offering to undertake the task herself. He +refused equally warmly, and some sharp words ensued to be, however, quickly +followed by a reconciliation. +</p> + +<p> +On his return from this second visit, Philip found a note signed +“affectionately yours, Maria Lee,” waiting for him, which announced +that young lady’s return, and begged him to come over to lunch on the +following day. +</p> + +<p> +He went—indeed, he had no alternative but to go; and again fortune +favoured him in the person of a diffident young lady who was stopping with +Maria, and who never left her side all that afternoon, much to the disgust of +the latter and the relief of Philip. One thing, however, he was not spared, and +that was the perusal of Hilda’s last letter to her friend, written +apparently from Germany, and giving a lively description of the writer’s +daily life and the state of her uncle’s health, which, she said, +precluded all possibility of her return. Alas! he already knew its every line +too well; for, as Hilda refused to undertake the task, he had but a week before +drafted it himself. But Philip was growing hardened to deception, and found it +possible to read it from end to end, and speculate upon its contents with Maria +without blush or hesitation. +</p> + +<p> +But he could not always expect to find Miss Lee in the custody of such an +obtuse friend; and, needless to say, it became a matter of very serious +importance to him to know how he should treat her. It occurred to him that his +safest course might be to throw himself upon her generosity and make a clean +breast of it; but when it came to the point he was too weak to thus expose his +shameful conduct to the woman whose heart he had won, and to whom he was bound +by every tie of honour that a gentleman holds sacred. +</p> + +<p> +He thought of the scornful wonder with which she would listen to his tale, and +preferred to take the risk of greater disaster in the future to the certainty +of present shame. In the end, he contrived to establish a species of +confidential intimacy with Maria, which, whilst it somewhat mystified the poor +girl, was not without its charm, inasmuch as it tended to transform the +every-day Philip into a hero of romance. +</p> + +<p> +But in the main Maria was ill-suited to play heroine to her wooer’s hero. +Herself as open as the daylight, it was quite incomprehensible to her why their +relationship should be kept such a dark and mysterious secret, or why, if her +lover gave her a kiss, it should be done with as many precautions as though he +were about to commit a murder. +</p> + +<p> +She was a very modest maiden, and in her heart believed it a wonderful thing +that Philip should have fallen in love with her—a thing to be very proud +of; and she felt it hard that she should be denied the gratification of openly +acknowledging her lover, and showing him off to her friends, after the fashion +that is so delightful to the female mind. +</p> + +<p> +But, though this consciousness of the deprivation of a lawful joy set up a +certain feeling of irritation in her mind, she did not allow it to override her +entire trust in and love for Philip. Whatever he did was no doubt wise and +right; but, for all that, on several occasions she took an opportunity to make +him acquainted with her views of the matter, and to ask him questions that he +found it increasingly difficult to answer. +</p> + +<p> +In this way, by the exercise of ceaseless diplomacy, and with the assistance of +a great deal of falsehood of the most artistic nature, Philip managed to tide +over the next six months; but at the end of that time the position was very far +from improved. Hilda was chafing more and more at the ignominy of her position; +Maria was daily growing more and more impatient to have their engagement made +public; and last, but by no means least, his father was almost daily at him on +the subject of Miss Lee, till at length he succeeded in wringing from him the +confession that there existed some sort of understanding between Maria and +himself. +</p> + +<p> +Now, the old squire was a shrewd man of the world, and was not therefore slow +to guess that what prevented this understanding from being openly acknowledged +as an engagement was some entanglement on his son’s part. Indeed, it had +recently become clear to him that London had developed strange attractions for +Philip. That this entanglement could be marriage was, however, an idea that +never entered into his head; he had too good an opinion of his son’s +common- sense to believe it possible that he would deliberately jeopardize his +inheritance by marrying without his permission. But Philip’s reluctance +and obstinacy annoyed him excessively. “Devil” Caresfoot was not a +man accustomed to be thwarted; indeed, he had never been thwarted in his life, +and he did not mean to be now. He had set his heart upon this marriage, and it +would have to be a good reason that could turn him from his purpose. +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, having extracted the above information, he said no more to Philip, +but proceeded to lay his own plans. +</p> + +<p> +That very afternoon he commenced to put them into action. At three +o’clock he ordered the carriage and pair, a vehicle that was rarely used, +giving special directions that the coachman should see that his wig was +properly curled. An ill-curled wig had before now been known to produce a very +bad effect upon Mr. Caresfoot’s nerves, and also upon its wearer’s +future prospects in life. +</p> + +<p> +At three precisely the heavy open carriage, swung upon C-springs and drawn by +two huge greys, drew up in front of the hall-door, and the squire, who was as +usual dressed in the old-fashioned knee-breeches, and carried in his hand his +gold-headed cane, stepped solemnly into it, and seated himself exactly in the +middle of the back seat, not leaning back, as is the fashion of our degenerate +days, but holding himself bolt upright. Any more imposing sight than this old +gentleman presented thus seated, and moving at a stately pace through the +village street, it is impossible to conceive; but it so oppressed the very +children that fear at the spectacle (which was an unwonted one, for the squire +had not thus driven abroad in state for some years) overcame their curiosity, +and at his approach they incontinently fled. +</p> + +<p> +So soon as the carriage had passed through the drive-gates of the Abbey, the +squire ordered the coachman to drive to Rewtham House, whither in due course he +safely arrived. +</p> + +<p> +He was ushered into the drawing-room, whilst a servant went in search of Miss +Lee, whom she found walking in the garden. +</p> + +<p> +“A gentleman to see you, miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not at home. Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Caresfoot, miss!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, why didn’t you say so before?” and taking it for granted +that Philip had paid her an unexpected visit, she started off for the house at +a run. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Philip,” she exclaimed, as she swung open the door, +“this <i>is</i> good of you, o—oh!” for at that moment Mr. +Caresfoot senior appeared from behind the back of the door where he had been +standing by the fireplace, and made his most imposing bow. +</p> + +<p> +“That, my dear Maria, was the first time that I have heard myself called +Philip for many a long year, and I fear that that was by accident; neither the +name nor the blush were meant for me; now, were they?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought,” replied Maria, who was still overwhelmed with +confusion, “I thought that it was Philip, your son, you know; he has not +been here for so long.” +</p> + +<p> +“With such a welcome waiting him, it is indeed wonderful that he can keep +away;” and the old squire bowing again with such courtly grace as to +drive what little self-possession remained to poor Maria after her flying entry +entirely out of her head. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, my dear,” went on her visitor, fixing his piercing eyes +upon her face, “with your permission, we will sit down and have a little +talk together. Won’t you take off your hat?” +</p> + +<p> +Maria took off her hat as suggested, and sat down meekly, full under fire of +the glowing eyes that had produced such curious effects upon subjects so +dissimilar as the late Mrs. Caresfoot and Jim Brady. She could, however, think +of nothing appropriate to say. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” the old gentleman continued presently, “the +subject upon which I have taken upon myself to speak to you is one very nearly +affecting your happiness and also of a delicate nature. My excuse for alluding +to it must be that you are the child of my old friend—ah! we were great +friends fifty years ago, my dear—and that I have myself a near interest +in the matter. Do you understand me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well then, forgive an old man, who has no time to waste, if he comes to +the point. I mean I have come to ask you, Maria, if any understanding or +engagement exists between Philip and yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +The eyes were full upon her now, and she felt that they were drawing her secret +from her as a corkscrew does a cork. At last it came out with a pop. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we are engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, my dear. How long have you been engaged?” +</p> + +<p> +“About eight months.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why has the affair been kept so secret?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; Philip wished it. He told me not to tell any one. I +suppose that I should not by rights have told you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Make yourself easy, my dear. Philip has already told me that there was +an understanding between you; I only wanted to hear the confirmation of such +good news from your own lips. Young men are great coxcombs, my dear, and apt to +fancy things where ladies are concerned. I am rejoiced to hear that there is no +mistake on his part.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am so glad that you are pleased,” she said shyly. +</p> + +<p> +“Pleased, my dear!” said the old gentleman, rising and walking up +and down the room in his excitement, “pleased is not the word for it. I +am more rejoiced than if some one had left me another estate. Look here, Maria, +I had set my heart upon this thing coming to pass; I have thought of it for +years. I loved your father, and you are like your father, girl; ay, I love you +too, because you are a generous, honest woman, and will bring a good strain of +blood into a family that wants generosity—ay, and I sometimes think wants +honesty too. And then your land runs into ours, and, as I can’t buy it, I +am glad that it should come in by marriage. I have always wanted to see the +Abbey, Isleworth, and Rewtham estates in a ring fence before I died. Come and +give me a kiss, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +Maria did as she was bid. +</p> + +<p> +“I will try to be a good daughter to you,” she said, “if I +marry Philip; but,” and here her voice trembled a little, “I want +to make you understand that, though this engagement exists, I have sometimes +thought of late that perhaps he wanted to break it off, +and——” +</p> + +<p> +“Break it off?” almost shouted the old man, his eyes flashing. +“Break it off; by God, the day he plays fast and loose with you, that day +I leave the property to his cousin, George;—there, there, I frightened +you, I beg your pardon, but in his own interest, Maria, I advise you to hold +him fast to his word. To change the subject, your news has freshened me up so +much that I mean to have a little company; will you come and dine with me next +Thursday?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be very glad, Mr. Caresfoot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you; and perhaps till then you will not, unless he happens to ask +you, mention the subject of our conversation to Philip. I want to have a talk +with him first.” +</p> + +<p> +Maria assented, and the squire took his leave with the same magnificence of +mien that had marked his arrival. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<p> +That evening his father astonished Philip by telling him that he intended to +give a dinner-party on that day week. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Philip,” he said, with a grim smile, “I have only +got a year or so at the most before me, and I wish to see a little of my +neighbours before I go. I have not had much society of late years. I mean to do +the thing well while I am about it, and ask everybody in the neighbourhood. How +many can dine with comfort in the old banqueting-hall, do you suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“About five-and-forty, I should think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Five-and-forty! I remember that we sat down sixty to dinner when I came +of age, but then we were a little crowded; so we will limit the number to +fifty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going to have fifty people to dinner?” asked Philip +aghast. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly; I shall ask you to come and help me to write the invitations +presently. I have prepared a list; and will you kindly send over to Bell at +Roxham. I wish to speak to him, he must bring his men over to do up the old +hall a bit; and, by the way, write to Gunter’s and order a man-cook to be +here on Tuesday, and to bring with him materials for the best dinner for fifty +people that he can supply. I will see after the wine myself; we will finish off +that wonderful port my grandfather laid down. Now, bustle about, my lad, we +have no time to lose; we must get all the notes out to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip started to execute his orders, pretty well convinced in his own mind +that his father was taking leave of his senses. Who ever heard of a dinner +being given to fifty people before, especially in a house where such rare +entertainments had always been of a traditionally select and solemn nature? The +expense, too, reflected Philip, would be large; a man of his father’s age +had, in his opinion, no right to make such ducks-and-drakes of money that was +so near to belonging to somebody else. But one thing was clear: his father had +set his mind upon it, and when once that was the case to try to thwart him was +more than Philip dared. +</p> + +<p> +When the notes of invitation arrived at their respective destinations, great +was the excitement in the neighbourhood of Bratham Abbey. Curiosity was rampant +on the point, and the refusals were few and far between. +</p> + +<p> +At length the eventful evening arrived, and with it the expected guests, among +whom the old squire, in his dress of a past generation— resplendent in +diamond buckles, frilled shirt-front, and silk stockings—was, with his +snow-white hair and stately bearing, himself by far the most striking figure. +</p> + +<p> +Standing near the door of the large drawing-room, he received his guests as +they arrived with an air that would have done credit to an ambassador; but when +Miss Lee entered, Philip noticed with a prophetic shudder that, in lieu of the +accustomed bow, he gave her a kiss. He also noticed, for he was an observant +man, that the gathered company was pervaded by a curious air of expectation. +They were nearly all of them people who had been neighbours of the Caresfoot +family for years —in many instances for generations—and as intimate +with its members as the high-stomached stiffness of English country-life will +allow. They therefore were well acquainted with the family history and +peculiarities; but it was clear from their faces that their knowledge was of no +help to them now, and that they were totally in the dark as to why they were +all gathered together in this unwonted fashion. +</p> + +<p> +At length, to the relief of all, the last of the chosen fifty guests put in an +appearance, and dinner was announced. Everybody made his way to his allotted +partner, and awaited the signal to move forward, when a fresh piquancy was +added to the proceedings by an unexpected incident—in which Maria Lee +played a principal part. Maria was sitting in a corner of the drawing-room, +wondering if Philip was going to take her in to dinner, and why he had not been +to see her lately, when suddenly she became aware that all the room was looking +at her, and on raising her eyes she perceived the cause. For there, close upon +her, and advancing with majestic step and outstretched arm, was old Mr. +Caresfoot, possessed by the evident intention of taking her down in the full +face of all the married ladies and people of title present. She prayed that the +floor might open and swallow her; indeed, of the two, she would have preferred +that way of going down to dinner. But it did not, so there was no alternative +left to her but to accept the proffered arm, and to pass, with as much dignity +as she could muster in such a trying moment, in front of the intensely +interested company—from which she could hear an involuntary murmur of +surprise— through the wide-flung doors, down the great oak staircase +loaded with exotics, thence along a passage carpeted with crimson cloth, and +through double doors of oak that were flung open at their approach, into the +banqueting-hall. On its threshold not only she, but almost every member of the +company who passed in behind them, uttered an exclamation of surprise; and +indeed the sight before them amply justified it. +</p> + +<p> +The hall was a chamber of noble proportions, sixty feet in length by thirty +wide. It was very lofty, and the dark chestnut beams of the beautiful arched +roof were thrown into strong relief by the light of many candles. The walls +were panelled to the roof with oak that had become almost black in the course +of centuries, here and there relieved by portraits and shining suits of armour. +</p> + +<p> +Down the centre of the room ran a long wide table, whereon, and on a huge +sideboard, was spread the whole of the Caresfoot plate, which, catching the +light of the suspended candles, threw it back in dazzling gleams till the +beholder was positively bewildered with the brilliancy of the sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how beautiful!” said Maria, in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered the old gentleman as he took his seat at the head +of the table, placing Maria on his right, “the plate is very fine, it has +taken two hundred years to get together; but my father did more in that way +than all of us put together, he spent ten thousand pounds on plate during his +lifetime; that gold service on the sideboard belonged to him. I have only spent +two. Mind, my love,” he added in a low voice, “when it comes into +your keeping that it is preserved intact; but I don’t recommend you to +add to it, there is too much already for a simple country gentleman’s +family.” +</p> + +<p> +Maria blushed and was silent. +</p> + +<p> +The dinner, which was served on a most magnificent scale, wore itself away, as +all big county-dinners do, in bursts of sedate but not profoundly interesting +conversation. Indeed, had it not been for the novelty of the sight, Maria would +have been rather bored, the squire’s stately compliments notwithstanding. +As it was, she felt inclined to envy the party at the other end, amongst whom, +looking down the long vista of sparkling glass and silver, she could now and +again catch sight of Philip’s face beaming with animation, and even in +the pauses of conversation hear the echo of his distant laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“What good spirits he is in!” she thought to herself. +</p> + +<p> +And, indeed, Philip was, or appeared to be, in excellent spirits. His handsome +face, that of late had been so gloomy, was lit up with laughter, and he +contrived by his witty talk to keep those round him in continual merriment. +</p> + +<p> +“Philip seems very happy, doesn’t he,” said George, <i>sotto +voce</i> to Mrs. Bellamy, who was sitting next to him. +</p> + +<p> +“You must be a very bad judge of the face as an index to the mind if you +think that he is happy. I have been watching him all dinner, and I draw a very +different conclusion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, look how he is laughing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you never seen a man laugh to hide his misery; never mind his lips, +watch his eyes: they are dilated with fear, see how he keeps glancing towards +his father and Miss Lee. There, did you see him start? Believe me he is not +happy, and unless I am mistaken he will be even less so before the night is +over. We are not all asked here for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not, I hope not; if so we shall have to act upon our information, +eh! But, to change the subject, you look lovely to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I do, I <i>am</i> lovely; I wish I could return the +compliment, but conscientiously I can’t. Did you ever see such plate? +look at that centre-piece.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is wonderful,” said George. “I never saw it at all out +before. I wonder,” he added, with a sigh, “if I shall ever have the +fingering of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, with a strange look of her large eyes, “if +you continue to be guided by me, you shall. I tell you so, and I <i>never</i> +make mistakes. Hush, something is going to happen. What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +The dinner had come to an end, and in accordance with the old- fashioned custom +the cloth had been removed, leaving bare an ancient table of polished oak +nearly forty feet in length, and composed of slabs of timber a good two inches +thick. +</p> + +<p> +When the wine had been handed round, the old squire motioned to the servants to +leave the room, and then, having first whispered something in the ear of Miss +Lee that caused her to turn very red, he slowly rose to his feet in the midst +of a dead silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Look at your cousin’s face,” whispered Mrs. Bellamy. George +looked; it was ghastly pale, and the black eyes were gleaming like polished jet +against white paper. +</p> + +<p> +“Friends and neighbours, amongst whom or amongst whose fathers I have +lived for so many years,” began the speaker, whose voice, soft as it was, +filled the great hall with ease, “it was, if tradition does not lie, in +this very room and at this very table that the only Caresfoot who ever made an +after-dinner speech of his own accord, delivered himself of his burden. That +man was my ancestor in the eighth degree, old yeoman Caresfoot, and the +occasion of his speech was to him a very important one, being the day on which +he planted Caresfoot’s Staff, the great oak by the water yonder, to mark +the founding of a house of country gentry. Some centuries have elapsed since my +forefather stood where I stand, most like with his hand upon this board as mine +is now, and addressed a company not so fine or so well dressed, but +perhaps—I mean no disrespect—on the whole, as good at heart as that +before me now. Yes, the sapling oak has grown into the biggest tree in the +country-side ‘twixt then and now. It seems, therefore, to be fit that on +what is to me as great a day as the planting of that oak was to my yeoman +forefather, that I, like him, should gather my ancient friends and neighbours +round me under the same ancient roof that I may, like him, make them the +partakers of my joy. +</p> + +<p> +“None of you sitting at this board to-day can look upon the old man who +now asks your attention, without realizing what he himself has already learned: +namely, that his day is over. Now, life is hard to quit. When a man grows old, +the terrors of the unknown land loom just as large and terrible as they did to +his youthful imagination, larger perhaps. But it is a fact that must be faced, +a hard, inevitable fact. And age, realizing this, looks round it for +consolations, and finds only two: first, that as its interests and affections +<i>here</i> fade and fall away, in just that same proportion do they grow and +gather <i>there</i> upon the further shore; and secondly that, after +Nature’s eternal fashion, the youth and vigour of a new generation is +waiting to replace the worn-out decrepitude of that which sinks into oblivion. +My life is done, it cannot be long before the churchyard claims its own, but I +live again in my son; and take such cold comfort as I may from that idea of +family, and of long-continued and assured succession, that has so largely +helped to make this country what she is. +</p> + +<p> +“But you will wonder what can be the particular purpose for which I have +bidden you here to-night. Be assured that it was not to ask you to listen to +gloomy sermons on the, to others, not very interesting fact of my approaching +end, but rather for a joyful and a definite reason. One wish I have long had, +it is—that before I go, I may see my son’s child, the little +Caresfoot that is to fill my place in future years, prattling about my knees. +But this I shall never see. What I have to announce to you, however, is the +first step towards it, my son’s engagement to Miss Lee, the young lady on +my right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look at his face,” whispered Mrs. Bellamy to her neighbour, during +the murmur of applause that followed this announcement. “Look +quick.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip had put his hands down upon his chair as though to raise himself up, and +an expression of such mingled rage and terror swept across his features as, +once seen, could not easily be forgotten. But so quickly did it pass that +perhaps Mrs. Bellamy, who was watching, was the only one in all that company to +observe it. In another moment he was smiling and bowing his acknowledgements to +whispered and telegraphed congratulations. +</p> + +<p> +“You all know Miss Lee,” went on the old squire, “as you knew +her father and mother before her; she is a sound shoot from an honest stock, a +girl after my own heart, a girl that I love, and that all who come under her +influence will love, and this engagement is to me the most joyful news that I +have heard for many a year. May God, ay, and man too, so deal with my son as he +deals with Maria Lee! +</p> + +<p> +“And now I have done; I have already kept you too long. With your +consent, we will have no more speeches, no returning of thanks; we will spare +Philip his blushes. But before I sit down I will bid you all farewell, for I am +in my eighty-third year, and I feel that I shall never see very many of your +faces again. I wish that I had been a better neighbour to you all, as there are +many other things I wish, now that it is too late to fulfil them; but I still +hope that some of you will now and again find a kind thought for the old man +whom among yourselves you talk of as ‘Devil Caresfoot.’ Believe me, +my friends, there is truth in the old proverb: the devil is not always as black +as he is painted. I give you my toast, my son Philip and his affianced wife, +Maria Lee.” +</p> + +<p> +The whole company rose, actuated by a common impulse, and drank the health +standing; and such was the pathos of the old squire’s speech, that there +were eyes among those present that were not free from tears. Then the ladies +retired, amongst them poor Maria, who was naturally upset at the unexpected, +and, in some ways, unwelcome notoriety thus given to herself. +</p> + +<p> +In the drawing-room, she was so overwhelmed with congratulations, that at last, +feeling that she could not face a fresh edition from the male portion of the +gathering, she ordered her carriage, and quietly slipped away home, to think +over matters at her leisure. +</p> + +<p> +Philip, too, came in for his share of honours down below, and acknowledged them +as best he might, for he had not the moral courage to repudiate the position. +He felt that his father had forced his hand completely, and that there was +nothing to be done, and sank into the outward calmness of despair. But if his +companions could have seen the whirlpool of hatred, terror, and fury that raged +within his breast as he sat and chatted, and sipped his +great-grandfather’s port, they would have been justifiably astonished. +</p> + +<p> +At length the banquet, for it was nothing less, came to an end, and, having +bowed their farewell to the last departing guest, the old man and his son were +left alone together in the deserted drawing-room. Philip was seated by a table, +his face buried in his hand, whilst his father was standing by the dying fire, +tapping his eye-glass nervously on the mantelpiece. It was he who broke the +somewhat ominous silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Philip, how did you like my speech?” +</p> + +<p> +Thus addressed, the son lifted his face from his hand; it was white as a sheet. +</p> + +<p> +“By what authority,” he asked in a harsh whisper, “did you +announce me as engaged to Miss Lee?” +</p> + +<p> +“By my own, Philip. I had it from both your lips that you were engaged. I +did not choose that it should remain a secret any longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had no right to make that speech. I will not marry Miss Lee; +understand once and for all, I will <i>not</i> marry her.” +</p> + +<p> +In speaking thus, Philip had nerved himself to bear one of those dreadful +outbursts of fury that had earned his father his title; but, to his +astonishment, none such came. The steely eyes glinted a little as he answered +in his most polite manner, and that was all. +</p> + +<p> +“Your position, Philip, then is that you are engaged, very publicly +engaged, to a girl whom you have no intention of marrying—a very +disgraceful position; mine is that I have, with every possible solemnity, +announced a marriage that will not come off—a very ridiculous position. +Very good, my dear Philip; please yourself. I cannot force you into a +disgraceful marriage. But you must not suppose that you can thus thwart me with +impunity. Allow me to show you the alternative. I see you are tired, but I +shall not detain you long. Take that easy-chair. This house and the land round +it, also the plate, which is very valuable, but cannot be sold—by the +way, see that it is safely locked up before you go to bed—are strictly +entailed, and must, of course belong to you. The value of the entailed land is +about 1000 pounds a year, or a little less in bad times; of the unentailed, a +clear 4000 pounds; of my personal property about 900 pounds. Should you persist +in your refusal to marry Miss Lee, or should the marriage in any way fall +through, except from circumstances entirely beyond your control, I must, to use +your own admirably emphatic language, ask you to ‘understand, once and +for all,’ that, where your name appears in my will with reference to the +unentailed and personal property, it will be erased, and that of your cousin +George substituted. Please yourself, Philip, please yourself; it is a matter of +entire indifference to me. I am very fond of George, and shall be glad to do +him a good turn if you force me to it, though it is a pity to split up the +property. But probably you will like to take a week to consider whether you +prefer to stick to the girl you have got hold of up in town there—oh, +yes! I know there is some one—and abandon the property, or marry Miss Lee +and retain the property—a very pretty problem for an amorous young man to +consider. There, I won’t keep you up any longer. Good night, Philip, good +night. Just see to the plate, will you? Remember, you have a personal interest +in that; I can’t leave it away.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip rose without a word and left the room, but when he was gone it was his +father’s turn to hide his face in his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, God!” he groaned aloud, “to think that all my plans +should come to such an end as this; to think that I am as powerless to prevent +their collapse as a child is to support a falling tree; that the only power +left me is the power of vengeance—vengeance on my own son. I have lived +too long, and the dregs of life are bitter.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<p> +Poor Hilda found life in her London lodging anything but cheerful, and +frequently begged Philip to allow her to settle somewhere in the country. This, +however, he refused to do on two grounds: in the first place, because few +country villages would be so convenient for him to get at as London; and in the +second, because he declared that the great city was the safest hiding-place in +the world. +</p> + +<p> +And so Hilda continued perforce to live her lonesome existence, that was only +cheered by her husband’s short and uncertain visits. Friends she had +none, nor did she dare to make any. The only person whose conversation she +could rely on to relieve the tedium of the long weeks was her landlady, Mrs. +Jacobs, the widow of a cheesemonger, who had ruined a fine business by his +drinking and other vicious propensities, and out of a good property had only +left his wife the leasehold of a house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, which, +fortunately for her, had been settled upon her at her marriage. Like most +people who have seen better days—not but what she was now very +comfortably off—she delighted in talking of her misfortunes, and of the +perfidiousness of man; and in Hilda, who had, poor girl, nothing else to listen +to, she found a most attentive audience. As was only natural where such a +charming person and such a good listener were concerned, honest Mrs. Jacobs +soon grew fond of her interesting lodger, about whose husband’s +circumstances and history she soon wove many an imaginary tale; for, needless +to say, her most pertinent inquiries failed to extract much information from +Hilda. One of her favourite fictions was that her lodger was the victim of her +handsome husband, who had in some way beguiled her from her home beyond the +seas, in order to keep her in solitary confinement and out of the reach of a +hated rival. Another, that he kept her thus that he might have greater liberty +for his own actions. +</p> + +<p> +In course of time these ideas took such possession of her mind that she grew to +believe in them, and, when speaking of Hilda to any of her other lodgers, would +shake her head and talk of her mysteriously as a “lamb” and a +“victim.” +</p> + +<p> +As for that lady herself, whilst far from suspecting her good landlady’s +gloomy surmises, she certainly fell more and more a prey to depression and +anxieties, and occasionally even to suspicion, to all of which evils she grew +increasingly liable as she drew nearer to an event that was no longer very +distant. She could not but notice a change in Philip’s manner on the rare +occasions when he was able to visit her, of which the most marked developments +were fits of silence and irritability. A certain reticence also, that became +more and more noticeable as time went on, led her to feel that there was an +invisible something growing up between them—a something that the pride +she possessed in such a striking degree forbade her to attempt to pierce, but +which was none the less galling to her on that account. Very shortly before the +events narrated in the last chapter she had taken the occasion of a visit from +Philip to complain somewhat bitterly of her position, begging him to tell her +when there was any prospect of her being allowed to take her rightful +place—a question her husband was quite unable to answer satisfactorily. +Seeing that there was nothing to be got out of him, with womanly tact she +changed the subject, and asked after Maria Lee (for whom she entertained a +genuine affection)—when he last saw her, how she was looking, if there +was any prospect of her getting married, and other questions of the same +sort—the result of which was to evoke a most violent, and to her +inexplicable, fit of irritability on the part of her husband. Something of a +scene ensued, which was finally terminated about five o’clock in the +afternoon by Philip’s abrupt departure to catch his train. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly afterwards Mrs. Jacobs, coming up to bring some tea, found Hilda +indulging in tears that she had been too proud to shed before her husband; and, +having had an extended personal experience of such matters, rightly guessed +that there had been a conjugal tiff, the blame of which, needless to say, she +fixed upon the departed Philip. +</p> + +<p> +“Lor, Mrs. Roberts” (as Hilda was called), she said, +“don’t take on like that; they’re all brutes, that’s +what they are; if only you could have seen my Samuel, who’s dead and gone +these ten years and buried in a private grave at Kensal Cemetery—though +he didn’t leave anything to pay for it except three dozen and five of +brandy—he was a beauty, poor dear, he was; your husband ain’t +nothing to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“My husband, let me tell you, Mrs. Jacobs, is not a brute at all,” +sobbed Hilda, with dignity. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Mrs. Roberts, that is just what I used to say of Samuel, but he was +the biggest brute in the three kingdoms, for all that; but if you ask me, +meaning no offence, I call a man a brute as only comes to see his lawful wife +about twice a month, let alone making an angel cry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Roberts has his reasons, Mrs. Jacobs; you must not talk of him like +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, so my Samuel used to say when he stopped away from home for three +nights at a time, till I followed him and found out his ‘Reason,’ +and a mighty pretty ‘Reason’ she was too, all paint and feathers, +the hussy, and eyes as big as a teacup. They all have their reasons, but they +never tell ‘em. But come and put on your things and go out a bit, +there’s a dear; it is a beautiful warm evening. You feel tired—oh, +never mind that; it is necessary for people as is in an interested way to take +exercise. I well remembers——” +</p> + +<p> +Here Hilda, however, cut the subject short, and deprived herself of Mrs. +Jacobs’ reminiscences by going to put on her things. +</p> + +<p> +It was a bright warm evening, and she found the air so pleasant that, after +strolling round Lincoln’s Inn Fields, she thought she would extend her +walk a little, and struck past Lincoln’s Inn Hall into New Square, and +then made her way to the archway opposite to where the New Law Courts now +stand. Under this archway a legal bookseller has built his nest, and behind +windows of broad plate-glass were ranged specimens of his seductive wares, +baits on which to catch students avaricious of legal knowledge as they pass on +their way to chambers or Hall. Now, at this window a young man was standing at +the moment that Hilda entered the archway, his eyes fixed upon a pamphlet on +the laws of succession. That young man was George Caresfoot, who was +considering whether it would be worth his while to buy the pamphlet in order to +see if he would be entitled to anything if his uncle should happen to die +intestate, as he sometimes feared might be the case. He had come up to town on +business connected with his firm, and was now waiting till it was time to begin +an evening of what he understood as pleasure; for George was a very gay young +man. +</p> + +<p> +He was, however, also a very sharp one, so sharp that he even noticed shadows, +especially when, as in this case, the shadow was clearly defined and flung, +life-sized, on the dark background of the books before him. He watched it for a +moment, and as its owner, with an absent air, slowly passed from the bright +sunlight into the shade of the arch, it struck the astute George that there was +something familiar about this particular and by no means unpleasing shadow. +Waiting till it had vanished and the footsteps gone past him, he turned round +and at a glance recognized Hilda von Holtzhausen, Miss Lee’s beautiful +companion, who was supposed to have departed into the more distant parts of +Germany. George’s eyes twinkled, and a whole host of ideas rushed into +his really able mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Caught at last, for a sovereign,” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Hilda walked slowly on into Chancery Lane, then turned to the left +till she came into Holborn, and thence made her way round by another route back +to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Needless to say, George followed at a respectful +distance. His first impulse had been to go up and speak to her, but he resisted +the inclination. +</p> + +<p> +On the doorstep of the house where Hilda lodged, stood her landlady giving a +piece of her mind to a butcher-boy both as regarded his master’s meat and +his personal qualities. She paused for breath just as Hilda passed up the +steps, and, turning, said something that made the latter laugh. The butcher-boy +took the opportunity of beating a rapid retreat, leaving Mrs. Jacobs crowing +after him from her own doorstep. As soon as Hilda had gone into the house, +George saw his opportunity. Advancing politely towards Mrs. Jacobs, he asked +her if she was the landlady of the house, and, when she had answered in the +affirmative, he made inquiries about apartments. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Jacobs, “but I do not let rooms +to single gentlemen.” +</p> + +<p> +“You take too much for granted, ma’am. I am married.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him doubtfully. “I suppose, sir, you would have no +objection to giving a reference.” +</p> + +<p> +“A dozen, if you like, ma’am; but shall we look at the +rooms?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jacobs assented, and they made their way upstairs, George keeping in +front. On the first-floor he saw a pair of lady’s shoes on a mat outside +the door, and guessed to whom they belonged. +</p> + +<p> +“Are these the rooms?” he said, laying his hand upon the +door-handle. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, no, they are Mrs. Roberts’; next floor, please, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Roberts?—I suppose the very handsome young lady I saw come +into the house. No offence, ma’am; but a man’s bound to be careful +where he brings his wife. I suppose she’s all right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, yes, poor dear!” answered Mrs. Jacobs, in indignation; +“why, they came here straight from St. Jude’s, Battersea, the day +they were married; a runaway match, I fancy.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right; she looked charming. I hope her husband is +worthy of her,” remarked George, as he gazed round Mrs. Jacobs’ +rooms. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as to that, he’s handsome enough, for them as likes those +black men; but I don’t like people as only comes to visit their lawful +wives about twice a month. But,” suddenly checking herself, “it +isn’t any affair of mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, indeed, very reprehensible: I am, as a married man, entirely of your +mind. These are charming rooms, ma’am, charming. I shall certainly take +them if my wife approves; I will let you know by to-morrow’s +post—Jacobs, yes, I have it down. Good evening, ma’am,” and +he was gone. +</p> + +<p> +Instead of going out that evening as he had intended, George sat in the +smoking-room of his hotel and thought. He also wrote a letter which he +addressed to Mrs. Bellamy. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning, taking a cab, he drove to St. Jude’s, Battersea, and +inspected the register. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he asked for a certified copy of the following entry: “August +1, 1856. Philip Caresfoot, bachelor, gentleman, to Hilda von Holtzhausen, +spinster (by license). Signed J. Few, curate; as witness, Fred. Natt, Eliza +Chambers.” +</p> + +<p> +That evening Hilda received an anonymous letter, written in a round +clerk’s hand, that had been posted in the City. It was addressed to Mrs. +Roberts, and its contents ran thus: +</p> + +<p> +“A sincere friend warns Mrs. Philip Caresfoot that her husband is +deceiving her, and has become entangled with a young lady of her acquaintance. +<i>Burn this; wait and watch!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +The letter fell from her hands as though it had stung her. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Jacobs was right,” she said aloud, with a bitter laugh, +“men always have a ‘reason.’ Oh, let him beware!” And +she threw back her beautiful head and the great blue eyes sparkled like those +of a snake about to strike. The sword of jealousy, that she had hitherto +repelled with the shield of a woman’s trust in the man she loves, had +entered into her soul, and, could Philip have seen her under these new +circumstances, he would have realized that he had indeed good reason to +“beware.” “No wonder,” she went on, “no wonder +that he finds her name irritating upon my lips; no doubt to him it is a +desecration. Oh, oh!” And she flung herself on her face, and wept tears +of jealous rage. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said George to Mrs. Bellamy, as they drove home together +after the great dinner party (do not be shocked, my reader, Bellamy was <i>on +the bow</i>), “well, how shall we strike? Shall I go to the old man +to-morrow, and show him my certified copy? There is no time to lose. He might +die any day.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; we must act through Mrs. Philip.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is more scientific, and it will be more amusing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor thing! it will be a blow to her. Don’t you like her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she did not trust me, and because she eclipses me. Therefore I +am glad of an opportunity of destroying her.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a very ruthless woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“When I have an end in view, I march straight to it; I do not +vacillate—that is all. But never mind me; here we are near home. Go to +town by the first train to-morrow morning and post another letter announcing +what has happened here. Then come back and wait.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” reflected George, “that is a wonderful woman—a +woman it is good to have some hold over.” +</p> + +<p> +We left Hilda stretched on her face sobbing. But the fit did not last long. She +rose, and flung open the window; she seemed stifled for want of air. Then she +sat down to think what she should do. Vanish and leave no trace? No; not yet. +Appear and claim her place? No; not yet. The time was not ripe for choice +between these two extremes. Upbraid Philip with his faithlessness? No; not +without proofs. What did that hateful letter say? “Wait and watch;” +yes, that was what she would do. But she could not wait here; she felt as +though she must go somewhere, get some change of scene, or she should break +down. She had heard Mrs. Jacobs speak of a village not more than two hours from +London that a convalescent lodger of hers had visited and found charming. She +would go there for a week, and watch the spring cast her mantle over the earth, +and listen to the laughter of the brooks, and try to forget her burning love +and jealousy, and just for that one week be happy as she was when, as a little +girl, she roamed all day through the woods of her native Germany. Alas! she +forgot that it is the heart and not the scene that makes happiness. +</p> + +<p> +That evening she wrote a note to her husband, saying that she felt that change +of air was necessary for her, and that she was going out of London for a few +days, to some quiet place, from whence she would write to him. He must not, +however, expect many letters, as she wanted complete rest. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning she went; and, if the sweet spring air did not bring +peace to her mind, at any rate, it to a very great extent set her up in +strength. She wrote but one letter during her absence, and that was to say that +she should be back in London by midday on the first of May. This letter reached +Philip on the morning of the great dinner-party, and was either accidentally or +on purpose sent without the writer’s address. On the morning of the first +of May—that is, two days after the dinner-party, which was given on the +twenty-ninth of April—Hilda rose early, and commenced to pack her things +with the assistance of a stout servant girl, who did all the odd jobs and a +great deal of the work in the old-fashioned farmhouse in which she was staying. +Presently the cowboy came whistling up the little garden, bright with crocuses +and tulips, that lay in front of the house, and knocked at the front door. +</p> + +<p> +“Lawks!” said the stout girl, in accents of deep surprise, as she +drew her head in from the open lattice; “Jim’s got a letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it is for me,” suggested Hilda, a little nervously; she +had grown nervous about the post of late. “Will you go and see?” +</p> + +<p> +The letter was for her, in the handwriting of Mrs. Jacobs. She opened it; it +contained another addressed in the character the sight of which made her feel +sick and faint. She could not trust herself to read it in the presence of the +girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Sally,” she said, “I feel rather faint; I shall lie down a +little. I will ring for you presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Sally retired, and she opened her letter. +</p> + +<p> +Fifteen minutes after the girl received her summons. She found Hilda very pale, +and with a curious look upon her face. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you’re better, mum,” she said, for she was a +kind-hearted girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Better—ah, yes! thank you, Sally; I am cured, quite cured; but +please be quick with the things, for I shall leave by the nine o’clock +train.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<p> +The night of the dinner-party was a nearly sleepless one for Philip, although +his father had so considerately regretted his wearied appearance, he could do +nothing but walk, walk, walk, like some unquiet ghost, up and down his great, +oak-panelled bedroom, till, about dawn, his legs gave way beneath him; and +think, think, think, till his mind recoiled, confused and helpless, from the +dead wall of its objects. And, out of all this walking and thinking, there +emerged, after an hour of stupor, that it would be a misnomer to call sleep, +two fixed results. The first of these was that he hated his father as a lost +soul must hate its torturing demon, blindly, madly, impotently hated him; and +the second, that he could no longer delay taking his wife into his confidence. +Then he remembered the letter he had received from her on the previous morning. +He got it, and saw that it bore no address, merely stating that she would be in +London by midday on the first of May, that was on the morrow. Till then it was +clear he must wait, and he was not sorry for the reprieve. His was not a +pleasant story for a husband to have to tell. +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately for Philip, there was an engagement of long standing for this day, +the thirtieth of April, to go, in conjunction with other persons, to effect a +valuation of the fallows, &c., of a large tenant who was going out at +Michaelmas. This prevented any call being made upon him to go and see Maria +Lee, as, after the events of the previous evening, it might have been expected +he would. He started early on this business, and did not return till late, so +he saw nothing of his father that day. +</p> + +<p> +On the morning of the first of May he breakfasted about half-past eight, and +then, without seeing his father, drove to Roxham to catch a train that got him +up to London about twenty minutes to twelve. As he steamed slowly into +Paddington Station, another train steamed out, and had he been careful to +examine the occupants of the first-class carriages as they passed him in a slow +procession, he might have seen something that would have interested him; but he +was, not unnaturally, too much occupied with his own thoughts to allow of the +indulgence of an idle curiosity. On the arrival of his train, he took a cab and +drove without delay to the house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and asked for +Mrs. Roberts. +</p> + +<p> +“She isn’t back yet, sir,” was Mrs. Jacobs’ reply. +“I got this note from her this morning to say that she would be here by +twelve, but it’s twenty past now, so I suppose that she has missed the +train or changed her mind; but there will be another in at three, so perhaps +you had best wait for that, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip was put out by this contretemps, but at the same time he was relieved to +find that he had a space to breathe in before the inevitable and dreadful +moment of exposure and infamy, for he had grown afraid of his wife. +</p> + +<p> +Three o’clock came in due course, but no Hilda. Philip was seriously +disturbed; but there was now no train by which she could arrive that day, so he +was forced to the conclusion that she had postponed her departure. There were +now two things to be done, one to follow her down to where she was +staying—for he had ascertained her address from Mrs. Jacobs; the other, +to return home and come back on the morrow. For reasons which appeared to him +imperative, but which need not be entered into here, he decided on the latter +course; so leaving a note for his wife, he drove, in a very bad temper, back to +Paddington in time to catch the five o’clock train to Roxham. +</p> + +<p> +Let us now return to the Abbey House, where, whilst Philip was cooling his +heels in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a rather curious scene was in progress. +</p> + +<p> +At one o’clock, old Mr. Caresfoot, as was his rule, sat down to lunch, +which, frugal as it was, so far as he was concerned, was yet served with some +old-fashioned ceremony by a butler and a footman. Just as the meal was coming +to an end, a fly, with some luggage on it, drove up to the hall-door. The +footman went to open it. +</p> + +<p> +“Simmons,” said the squire, to the old butler, “look out and +tell me who that is.” +</p> + +<p> +Simmons did as he was bid, and replied: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t rightly know, squire; but it’s a lady, and she be +wonderful tall.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then the footman returned, and said that a lady, who would not give her +name, wished to speak to him in private. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure the lady did not mean Mr. Philip?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir; she asked for Mr. Philip first, and when I told her that he was +out, she asked for you, sir. I have shown her into the study.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph! at any rate, she has come off a journey, and must be hungry. Set +another place and ask her in here.” +</p> + +<p> +In another moment there was a rustle of a silk dress, and a lady, arrayed in a +long cloak and with a thick veil on, was shown into the room. Mr. Caresfoot, +rising with that courteous air for which he was remarkable, bowed and begged +her to be seated, and then motioned to the servants to leave the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Madam, I am told that you wish to speak to me; might I ask whom I have +the honour of addressing?” +</p> + +<p> +She, with a rapid motion, removed her hat and veil, and exposed her sternly +beautiful face to his inquiring gaze. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you not know me, Mr. Caresfoot?” she said, in her foreign +accent. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, yes, you are the young lady who lived with Maria, Miss von +Holtzhausen.” +</p> + +<p> +“That <i>was</i> my name; it is now Hilda Caresfoot. I am your son +Philip’s wife.” +</p> + +<p> +As this astounding news broke upon his ears, her hearer’s face became a +shifting study. Incredulity, wonder, fury, all swept across it, and then in a +single second it seemed to freeze. Next moment he spoke with overpowering +politeness. +</p> + +<p> +“So, madam; then I have to congratulate myself on the possession of a +very lovely daughter-in-law.” +</p> + +<p> +A silence ensued that they were both too moved to break; at last, the old man +said, in an altered tone: +</p> + +<p> +“We have much to talk of, and you must be tired. Take off your cloak, and +eat whilst I think.” +</p> + +<p> +She obeyed him, and he saw that not only was she his son’s wife, but that +she must before long present the world with an heir to the name of Caresfoot. +This made him think the more; but meanwhile he continued to attend to her +wants. She ate little, but calmly. +</p> + +<p> +“That woman has nerve,” said he to himself. +</p> + +<p> +Then he rang the bell, and bade Simmons wait till he had written a note. +</p> + +<p> +“Send James to Roxham at once with this. Take this lady’s things +off the fly, and put them in the red bedroom. By the way, I am at home to +nobody except Mr. Bellamy;” and then, turning to Hilda, “Now, if +you will come into my study, we will continue our chat,” and he offered +her his arm. “Here we are secure from interruption,” he said, with +a ghost of a smile. “Take this chair. Now, forgive my impertinence, but I +must ask you if I am to understand that you are my son’s <i>legal</i> +wife?” +</p> + +<p> +She flushed a little as she answered: +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, I am. I have been careful to bring the proof; here it is;” +and she took from a little hand-bag a certified copy of the register of her +marriage, and gave it to him. He examined it carefully through his gold +eye-glass, and handed it back. +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly in order. Hum! some eight months since, I see. May I ask why I +am now for the first time favoured with a sight of this interesting +document—in short, why you come down, like an angel from the clouds, and +reveal yourself at the present moment?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have come,” she answered, “because of these.” And +she handed him two letters. “I have come to ascertain if they are true; +if my husband is a doubly perjured or a basely slandered man.” +</p> + +<p> +He read the two anonymous letters. With the contents of the first we are +acquainted; the second merely told of the public announcement of Philip’s +engagement. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak,” she said, with desperate energy, the calm of her face +breaking up like ice before a rush of waters. “You must know everything; +tell me my fate!” +</p> + +<p> +“Girl, these villanous letters are in every particular true. You have +married in my son the biggest scoundrel in the county. I can only say that I +grieve for you.” +</p> + +<p> +She listened in silence; then rising from her chair, said, with a gesture +infinitely tragic in its simplicity: +</p> + +<p> +“Then it is finished; before God and man I renounce him. Listen,” +she went on, turning to her father-in-law, “I loved your son, he won my +heart; but, though he said he loved me, I suspected him of playing fast and +loose with me, on the one hand, and with my friend, Maria Lee, on the other. So +I determined to go away, and told him so. Then it was that he offered to marry +me at once, if I would change my purpose. I loved him, and I +consented—yes, because I loved him so, I consented to even more. I agreed +to keep the marriage secret from you. You see what it has led to. I, a Von +Holtzhausen, and the last of my name, stand here a byword and a scorn; my story +will be found amusing at every dinner-table in the country-side, and my shame +will even cling to my unborn child. This is the return he has made me for my +sacrifice of self-respect, and for consenting to marry him at all; to outrage +my love and make me a public mockery.” +</p> + +<p> +“We have been accustomed,” broke in the old squire, his pride +somewhat nettled, “to consider our own a good family to marry into. You +do not seem to share that view.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good; yes, there is plenty of your money for those who care for it; but, +sir, as I told your son, it is not a <i>family</i>. He did me no honour in +marrying me, though I was nothing but a German companion, with no dower but her +beauty. I,”—and here she flung her head back with an air of +ineffable pride—“did him the honour. My ancestors, sir, were +princes, when his were plough-boys.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” answered the old man, testily, “ten generations +of country gentry, and the Lord only knows how many more of stout yeomen before +them, is a good enough descent for us; but I like your pride, and I am glad +that you spring from an ancient race. You have been shamefully treated, +Hilda—is not your name Hilda?—but there are others, more free from +blame than you are, who have been treated worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Maria! then she knows nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, there is Maria and myself. But never mind that. Philip will, I +suppose, be back in a few hours—oh, yes! he will be back,” and his +eyes glinted unpleasantly, “and what shall you do then? what course do +you intend to take?” +</p> + +<p> +“I intend to claim my rights, to force him to acknowledge me here where +he suffered his engagement to another woman to be proclaimed, and then I intend +to leave him. He has killed my respect; I will not live with him again. I can +earn my living in Germany. I have done with him; but, sir, do not you be hard +upon him. It is a matter between me and him. Let him not suffer on my +account.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, pray confine yourself to your own affairs, and leave me to +settle mine. There shall be no harshness; nobody shall suffer more than they +deserve. There, don’t break down, go and rest, for there are painful +scenes before you.” +</p> + +<p> +He rang the bell, and sent for the housekeeper. She came presently, a +pleasant-looking woman of about thirty years of age, with a comely face and +honest eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“This lady, Pigott,” said the old squire, addressing her, “is +Mrs. Philip Caresfoot, and you will be so kind as to treat her with all +respect. Don’t open your eyes, but attend to me. For the present, you had +best put her in the red room, and attend to her yourself. Do you +understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, sir! I understand,” Pigott replied, curtseying. +“Will you be pleased to come along with me, ma’am?” +</p> + +<p> +Hilda rose and took Pigott’s arm. Excitement and fatigue had worn her +out. Before she went, however, she turned, and with tears in her eyes thanked +the old man for his kindness to a friendless woman. +</p> + +<p> +The hard eyes grew kindly as he stooped and kissed the broad, white brow, and +said in his stately way— +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, as yet I have shown you nothing but the courtesy due to a lady. +Should I live, I hope to bestow on you the affection I owe to a much-wronged +daughter. Good-by.” +</p> + +<p> +And thus they parted, little knowing where they should meet again. +</p> + +<p> +“A woman I respect—well, English or German, the blood will +tell”—he said as soon as the door had closed. “Poor +thing—poor Maria too. The scoundrel!—ah! there it is again;” +and he pressed his hand to his heart. “This business has upset me, and no +wonder.” +</p> + +<p> +The pang passed, and sitting down he wrote a letter that evidently embarrassed +him considerably, and addressed it to Miss Lee. This he put in the post-box, +and then, going to a secretaire, he unlocked it, and taking out a document he +began to puzzle over it attentively. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Simmons announced that Mr. Bellamy was waiting. +</p> + +<p> +“Show him in at once,” said the old man briskly. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<p> +It was some minutes past seven that evening when the lawyer left, and he had +not been gone a quarter of an hour before a hired gig drove up to the door +containing Philip, who had got back from town in the worst of bad tempers, and, +as no conveyance was waiting for him, had been forced to post over from Roxham. +Apparently his father had been expecting his arrival, for the moment the +servant opened the door he appeared from his study, and addressed him in a tone +that was as near to being jovial as he ever went. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Philip, back again, are you? Been up to town, I suppose, and +driven over in the ‘George’ gig? That’s lucky; I wanted to +speak to you. Come in here, there’s a good fellow, I want to speak to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why is he so infernally genial?” reflected Philip. “Timeo +Danaos et dona ferentes;” then aloud, “All right, father; but if it +is all the same to you, I should like to get some dinner first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dinner! why, I have had none yet; I have been too busy. I shall not keep +you long; we will dine together presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip was surprised, and glanced at him suspiciously. His habits were +extremely regular; why had he had no dinner? +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile his father led the way into the study, muttering below his +breath— +</p> + +<p> +“One more chance—his last chance.” +</p> + +<p> +A wood fire was burning brightly on the hearth, for the evening was chilly, and +some sherry and glasses stood upon the table. +</p> + +<p> +“Take a glass of wine, Philip; I am going to have one; it is a good thing +to begin a conversation on. What says the Psalmist: ‘Wine that maketh +glad the heart of man, and oil to make him a cheerful +countenance’—a cheerful countenance! Ho, ho! my old limbs are +tired; I am going to sit down—going to sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +He seated himself in a well-worn leather arm-chair by the side of the fire so +that his back was towards the dying daylight. But the brightness of the flames +threw the clear-cut features into strong relief against the gloom, and by it +Philip could see that the withered cheeks were flushed. Somehow the whole +strongly defined scene made him feel uncanny and restless. +</p> + +<p> +“Cold for the first of May, isn’t it, lad? The world is very cold +at eighty-two. Eighty-two, a great age, yet it seems but the other day that I +used to sit in this very chair and dandle you upon my knee, and make this +repeater strike for you. And yet that is twenty years since, and I have lived +through four twenties and two years. A great age, a cold world!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t you well?” asked his son, brusquely, but not unkindly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well; ah, yes! thank you, Philip, I never felt better, my memory is so +good, I can see things I have forgotten seventy years or more. Dear, dear, it +was behind that bookcase in a hole in the board that I used to hide my flint +and steel which I used for making little fires at the foot of Caresfoot’s +Staff. There is a mark on the bark now. I was mischievous as a little lad, and +thought that the old tree would make a fine blaze. I was audacious, too, and +delighted to hide the things in my father’s study under the very nose of +authority. Ay, and other memories come upon me as I think. It was here upon +this very table that they stood my mother’s coffin. I was standing where +you are now when I wrenched open the half-fastened shell to kiss her once more +before they screwed her down for ever. I wonder would you do as much for me? I +loved my mother, and that was fifty years ago. I wonder shall we meet again? +That was on the first of May, a long-gone first of May. They threw branches of +blackthorn bloom upon her coffin. Odd, very odd! But business, lad, +business—what was it? Ah! I know,” and his manner changed in a +second and became hard and stern. “About Maria, have you come to a +decision?” +</p> + +<p> +Philip moved restlessly on his chair, poked the logs to a brighter blaze, and +threw on a handful of pine chips from a basket by his side before he answered. +Then he said— +</p> + +<p> +“No, I have not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your reluctance is very strange, Philip, I cannot understand it. I +suppose that you are not already married, are you, Philip?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a lurid calm about the old man’s face as he asked this question +that was very dreadful in its intensity. Under the shadow of his thick black +eyebrows, gleams of light glinted and flickered in the expanded pupils, as +before the outburst of a tempest the forked lightning flickers in the belly of +the cloud. His voice too was constrained and harsh. +</p> + +<p> +Owing to the position of his father’s head, Philip could not see this +play of feature, but he heard the voice and thought that it meant mischief. He +had but a second to decide between confession and the lie that leaped to his +lips. An inward conviction told him that his father was not long for this +world, was it worth while to face his anger when matters might yet be kept dark +till the end? The tone of the voice— ah! how he mistook its +meaning—deceived him. It was not, he thought, possible that his father +could know anything. Had he possessed a little more knowledge of the world, he +might have judged differently. +</p> + +<p> +“Married, no, indeed; what put that idea into your head?” And he +laughed outright. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he became aware that his father had risen and was approaching towards +him. Another moment and a hand of iron was laid upon his shoulder, the awful +eyes blazed into his face and seemed to pierce him through and through, and a +voice that he could not have recognized hissed into his ear— +</p> + +<p> +“You unutterable liar, you everlasting hound, your wife is at this moment +in this house.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip sprang up with an exclamation of rage and cursed Hilda aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” went on his father, standing before him, his tall frame +swaying backwards and forwards with excitement; “no, do not curse her, +she, like your other poor dupe, is an honest woman; on yourself be the +damnation, you living fraud, you outcast from all honour, who have brought +shame and reproach upon our honest name, on you be it; may every curse attend +<i>you</i>, and may remorse torture <i>you</i>. Listen: you lied to me, you +lied to your wife, trebly did you lie to the unfortunate girl you have +deceived; but, if you will not speak it, for once hear the truth, and remember +that you have to deal with one so relentless, that fools, mistaking justice for +oppression, call him ‘devil.’ I, ‘Devil Caresfoot,’ +tell you that I will disinherit you of every stick, stone, and stiver that the +law allows me, and start you in the enjoyment of the rest with my bitterest +curse. This I will do now whilst I am alive; when I am dead, by Heaven, I will +haunt you if I can.” +</p> + +<p> +Here he stopped for want of breath, and stood for a moment in the full light of +the cheery blaze, one hand raised above his head as though to strike, and, +presenting with his glittering eyes and working features, so terrible a +spectacle of rage that his son recoiled involuntarily before him. +</p> + +<p> +But fury begets fury as love begets love, and in another second Philip felt his +own wicked temper boil up within him. He clenched his teeth and stood firm. +</p> + +<p> +“Do your worst,” he said; “I hate you; I wish to God that you +were dead.” +</p> + +<p> +Hardly had these dreadful words left his lips when a change came over the old +man’s face; it seemed to stiffen, and putting one hand to his heart he +staggered back into his chair, pointing and making signs as he fell towards a +little cupboard in the angle of the wall. His son at once guessed what had +happened; his father had got one of the attacks of the heart to which he was +subject, and was motioning to him to bring the medicine which he had before +shown him, and which alone could save him in these seizures. Actuated by a +common impulse of humanity, Philip for the moment forgot their quarrel, and +stepped with all speed to fetch it. As it happened, there stood beneath this +cupboard a table, and on this table lay the document which his father had been +reading that afternoon before the arrival of Mr. Bellamy. It was his will, and, +as is usual in the case of such deeds, the date was endorsed upon the back. All +this Philip saw at a single glance, and he also saw that the will was dated +some years back, and therefore one under which he would inherit, doubtless the +same that his father had some months before offered to show him. +</p> + +<p> +It flashed through his mind that his father had got it out in order to burn it; +and this idea was followed by another that for a moment stilled his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>If he should die now he cannot destroy it!</i> If he does not take +the medicine he <i>will</i> die.” +</p> + +<p> +Thought flies fast in moments of emergency. Philip, too, was a man of +determined mind where his own interests were concerned, and his blood was +heated and his reason blinded by fury and terror. He was not long in settling +on his course of action. Taking the bottle from the cupboard, he poured out its +contents into one of the wine-glasses that stood upon the table, and coming up +to his father with it addressed him. He knew that these attacks, although they +were of a nature to cause intense pain, did not rob the sufferer of his senses. +The old man, though he lay before him gasping with agony, was quite in a +condition to understand him. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen to me,” he said, in a slow, distinct voice. “Just now +you said that you would disinherit me. This medicine will save your life, and +if I let it fall you will die, and there is no more in the house. Swear before +God that you will not carry out your threat, and I will give it to you. Lift up +your hand to show me that you swear.” +</p> + +<p> +Silence followed, only broken by the gasps of the dying man. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will not swear, I will pour it out before your eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +Again there was silence; but this time the old man made an effort to rise and +ring the bell. +</p> + +<p> +His son threw him roughly back. +</p> + +<p> +“For the last time,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “will you +swear?” +</p> + +<p> +A struggle passed over his father’s face, now nearly black with pain; and +presently from the distended lips, that did not seem to move, there burst a +single word—destined to echo for ever in his son’s ears— +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Murderer!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +It was his last. He sank back, groaned, and died; and at the same moment the +flame from the pine-chips flickered itself away, and of a sudden the room grew +nearly dark. Philip stood for awhile aghast at his own handiwork, and watched +the dull light glance on the dead white of his father’s brow. He was +benumbed by terror at what he had done, and in that awful second of realization +would have given his own life to have it undone. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, however, the instinct of self-preservation came to his aid. He lit a +candle, and taking some of the medicine in the glass, smeared it over the dead +man’s chin and coat, and then broke the glass on the floor by his +side—thus making it appear that he had died whilst attempting to swallow +the medicine. +</p> + +<p> +Next he raised a loud outcry, and violently rang the bell. In a minute the room +was full of startled servants, one of whom was instantly despatched for Mr. +Caley, the doctor. Meanwhile, after a vain attempt to restore animation, the +study-table was cleared and the corpse laid on it, as its mother’s had +been on that day fifty years before. +</p> + +<p> +Then came a dreadful hush, and the shadow of death came down upon the house and +brooded over it. The men-servants moved to and fro with muffled feet, and the +women wept, for in a way they had all loved the imperious old man, and the last +change had come very suddenly. Philip’s brain burned; he was consumed by +the desire of action. Suddenly he bethought him of his wife upstairs: after +what he had just passed through, no scene with her could disturb him—it +would, he even felt, be welcome. He went up to the room where she was, and +entered. It was evident that she had been told of what had happened, as both +she and Pigott, who was undressing her—for she was wearied out—were +weeping. She did not appear surprised at his appearance; the shock of the old +man’s death extinguished all surprise. It was he who broke the silence. +</p> + +<p> +“He is dead,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have heard.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you are at liberty for a few minutes, I wish to talk to you,” +he said savagely. +</p> + +<p> +“I, too,” she answered, “have something to say, but I am too +weary and upset to say it now. I will see you to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned and went without answering, and Pigott noticed that no kiss or word +of endearment passed between them, and that the tone of their words was cold. +</p> + +<p> +Soon after Philip got downstairs the doctor came. Philip met him in the hall +and accompanied him into the study, where the body was. He made a rapid +examination, more as a matter of form than anything else, for his first glance +had told him that life was extinct. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite dead,” he said sorrowfully; “my old friend gone at +last. One of a fine sort too; a just man for all his temper. They called him +‘devil,’ and he was fierce when he was younger, but if I never meet +a worse devil than he was I shall do well. He was very kind to me once— +very. How did he go?—in pain, I fear.” +</p> + +<p> +“We were talking together, when suddenly he was seized with the attack. I +got the medicine as quick as I could and tried to get it down his throat, but +he could not swallow, and in the hurry the glass was knocked by a jerk of his +head right out of my hands. Next second he was dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very quick—quicker than I should have expected. Did he say +anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +Now, just as Philip delivered himself of this last lie, a curious incident +happened, or rather an incident that is apt to seem curious to a person who has +just told a lie. The corpse distinctly moved its right hand—the same that +had been clasped over the old man’s head as he denounced his son. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” said Philip, turning pale as death, “what’s +that?” and even the doctor started a little, and cast a keen look at the +dead face. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” he said. “I have seen that happen before where +there has been considerable tension of the muscles before death; it is only +their final slackening, that is all. Come, will you ring the bell? They had +better come and take it upstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +This sad task had just been performed, and Mr. Caley was about to take his +leave, when Pigott came down and whispered something into his ear that +evidently caused him the most lively astonishment. Drawing Philip aside, he +said— +</p> + +<p> +“The housekeeper asks me to come up and see ‘Mrs. Philip +Caresfoot,’ whom she thinks is going to be confined. Does she mean your +wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Philip sullenly, “she does. It is a long +story, and I am too upset to tell it you now. It will soon be all over the +country I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +The old doctor whistled, but judged it advisable not to put any more questions, +when suddenly an idea seemed to strike him. +</p> + +<p> +“You said you were talking to your father when the fit took him; was it +about your marriage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did he first know of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“To-day, I believe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, thank you;” and he followed Pigott upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +That night, exactly at twelve o’clock, another little lamp floated out on +the waters of life: Angela was born. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<p> +When the doctor had gone upstairs, Philip went into the dining-room to eat +something, only to find that food was repugnant to him; he could scarcely +swallow a mouthful. To some extent, however, he supplied its place by wine, of +which he drank several glasses. Then, drawn by a strange fascination, he went +back into the little study, and, remembering the will, bethought himself that +it might be as well to secure it. In taking it off the table, however, a folded +and much erased sheet of manuscript was disclosed. Recognizing Bellamy’s +writing, he took it up and commenced to read the draft, for it was nothing +else. Its substance was as follows. +</p> + +<p> +The document began by stating that the testator’s former will was +declared null and void on account of the “treacherous and dishonourable +conduct of his son Philip.” It then, in brief but sweeping terms, +bequeathed and devised to trustees, of whom Philip was not one, the unentailed +property and personalty to be held by them: firstly, for the benefit of any +<i>son</i> that might be born to the said disinherited Philip by <i>his wife +Hilda</i>—the question of daughters being, probably by accident, passed +over in silence—and failing such issue, then to the testator’s +nephew, George Caresfoot, absolutely, subject, however, to the following +curious condition: Should the said George Caresfoot, <i>either by deed of gift +or will</i>, attempt to convey the estate to his cousin Philip, or to +descendants of the said Philip, then the gift over to the said George was to be +of none effect, and the whole was to pass to some distant cousins of the +testator’s who lived in Scotland. Then followed several legacies and one +charge on the estate to the extent of 1000 pounds a year payable to the +<i>separate</i> use of the aforesaid Hilda Caresfoot for life, and reverting at +death to the holder of the estate. +</p> + +<p> +In plain English, Philip was, under this draft, totally disinherited, first in +favour of his own male issue, by his wife Hilda, all mention of daughters being +omitted, and failing such issue, in favour of his hated cousin George, who, as +though to add insult to injury, was prohibited from willing the property back +either to himself or his descendants, by whom the testator had probably +understood the children of a second marriage. +</p> + +<p> +Philip read the document over twice carefully. +</p> + +<p> +“Phew!” he said, “that was touch and go. Thank heavens he had +no time to carry out his kind intentions.” +</p> + +<p> +But presently a terrible thought struck him. He rang the bell hastily. It was +answered by the footman, who, since he had an hour before helped to carry his +poor master upstairs, had become quite demoralized. It was some time before +Philip could get an answer to his question as to whether or no any one had been +with his father that day whilst he was out. At last he succeeded in extracting +a reply from the man that nobody had been except the young +lady—“leastways, he begged pardon, Mrs. Caresfoot, as he was told +she was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind her,” said Philip, feeling as though a load had been +taken from his breast, “you are sure nobody else has been?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, nobody, leastways he begged pardon, nobody except lawyer +Bellamy and his clerk, who had been there all the afternoon writing, with a +black bag, and had sent for Simmons to be witnessed.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can go,” said Philip, in a quiet voice. He saw it all now, he +had let the old man die <i>after</i> he had executed the fresh will +disinheriting him. He had let him die; he had effectually and beyond redemption +cut his own throat. Doubtless, too, Bellamy had taken the new will with him; +there was no chance of his being able to destroy it. +</p> + +<p> +By degrees, however, his fit of brooding gave way to one of sullen fury against +his wife, himself, but most of all against his dead father. Drunk with +excitement, rage, and baffled avarice, he seized a candle and staggered up to +the room where the corpse had been laid, launching imprecations as he went at +his dead father’s head. But when he came face to face with that dread +Presence his passion died, and a cold sense of the awful quiet and omnipotence +of death came upon him and chilled him into fear. In some indistinct way he +realized how impotent is the chafing of the waters of Mortality against the +iron- bound coasts of Death. To what purpose did he rail against that solemn +quiet thing, that husk and mask of life which lay in unmoved mockery of his +reviling? +</p> + +<p> +His father was dead, and he, even he, had killed his father. He was his +father’s murderer. And then a terror of the reckoning that must one day +be struck between that dead man’s spirit and his own took possession of +him, and a foreknowledge of the awful shadow under which he must henceforth +live crept into his mind and froze the very marrow in his bones. He looked +again at the face, and, to his excited imagination, it appeared to have assumed +a sardonic smile. The curse of Cain fell upon him as he looked, and weighed him +down; his hair rose, and the cold sweat poured from his forehead. At length he +could bear it no longer, but, turning, fled out of the room and out of the +house, far into the night. +</p> + +<p> +When, haggard with mental and bodily exhaustion, he at length returned, it was +after midnight. He found Dr. Caley waiting for him; he had just come from the +sick-room and wore an anxious look upon his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Your wife has been delivered of a fine girl,” he said; “but +I am bound to tell you that her condition is far from satisfactory. The case is +a most complicated and dangerous one.” +</p> + +<p> +“A girl!” groaned Philip, mindful of the will. “Are you sure +that it is a girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I am sure,” answered the doctor, testily. +</p> + +<p> +“And Hilda ill—I don’t understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, my good fellow, you are upset; take a glass of brandy and go +to bed. Your wife does not wish to see you now, but, if necessary, I will send +for you. Now, do as I tell you, or you will be down next. Your nerves are +seriously shaken.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip did as he was bid, and, as soon as he had seen him off to his room, the +doctor returned upstairs. +</p> + +<p> +In the early morning he sent for two of his brother-practitioners, and they +held a consultation, the upshot of which was that they had come to the +conclusion nothing short of a miracle could save Hilda’s life— a +conclusion that she herself had arrived at some hours before. +</p> + +<p> +“Doctor,” she said, “I trust to you to let me know when the +end is near. I wish my husband to be present when I die, but not before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, my child—never talk of dying yet. Please God, you have many +years of life before you.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her golden head a little sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“No, doctor, my sand has run out, and perhaps it as as well. Give me the +child—why do you keep the child away from me? It is the messenger sent to +call me to a happier world. Yes, she is an angel messenger. When I am gone, see +that you call her ‘Angela,’ so that I may know by what name to +greet her when the time comes.” +</p> + +<p> +During the course of the morning, she expressed a strong desire to see Maria +Lee, who was accordingly sent for. +</p> + +<p> +It will be remembered that old Mr. Caresfoot had on the previous day, +immediately after Hilda had left him, sat down and written to Maria Lee. In +this note he told her the whole shameful truth, ending it with a few words of +bitter humiliation and self-reproach that such a thing should have befallen her +at the hands of one bearing his name. Over the agony of shame and grief thus +let loose upon this unfortunate girl we will draw a veil. It is fortunate for +the endurance of human reason that life does not hold many such hours as that +through which she passed after the receipt of this letter. As was but natural, +notwithstanding old Mr. Caresfoot’s brief vindication of Hilda’s +conduct in his letter, Maria was filled with indignation at what to herself she +called her treachery and deceit. +</p> + +<p> +While she was yet full of these thoughts, a messenger came galloping over from +Bratham Abbey, bringing a note from Dr. Caley that told her of her old +friend’s sudden death, and of Hilda’s dangerous condition, and her +desire to see her. The receipt of this news plunged her into a fresh access of +grief, for she had grown fond of the old man; nor had the warm affection for +Hilda that had found a place in her gentle heart been altogether wrenched away; +and, now that she heard that her rival was face to face with that King of +Terrors before whom all earthly love, hate, hope, and ambition must fall down +and cease their troubling, it revived in all its force; nor did any thought of +her own wrongs come to chill it. +</p> + +<p> +Within half an hour she was at the door of the Abbey House, where the doctor +met her, and, in answer to her eager question, told her that, humanly speaking, +it was impossible her friend could live through another twenty-four hours, +adding an injunction that she must not stay with her long. +</p> + +<p> +She entered the sick-room with a heavy heart, and there from Hilda’s +dying lips she heard the story of her marriage and of Philip’s perfidy. +Their reconciliation was as complete as her friend’s failing voice and +strength would allow. At length she tore herself away, and, turning at the +door, took her last look at Hilda, who had raised herself upon her elbow, and +was gazing at her retreating form with an earnestness that was very touching. +The eyes, Maria felt, were taking their fill of what they looked upon for the +last time in this world. Catching her tearful gaze, the dying woman smiled, +and, lifting her hand, pointed upwards. Thus they parted. +</p> + +<p> +But Maria could control herself no longer: her own blasted prospects, the loss +of the man she loved, and the affecting scene through which she had just +passed, all helped to break her down. Running downstairs into the dining-room, +she threw herself on a sofa, and gave full passage to her grief. Presently she +became aware that she was not alone. Philip stood before her, or, rather, the +wreck of him whom she knew as Philip. Indeed, it was hard to recognize in this +scared man, with dishevelled hair, white and trembling lips, and eyes ringed +round with black, the bold, handsome youth whom she had loved. The sight of him +stayed her sorrow, and a sense of her bitter injuries rushed in upon her. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want with me?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Want! I want forgiveness. I am crushed, Maria, crushed—quite +crushed,” and he put his hands to his face and sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +She answered him with the quiet dignity that good women can command in moments +of emergency—dignity of a very different stamp from Hilda’s haughty +pride, but perhaps as impressive in its way. +</p> + +<p> +“You ask forgiveness of me, and say that you are crushed. Has it occurred +to you that, without fault of my own, except the fault of trusting you as +entirely as I loved you, I too am crushed? Do you know that you have wantonly, +or to gain selfish ends, broken my heart, blighted my name, and driven me from +my home, for I can live here no more? Do you understand that you have done me +one of the greatest injuries one person can do to another? I say, do you know +all this, Philip Caresfoot, and, knowing it, do you still ask me to forgive +you? Do you think it possible that I <i>can</i> forgive?” +</p> + +<p> +He had never heard her speak like this before, and did not remember that +intense feeling is the mother of eloquence. He gazed at her for a moment in +astonishment; then he dropped his face into his hands again and groaned, making +no other answer. After waiting awhile, she went on— +</p> + +<p> +“I am an insignificant creature, I know, and perhaps the mite of my +happiness or misery makes little difference in the scale of things; but to me +the gift of all my love was everything. I gave it to you, Philip—gave it +without a doubt or murmur, gave it with both hands. I can never have it back to +give again! How you have treated it you best know.” Here she broke down a +little, and then continued: “It may seem curious, but though my love has +been so mistakenly given; though you to whom it was given have dealt so ill +with it; yet I am anxious that on my side there should be no bitter memory, +that, in looking back at all this in after years, you should never be able to +dwell upon any harsh or unkind word of mine. It is on that account, and also +because I feel that it is not for me to judge you, and that you have already +much to bear, that I do as you ask me, and say, ‘Philip, from my heart I +forgive you, as I trust that the Almighty may forgive me.’” +</p> + +<p> +He flung himself upon his knees before her, and tried to take her hand. +“You do not know how you have humbled me,” he groaned. +</p> + +<p> +She gazed at him with pity. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” she said; “I did not wish to humble you. I have +one word more to say, and then I must go. I have just bid my last earthly +farewell to—your wife. My farewell to you must be as complete as that, as +complete as though the grave had already swallowed one of us. We have done with +each other for ever. I do not think that I shall come back here. In my waking +moments your name shall never willingly pass my lips again. I will say it for +the last time now. <i>Philip, Philip, Philip</i>, whom I chose to love out of +all the world, I pray God that He will take me, or deaden the edge of what I +suffer, and that He may never let my feet cross your path or my eyes fall upon +your face again.” +</p> + +<p> +In another second she had passed out of the room and out of his life. +</p> + +<p> +That night, or rather just before dawn on the following morning, Hilda, knowing +that her end was very near, sent for her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Go quickly, doctor,” she said. “I shall die at dawn.” +</p> + +<p> +The doctor found him seated in the same spot where Maria Lee had left him. +</p> + +<p> +“What, more misery!” he said, when he had told his errand. “I +cannot bear it. There is a curse upon me—death and wickedness, misery and +death!” +</p> + +<p> +“You must come if you wish to see your wife alive.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will come;” and he rose and followed him. +</p> + +<p> +A sad sight awaited him. The moment of the grey dawn was drawing near, and, by +his wife’s request, a window had been unshuttered, that her dimmed eyes +might once more look upon the light. On the great bed in the centre of the room +lay Hilda, whose life was now quickly draining from her, and by her side was +placed the sleeping infant. She was raised and supported on either side by +pillows, and her unbound golden hair fell around her shoulders, enclosing her +face as in a frame. Her pallid countenance seemed touched with an awful beauty +that had not belonged to it in life, whilst in her eyes was that dread and +prescient gaze which sometimes come to those who are about to solve +death’s mystery. +</p> + +<p> +By the side of the bed knelt Mr. Fraser, the clergyman of the parish, repeating +in an earnest tone the prayers for the dying, whilst the sad-faced attendants +moved with muffled tread backwards and forwards from the ring of light around +the bed into the dark shadows that lay beyond. +</p> + +<p> +When Philip came, the clergyman ceased praying, and drew back into the further +part of the room, as did Pigott and the nurse, the former taking the baby with +her. +</p> + +<p> +Hilda motioned to him to come close to her. He came, and bent over and kissed +her, and she, with an effort, threw one ivory arm around his neck, and smiled +sweetly. After about a minute, during which she was apparently collecting her +thoughts, she spoke in a low voice, and in her native tongue. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not sent for you before, Philip, for two reasons—first, +because I wished to spare you pain; and next, in order that I might have time +to rid my mind of angry thoughts against you. They are all gone now—gone +with every other earthly interest; but I <i>was</i> angry with you, Philip. And +now listen to me—for I have not much time—and do not forget my +words in future years, when the story of my life will seem but as a shadow that +once fell upon your path. Change your ways, Philip dear, abandon deceit, atone +for the past; if you can, make your peace with Maria Lee, and marry +her—ah! it is a pity that you did not do that at first, and leave me to +go my ways—and, above all, humble your heart before the Power that I am +about to face. I love you, dear, and, notwithstanding all, I am thankful to +have been your wife. Please God, we shall meet again.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused awhile, and then spoke in English. To the astonishment of all, her +voice was strong and clear, and she uttered her words with an energy that, +under the circumstances, seemed almost awful. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell her to bring the child.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no need for Philip to repeat what she said, for Pigott heard her, and +at once came forward with the baby, which she laid beside her. +</p> + +<p> +The dying woman placed her hand upon its tiny head, and, turning her eyes +upwards with the rapt expression of one who sees a vision, said— +</p> + +<p> +“May the power of God be about you to protect you, my motherless babe, +may angels guard you, and make you as they are; and may the heavy curse and +everlasting doom of the Almighty fall upon those who would bring evil upon +you.” +</p> + +<p> +She paused, and then addressed her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Philip, you have heard my words; in your charge I leave the child, see +that you never betray my trust.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, turning to Pigott, she said, in a fainter voice— +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you for your kindness to me. You have a good face; if you can, +stop with my child, and give her your love and care. And now, may God have +mercy on my soul!” +</p> + +<p> +Then came a minute’s silence, broken only by the stifled sobs of those +who stood around, till a ray of light from the rising sun struggled through the +grey mist of the morning, and, touching the heads of mother and child, +illumined them as with a glory. It passed as quickly as it came, drawing away +with it the mother’s life. Suddenly, as it faded, she spread out her +arms, sighed, and smiled. When the doctor reached the bed, her story was told: +she had fallen asleep. +</p> + +<p> +Death had been very gentle with her. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<p> +Go, my reader, if the day is dull, and you feel inclined to moralize— for +whatever may be said to the contrary, there are less useful +occupations—and look at your village churchyard. What do you see before +you? A plot of enclosed ground backed by a grey old church, a number of +tombstones more or less decrepit, and a great quantity of little oblong mounds +covered with rank grass. If you have any imagination, any power of thought, you +will see more than that. First, with the instinctive selfishness of human +nature, you will recognize your own future habitation; perhaps your eye will +mark the identical spot where the body you love must lie through all seasons +and weathers, through the slow centuries that will flit so fast for you, till +the crash of doom. It is good that you should think of that, although it makes +you shudder. The English churchyard takes the place of the Egyptian mummy at +the feast, or the slave in the Roman conqueror’s car—it mocks your +vigour, and whispers of the end of beauty and strength. +</p> + +<p> +Probably you need some such reminder. But if, giving to the inevitable the sigh +that is its due, you pursue the vein of thought, it may further occur to you +that the plot before you is in a sense a summary of the aspirations of +humanity. It marks the realization of human hopes, it is the crown of human +ambitions, the grave of human failures. Here, too, is the end of the man, and +here the birthplace of the angel or the demon. It is his sure inheritance, one +that he never solicits and never squanders; and, last, it is the only certain +resting-place of sleepless, tired mortality. +</p> + +<p> +Here it was that they brought Hilda, and the old squire, and laid them side by +side against the coffin of yeoman Caresfoot, whose fancy it had been to be +buried in stone, and then, piling primroses and blackthorn blooms upon their +graves, left them to their chilly sleep. Farewell to them, they have passed to +where as yet we may not follow. Violent old man and proud and lovely woman, +rest in peace, if peace be the portion of you both! +</p> + +<p> +To return to the living. The news of the sudden decease of old Mr. Caresfoot; +of the discovery of Philip’s secret marriage and the death of his wife; +of the terms of the old man’s will, under which, Hilda being dead, and +having only left a daughter behind her, George inherited all the unentailed +portion of the property, with the curious provision that he was never to leave +it back to Philip or his children; of the sudden departure of Miss Lee, and of +many other things, that were some of them true and some of them false, +following as they did upon the heels of the great dinner-party, and the +announcement made thereat, threw the country-side into a state of indescribable +ferment. When this settled down, it left a strong and permanent residuum of +public indignation and contempt directed against Philip, the more cordially, +perhaps, because he was no longer a rich man. People very rarely express +contempt or indignation against a rich man who happens to be their neighbour in +the country, whatever he may have done. They keep their virtue for those who +are impoverished, or for their unfortunate relations. But for Philip it was +felt that there was no excuse and no forgiveness; he had lost both his +character and his money, and must therefore be cut, and from that day forward +he was cut accordingly. +</p> + +<p> +As for Philip himself, he was fortunately, as yet, ignorant of the kind +intentions of his friends and neighbours, who had been so fond of him a week +ago. He had enough upon his shoulders without that—for he had spoken no +lie when he told Maria Lee that he was crushed by the dreadful and repeated +blows that had fallen upon him, blows that had robbed him of everything that +made life worth living, and given him in return nothing but an infant who could +not inherit, and who was therefore only an incumbrance. +</p> + +<p> +Who is it that says, “After all, let a bad man take what pains he may to +push it down, a human soul is an awful, ghostly, unique possession for a bad +man to have?” During the time that had elapsed between the death and +burial of his father and wife, Philip had become thoroughly acquainted with the +truth of this remark. +</p> + +<p> +Do what he would, he could never for a single hour shake himself free from the +recollection of his father’s death; whenever he shut his eyes, his uneasy +mind continually conjured up the whole scene with uncanny distinctness; the +gloomy room, the contorted face of the dying man, the red flicker of the +firelight on the wall—all these things were burnt deep into the tablets +of his memory. More and more did he recognize the fact that, even should he +live long enough to bury the events of that hour beneath the debris of many +years, the lapse of time would be insufficient to bring forgetfulness, and the +recognition brought with it moral helplessness. He had, too, sufficient +religious feeling to make him uneasy as to his future fate, and possessed a +certain amount of imagination, which was at this time all directed towards that +awful day when he and his dead father must settle their final accounts. +Already, in the quiet nights, he would wake with a start, thinking that the +inevitable time had come. Superstitious fears also would seize him with their +clammy fingers, and he would shake and tremble at the fancied step of ghostly +feet, and his blood would curdle in his veins as his mind hearkened to voices +that were for ever still. +</p> + +<p> +And, worst of all, what had been done, and could never be undone, had been done +in vain. These deadly torments must be endured, whilst the object for which +they had been incurred had utterly escaped him. He had sold himself to the +powers of evil for a price, and that price had not been paid. But the bond was +good for all that. +</p> + +<p> +And so he would brood, hour after hour, till he felt himself drawing near to +madness. Sometimes by a strong effort he would succeed in tearing his mind away +from the subject, but then its place was instantly filled by a proud form with +reproachful eyes, and he would feel that there, too, death had put it out of +his power to make atonement. Of those whom he had wronged Maria Lee alone +survived, and she had left him in sorrow, more bitter than any anger. Truly, +Philip Caresfoot was in melancholy case. Somewhere he had read that the wages +of sin is death, but surely what he felt surpassed the bitterness of death. His +evil-doing had not prospered with him. The snare he had set for his father had +fallen back upon himself, and he was a crushed and ruined man. +</p> + +<p> +It affords a curious insight into his character to reflect that all these +piled-up calamities, all this wreck and sudden death, did not bring him +penitent on his knees before the Maker he had outraged. The crimes he had +committed, especially if unsuccessful, or the sorrows that had fallen upon him, +would have sufficed to reduce nine-tenths of ordinary men to a condition of +humble supplication. For, generally speaking, irreligion, or rather +forgetfulness of God, is a plant of no deep growth in the human heart, since +its roots are turned by the rock of that innate knowledge of a higher Power +that forms the foundation of every soul, and on which we are glad enough to set +our feet when the storms of trouble and emergency threaten to destroy us. But +with Philip this was not so. He never thought of repentance. His was not the +nature to fall down and say, “Lord, I have sinned, take Thou my burden +from me.” Indeed, he was not so much sorry for the past as fearful for +the future. It was not grief for wrong-doing that wrung his heart and broke his +spirit, but rather his natural sorrow at losing the only creature he had ever +deeply loved, chagrin at the shame of his position and the failure of his +hopes, and the icy fingers of superstitious fears. +</p> + +<p> +The crisis had come and passed: he had sinned against his Father in heaven and +his father on earth, and he did not sorrow for his sin; his wife had left him, +murmuring with her dying lips exhortations to repentance, and he did not +soften; shame and loss had fallen upon him, and he did not turn to God. But his +pride was broken, all that remained to him of strength was his wickedness; the +flood that had swept over him had purged away not the evil but the good, from +the evil it only took its courage. Henceforth, if he sins at all, his will be +no bold and hazardous villany which, whilst it excites horror, can almost +compel respect, but rather the low and sordid crime, the safe and treacherous +iniquity. +</p> + +<p> +Ajax no longer defies the lightning—he mutters curses on it beneath his +breath. +</p> + +<p> +On the evening of the double funeral—which Philip did not feel equal to +attending, and at which George, in a most egregious hatband and with many sobs +and tears, officiated as chief mourner—Mr. Fraser thought it would be a +kind act on his part to go and offer such consolation to the bereaved man as +lay within his power, if indeed he would accept it. Somewhat contrary to his +expectation, he was, on arrival at the Abbey House, asked in without delay. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to see a human face,” said Philip to the clergyman, as +he entered the room; “this loneliness is intolerable. I am as much alone +as though I lay stark in the churchyard like my poor wife.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser did not answer him immediately, so taken up was he in noticing the +wonderful changes a week had wrought in his appearance. Not only did his +countenance bear traces of the illness and exhaustion that might not +unnaturally be expected in such a case of bereavement, but it faithfully +reflected the change that had taken place in his mental attitude. His eyes had +lost the frank boldness that had made them very pleasing to some people, they +looked scared; the mouth too was rendered conspicuous by the absence of the +firm lines that once gave it character; indeed the man’s whole appearance +was pitiful and almost abject. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid,” he said at length, in a tone of gentle compassion, +“that you must have suffered a great deal, Caresfoot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suffered! I have suffered the tortures of the damned! I still suffer +them, I shall always suffer them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not wish,” said the clergyman, with a little hesitation, +“to appear officious or to make a mockery of your grief by telling you +that it is for your good; but I should fail in my duty if I did not point out +to you that He who strikes the blow has the power to heal the wound, and that +very often such things are for our ultimate benefit, either in this world or +the next. Carry your troubles to Him, my dear fellow, acknowledge His hand, +and, if you know in your heart of any way in which you have sinned, offer Him +your hearty repentance; do this, and you will not be deserted. Your life, that +now seems to you nothing but ashes, may yet be both a happy and a useful +one.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip smiled bitterly as he answered— +</p> + +<p> +“You talk to me of repentance—how can I repent when Providence has +treated me so cruelly, robbing me at a single blow of my wife and my fortune? I +know that I did wrong in concealing my marriage, but I was driven to it by fear +of my father. Ah! if you had seen him as I saw him, you would have known that +they were right to call him ‘Devil Caresfoot.’” He checked +himself, and then went on—“He forced me into the engagement with +Miss Lee, and announced it without my consent. Now I am ruined—everything +is taken from me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have your little daughter, and all the entailed estate—at +least, so I am told.” +</p> + +<p> +“My little daughter!—I never want to see her face; she killed her +mother. If it had been a boy, it would have been different, for then, at any +rate, that accursed George would not have got my birthright. My little +daughter, indeed! don’t enumerate her among my earthly blessings.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is rather sad to hear you talk like that of your child; but, at any +rate, you are not left in want. You have one of the finest old places in the +county, and a thousand a year, which to most men would be riches.” +</p> + +<p> +“And which to me,” answered Philip, “is beggary. I should +have had six, and I have got one. But look you here, Fraser, I swear before +God——” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! I cannot listen to such talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, before anything you like, that, while I live, I will never +rest one single moment until I get my own back again. It may seem impossible, +but I will find a way. For instance,” he added, as a thought struck him, +“strangely enough, the will does not forbid me to buy the lands back. If +I can get them no other way, I will buy them— do you hear?—I will +buy them. I <i>must</i> have them again before I die.” +</p> + +<p> +“How will you get the money?” +</p> + +<p> +“The money—I will save it, make it, steal it, get it somehow. Oh! +do not be afraid; I will get the money. It will take a few years, but I will +get it somehow. It is not the want of a few thousands that will stop a +determined man.” +</p> + +<p> +“And suppose your cousin won’t sell?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will find a way to make him sell—some bribe, something. There, +there,” and his enthusiasm and eagerness vanished in a moment, and the +broken look came back upon his face. “It’s all nonsense; I am +talking impossibilities—a little weak in my mind, I suppose. Forget it, +there’s a good fellow; say nothing about it. And so you buried them? Ah, +me! ah, me! And George did chief mourner. I suppose he blubbered freely; he +always could blubber freely when he liked. I remember how he used to take folks +in as a lad, and then laugh at them; that’s why they called him +‘Crocodile’ at school. Well, he’s my master now, and +I’m his very humble servant; perhaps one day it will be the other way up +again. What, must you go? If you knew how fearfully lonely I am, you would not +go. My nerves have quite gone, and I fancy all sorts of things. I can think of +nothing but those two graves out there in the dark. Have they sodded them over? +Tell them to sod them over. It was kind of you to come and see me. You +mustn’t pay any attention to my talk; I am not quite myself. Good +night.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser was an extremely unsuspicious man, but somehow, as he picked his way +to the vicarage to eat his solitary chop, he felt a doubt rising in his mind as +to whether, his disclaimer notwithstanding, Philip had not sincerely meant all +he said. +</p> + +<p> +“He is shockingly changed,” he mused, “and I am not sure that +it is a change for the better. Poor fellow, he has a great deal to bear, and +should be kindly judged. It is all so painful that I must try to divert my +mind. Mrs. Brown, will you bring me a little chocolate- coloured book, that you +will see on the table in my study, when you come back with the potatoes? It has +Plato—P-l-a-t-o—printed on the back.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<p> +The jubilation of George at the turn events had taken may perhaps be more +easily imagined than described. There is generally one weak point about all +artful schemes to keep other people out of their rights; they break down over +some unforeseen detail, or through the neglect of some trivial and obvious +precaution. But this was one of the glorious instances to the contrary that +prove the rule. Nothing had broken down, everything had prospered as a holy +cause always should, and does —in theory. The stars in their courses had +fought for Sisera, everything had succeeded beyond expectation, nothing had +failed. In the gratitude of his heart, George would willingly have given a +thousand pounds towards the establishment of a training-school for anonymous +letter-writers, or the erection of a statue to Hilda Caresfoot, whose outraged +pride and womanly jealousy had done him such yeoman service. +</p> + +<p> +Speaking seriously, he had great cause for rejoicing. Instead of a +comparatively slender younger son’s portion, he had stepped into a fine +and unencumbered property of over five thousand a year, and that in the heyday +of his youth, when in the full possession of all his capacities for enjoyment, +which were large indeed. Henceforth everything that money could buy would be +his, including the respect and flattery of his poorer neighbours. An added +flavour too was given to the overflowing cup of his good fortune by the fact +that it had been wrenched from the hands of the cousin whom he hated, and on +whom he had from a boy sworn to be avenged. Poor Philip! bankrupt in honour and +broken in fortune, he could afford to pity him now, to pity him ostentatiously +and in public. He was open-handed with his pity was George. Nor did he lack a +sympathizer in these delicious moments of unexpected triumph. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I not tell you,” said Mrs. Bellamy, in her full, rich tones, +on the afternoon of the reading of the will—“did I not tell you +that, if you would consent to be guided by me, I would pull you through, and +have I not pulled you through? Never misdoubt my judgment again, my dear +George; it is infinitely sounder than your own.” +</p> + +<p> +“You did, Anne, you certainly did; you are a charming woman, and as +clever as you are charming.” +</p> + +<p> +“Compliments are all very well, and I am sure I appreciate +yours”—and she gave a little curtsey—“at their proper +value; but I must remind you, George, that I have done my part of the bargain, +and that now you must do yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! that’s all right; Bellamy shall have the agency and two +hundred a year with it, and, to show you that I have not forgotten you, perhaps +you will accept this in memorial of our joint achievement;” and he drew +from his pocket and opened a case containing a superb set of sapphires. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bellamy had all a beautiful woman’s love for jewels, and especially +adored sapphires. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she said, clasping her hands, “thank you, George; they +are perfectly lovely!” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps,” he replied, politely; “but not half so lovely as +their wearer. I wonder,” he added, with a little laugh, “what the +old boy would say, if he could know that a thousand pounds of his personalty +had gone by anticipation to buy a necklace for Anne Bellamy.” +</p> + +<p> +To this remark she made no reply, being apparently absorbed in her own +thoughts. At last she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t want to seem ungracious, George, but +these”—and she touched the jewels—“were not the reward +I expected: I want the letters you promised me back.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Anne, you are under a mistake, I never promised you the letters; +I said that, under the circumstances, I might possibly restore them—a +very different thing from promising.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bellamy flushed a little, and the great pupils of her sleepy eyes +contracted till she looked quite dangerous. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I must have strangely misunderstood you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want the letters for? Can’t you trust me with +them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think, George, that if you had passed through something +very terrible, you would like to have all the mementoes of that dark time +destroyed? Those letters are the record of my terrible time; nothing remains of +it but those written lines. I want to burn them, to stamp them into powder, to +obliterate them as I have obliterated all the past. Whilst they exist I can +never feel safe. Supposing you were to turn traitor to me and let those letters +fall into the hands of others, supposing that you lost them, I should be a +ruined woman. I speak frankly, you see; I fully appreciate my danger, +principally because I know that, the more intimate a man and woman have been, +the more chance there is of their becoming bitter enemies. George, give me +those letters; do not overcloud my future with the shadows of the past.” +</p> + +<p> +“You talk as well as you do everything else, Anne; you are really a very +remarkable woman. But, curiously enough, those letters, the existence of which +is so obnoxious to you, are to me a source of great interest. You know that I +love to study character—curious occupation for a young man, isn’t +it?—but I do. Well, in my small experience, I have never yet, either in +fiction or in real life, come across such a fascinating display as is reflected +in those letters. There I can, and often do, trace in minutest detail the agony +of a strong mind, can see the barriers of what people call religion, early +training, self- respect, and other curiosities which we name virtues, bursting +away one by one under pressure, like the water-tight bulkheads they put in +passenger steamers, till at length the work is done; the moral ship sinks, and +the writer stands revealed what you are, my dear Anne, the loveliest, the +cleverest, and the most utterly unscrupulous woman in the three +kingdoms.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose very quietly, but quite white with passion, and answered in her low +voice— +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever I am you made me, and <i>you</i> are a devil, George Caresfoot, +or you could not take pleasure in the tortures you inflicted before you +destroyed. But, don’t go too far, or you may regret it. Am I a woman to +be played with? I think that you have trained me too well.” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed a little uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“There, you see; <i>grattez le Russe</i>, &c., and out comes the true +character. Look at your face in the glass; it is magnificent, but not pleasant; +rather dangerous, indeed. Why, Anne, do be reasonable; if I gave you those +letters, I should never be able to sleep in peace. For the sake of my own +safety I dare not abandon the whip-hand I have of you. Remember you could, if +you chose, say some unpleasant things about me, and I don’t want that any +more than you do just now. But, you see, whilst I hold in my power what would, +if necessary, effectually ruin you, and probably Bellamy too—for this +country society is absurdly prejudiced—I have little cause for fear. +Perhaps in the future you may be able to render me some service for which you +shall have the letters—who knows? You see I am perfectly frank with you, +for the simple reason that I know that it is useless to try to conceal my +thoughts from a person of your perception.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, perhaps you are right: it is difficult to trust oneself, +much less any one else. At any rate,” she said, with a bitter smile, +“you have given me Bellamy, a start in society, and a sapphire necklace. +In twenty years, I hope, if the fates are kind, to have lost Bellamy on the +road—he is really unendurable—to rule society, and to have as many +sapphire necklaces and other fine things as I care for. In enumerating my +qualities, you omitted one, ambition.” +</p> + +<p> +“With your looks, your determination, and your brains, there is nothing +that you will not be able to do if you set your mind to it, and don’t +make an enemy of your devoted friend.” +</p> + +<p> +And thus the conversation ended. +</p> + +<p> +Now little Bellamy had, after much anxious thought, just about this time come +to a bold determination—namely, to asset his marital authority over Mrs. +Bellamy. Indeed, his self-pride was much injured by the treatment he received +at his wife’s hands, for it seemed to him that he was utterly ignored in +his own house. In fact, it would not be too much to say that he <i>was</i> an +entire nonentity. He had married Mrs. Bellamy for love, or rather from +fascination, though she had nothing in the world—married her in a +fortnight from the time that George had first introduced him. When he had +walked out of church with his beautiful bride, he had thought himself the +luckiest man in London, whereas now he could not but feel that matrimony had +not fulfilled his expectations. In the first place, Love’s young +dream—he was barely thirty—came to a rude awakening, for, once +married, it was impossible —though he had, in common with the majority of +little men, a tolerably good opinion of himself—but that he should +perceive that his wife did not care one brass farthing about him. To his soft +advances she was as cold as a marble statue, the lovely eyes never grew tender +for him. Indeed, he found that she was worse than a statue, for statues cannot +indulge in bitter mockery and contemptuous comments, and Mrs. Bellamy could, +and, what is more, frequently did. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very well,” reflected her husband, “to marry the +loveliest woman in the county, but I don’t see the use of it if she +treats one like a dog.” +</p> + +<p> +At last this state of affairs had grown intolerable, and, meditating in the +solitude of his office, Mr. Bellamy resolved to assert himself once and for +all, and set matters on a proper footing, and Mrs. Bellamy in her place. But it +is one thing for husbands of the Bellamy stamp to form high-stomached +resolutions, and another for them to put those resolutions into active and +visible operation on wives of the Mrs. Bellamy stamp. Indeed, had it not been +for a little incident about to be detailed, it is doubtful if Mr. Bellamy would +have ever come to the scratch at all. +</p> + +<p> +When George had gone, Mrs. Bellamy sat down in by no means the sweetest of +tempers to think. But thinking in this instance proved an unprofitable +occupation, and she gave it up, in order to admire the sapphire necklace that +lay upon her knee. At that moment her husband entered the room, but she took no +notice, merely going on examining the stones. After moving about a little, as +though to attract attention, the gentleman spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“I have managed to get home to lunch, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you might take a little notice of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? Is there anything remarkable about you this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, there is not; but, remarkable or not, a man who has been fool +enough”—Mr. Bellamy laid great emphasis on the word +“fool”—“to get married has a right to expect when he +comes into his own house that he will have a little notice taken of him, and +not be as completely overlooked as—as though he were a tub of butter in a +grocer’s shop;” and he pugged out his chest, rubbed his hands, and +looked defiant. +</p> + +<p> +The lady laid her head back on the chair, and laughed with exquisite enjoyment. +</p> + +<p> +“Really, my dear John, you will kill me,” she said at length. +</p> + +<p> +“May I ask,” he replied, looking as though there was nothing in the +world that he would like better, “what you are laughing at?” +</p> + +<p> +“Your slightly vulgar but happy simile; it is easy to see where you draw +your inspiration from. If you had only said butterine, inferior butter, you +know, the counterfeit article, it would have been perfect.” +</p> + +<p> +Her husband gave a glance at his tubby little figure in the glass. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I to understand that you refer to me as ‘butterine,’ Mrs. +Bellamy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! certainly yes, if you like; but, butter or not, you will melt if you +lose your temper so.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not lost my temper, madam; I am perfectly cool,” he +replied, positively gasping with fury. Here his eye fell upon the necklace. +“What necklace is that? who gave you that necklace? I demand to +know.” +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>demand</i> to know! Be careful what you say, please. Mr. George +Caresfoot gave me the necklace. It cost a thousand pounds. Are you +satisfied?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am not satisfied; I will not have that cursed George Caresfoot +continually here. I will send him back his necklace. I will assert my rights as +an Englishman and a spouse, I will——” +</p> + +<p> +“You will sit down and listen to me.” +</p> + +<p> +The tone of the voice checked his absurd linguistic and physical capers, and +caused him to look at his wife. She was standing and pointing to a chair. Her +face was calm and immovable, only her eyes appeared to expand and contract with +startling rapidity. One glance was enough for Bellamy. He felt frightened, and +sat down in the indicated chair. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” she said, pleasantly; “now we can have +a cosy chat. John, you are a lawyer, and therefore, I suppose, more or less a +man of the world. Now, <i>as</i> a lawyer and a man of the world, I ask you to +look at me and then at yourself, and say if you think it likely or even +possible that I married you for love. To be frank, I did nothing of the sort; I +married you because you were the person most suited to my purpose. If you will +only understand that it will save us both a great deal of trouble. As for your +talk about asserting yourself and exercising your authority, it is simple +nonsense. You are very well in your way, my dear John, and a fair attorney, but +do you suppose for one moment that you are capable of matching yourself against +me? If so, you make a shocking mistake. Be advised, and do not try the +experiment. But don’t think that the bargain is all my side—it is +not. If you will behave yourself properly and be guided by my advice, I will +make you one of the richest and most powerful men in the county. If you will +not, I shall shake myself free of you as soon as I am strong enough. Rise I +must and will, and if you will not rise with me, I will rise alone. As regards +your complaints of my not caring about you, the world is wide, my dear John; +console yourself elsewhere. I shall not be jealous. And now I think I have +explained everything. It is so much more satisfactory to have a clear +understanding. Come, shall we go to lunch?” +</p> + +<p> +But Bellamy wanted no lunch that day. +</p> + +<p> +“After all,” he soliloquized to himself, between the pangs of a +racking headache brought on by his outburst of temper, “time sometimes +brings its revenges, and, if it does, you may look out, Mrs. Bellamy.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<p> +It is perhaps time that the reader should know a little of the ancient house +and loyalty where many of the personages of whose history these pages treat, +lived and moved and had their being. +</p> + +<p> +The Abbey House, so called, was in reality that part of the monastery which had +been devoted to the use of successive generations of priors. It was, like the +ruins that lay to its rear, entirely built of grey masonry, rendered greyer +still by the lichens that fed upon its walls, which were of exceeding strength +and thickness. It was a long, irregular building, and roofed with old and +narrow tiles, which from red had, in the course of ages, faded to sober russet. +The banqueting- hall was a separate building at its northern end, and connected +with the main dwelling by a covered way. The aspect of the house was westerly, +and the front windows looked on to an expanse of park-like land, heavily +timbered with oaks of large size, some of them pollards that might have pushed +their first leaves in the time of William the Conqueror. In spring their vivid +green was diversified by the reddish brown of a double line of noble +walnut-trees, a full half mile in length, marking the track of the +carriage-drive that led to the Roxham high-road. +</p> + +<p> +Behind the house lay the walled garden, celebrated in the time of the monks as +being a fortnight earlier than any other in the neighbourhood. Skirting the +southern wall of this garden, which was a little less than a hundred paces +long, the visitor reached the scattered ruins of the old monastery that had for +generations served as a stone quarry to the surrounding villages, but of which +enough was left, including a magnificent gateway, to show how great had been +its former extent. Passing on through these, he would come to an enclosure that +marked the boundaries of the old graveyard, now turned to agricultural uses, +and then to the church itself, a building with a very fine tower, but +possessing no particular interest, if we except some exceedingly good brasses +and a colossal figure of a monk cut out of the solid heart of an oak, and +supposed to be the effigy of a prior of the abbey who died in the time of +Edward I. Below the church again, and about one hundred and fifty paces from +it, was the vicarage, a comparatively modern building, possessing no +architectural attraction, and evidently reared out of the remains of the +monastery. +</p> + +<p> +At the south end of the Abbey House itself lay a small grass plot and +pleasure-garden fringed with shrubberies, and adorned with two fine +cedar-trees. One of these trees was at its further extremity, and under it +there ran a path cut through the dense shrubbery. This path, which was edged +with limes and called the “Tunnel Walk,” led to the lake, and +debouched in the little glade where stood Caresfoot’s Staff. The lake +itself was a fine piece of water, partly natural and partly constructed by the +monks, measuring a full mile round, and from fifty to two hundred yards in +width. It was in the shape of a man’s shoe, the heel facing west like the +house, but projecting beyond it, the narrow part representing the hollow of the +instep, being exactly opposite to it, and the sole swelling out in an easterly +direction. +</p> + +<p> +Bratham Abbey was altogether a fine old place, but the most remarkable thing +about it was its air of antiquity and the solemnity of its peace. It did not, +indeed, strike the spirit with that religious awe which is apt to fall upon us +as we gaze along the vaulted aisles of great cathedrals, but it appealed +perhaps with equal strength to the softer and more reflective side of our +nature. For generation after generation that house had been the home of men +like ourselves; they had passed and were forgotten, but it remained, the sole +witness of the stories of their lives. Hands of which the very bones had long +since crumbled into dust had planted those old oaks and walnuts, that still +donned their green robes in summer, and shed them in the autumn, to stand great +skeletons through the winter months, awaiting the resurrection of the spring. +</p> + +<p> +There lay upon the place and its surroundings a burden of dead lives, +intangible, but none the less real. The air was thick with memories, as +suggestive as the grey dust in a vault. Even in the summer, in the full burst +of nature revelling in her strength, the place was sad. But in the winter, when +the wind came howling through the groaning trees, and drove the grey scud +across an ashy sky, when the birds were dumb, and there were no cattle on the +sodden lawn, its isolated melancholy was a palpable thing. +</p> + +<p> +That hoary house might have been a gateway of the dim land we call the Past, +looking down in stony sorrow on the follies of those who so soon must cross its +portals, and, to the wise who could hear the lesson, pregnant with echoes of +the warning voices of many generations. +</p> + +<p> +Here it was that Angela grew up to womanhood. +</p> + +<p> +Some nine and a half years had passed from the date of the events described in +the foregoing pages, when one evening Mr. Fraser bethought him that he had been +indoors all day, and proposed reading till late that night, and that therefore +he had better take some exercise. +</p> + +<p> +A tall and somewhat nervous-looking man, with dark eyes, a sensitive mouth, and +that peculiar stoop and pallor of complexion which those devoted to much study +almost invariably acquire, he had “student” written on his face. +His history was a sufficiently common one. He possessed academical abilities of +a very high order, and had in his youth distinguished himself greatly at +college, both as a classical and a mathematical scholar. When quite young, he +was appointed, through the influence of a relation, to his present living, +where the income was good and the population very small indeed. Freed from all +necessity for exertion, he shut himself up with his books, having his little +round of parish work for relaxation, and never sought to emerge from the quiet +of his aimless studies to struggle for fame and place in the laborious world. +Mr. Fraser was what people call an able man thrown away. If they had known his +shy, sensitive nature a little better, they would have understood that he was +infinitely more suited for the solitary and peaceful lot in life which he had +chosen, than to become a unit in the turbulent and greedy crowd that is +struggling through all the ages up the slippery slopes of the temple of that +greatest of our gods—Success. +</p> + +<p> +There are many such men, probably you, my reader, know one or two. With +infinite labour they store up honey from the fields of knowledge, collect +endless data from the statistics of science, pile up their calculations against +the very stars; and all to no end. As a rule, they do not write books; they +gather the learning for the learning’s sake, and for the very love of it +rejoice to count their labour lost. And thus they go on from year to year, +until the golden bowl is broken and the pitcher broken at the fountain, and the +gathered knowledge sinks, or appears to sink, back to whence it came. Alas, +that one generation cannot hand on its wisdom and experience—more +especially its experience—to another in its perfect form! If it could, we +men should soon become as gods. +</p> + +<p> +It was a mild evening in the latter end of October when Mr. Fraser started on +his walk. The moon was up in the heavens as he, an hour later, made his way +from the side of the lake, where he had been wandering, back to the churchyard +through which he had to pass to reach the vicarage. Just before he came to the +gate, however, he was surprised, in such a solitary spot, to see a slight +figure leaning against the wall opposite the place where lay the mortal remains +of the old squire and his daughter-in-law, Hilda. He stood still and watched; +the figure appeared to be gazing steadily at the graves. Presently it turned +and saw him, and he recognized the great grey eyes and golden hair of little +Angela Caresfoot. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela, my dear, what are you doing here at this time of night?” +he asked, in some surprise. +</p> + +<p> +She blushed a little as she shook hands rather awkwardly with him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be angry with me,” she said in a deprecatory voice; +“but I was so lonely this evening that I came here for company.” +</p> + +<p> +“Came here for company! What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +She hung her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said, “tell me what you mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite know myself. How can I tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked more puzzled than ever, and she observed it and went on: +</p> + +<p> +“I will try to tell you, but you must not be cross like Pigott when she +cannot understand me. Sometimes I feel ever so much alone, as though I was +looking for something and could not find it, and then I come and stand here and +look at my mother’s grave, and I get company and am not lonely any more. +That is all I know; I cannot tell you any more. Do you think me silly? Pigott +does.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you are a very strange child. Are you not afraid to come here +alone at night?” +</p> + +<p> +“Afraid—oh, no! Nobody comes here; the people in the village dare +not come here after dark, because they say that the ruins are full of spirits. +Jakes told me that. But I must be stupid; I cannot see them, and I want so very +much to see them. I hope it is not wrong, but I told my father so the other +day, and he turned white and was angry with Pigott for giving me such ideas; +but you know Pigott did not give them to me at all. I am not afraid to come; I +like it, it is so quiet, and, if one listens enough in the quiet, I always +think one may hear something that other people do not hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear anything, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I hear things, but I cannot understand them. Listen to the wind in +the branches of that tree, the chestnut, off which the leaf is falling now. It +says something, if only I could catch it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, child, yes, you are right in a way; all Nature tells the same +eternal tale, if our ears were not stopped to its voices,” he answered, +with a sigh; indeed, the child’s talk had struck a vein of thought +familiar to his own mind, and, what is more, it deeply interested him; there +was a quaint, far-off wisdom in it. +</p> + +<p> +“It is pleasant to-night, is it not, Mr. Fraser?” said the little +maid, “though everything is dying. The things die softly without any pain +this year; last year they were all killed in the rain and wind. Look at that +cloud floating across the moon, is it not beautiful? I wonder what it is the +shadow of; I think all the clouds are shadows of something up in heaven.” +</p> + +<p> +“And when there are no clouds?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! then heaven is quite still and happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“But heaven is always happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it? I don’t understand how it can be always happy if <i>we</i> +go there. There must be so many to be sorry for.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser mused a little; that last remark was difficult to answer. He looked +at the fleecy cloud, and, falling into her humour, said— +</p> + +<p> +“I think your cloud is the shadow of an eagle carrying a lamb to its +little ones.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I think,” she answered confidently, “that it is the +shadow of an angel carrying a baby home.” +</p> + +<p> +Again he was silenced; the idea was infinitely more poetical than his own. +</p> + +<p> +“This,” he reflected, “is a child of a curious mental +calibre.” +</p> + +<p> +Before he could pursue the thought further, she broke in upon it in quite a +different strain. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you seen Jack and Jill? They <i>are</i> jolly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who are Jack and Jill?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my ravens, of course. I got them out of the old tree with a hole in +it at the end of the lake.” +</p> + +<p> +“The tree at the end of the lake! Why, the hole where the ravens nest is +fifty feet up. Who got them for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I got them myself. Sam—you know Sam—was afraid to go up. He +said he should fall, and that the old birds would peck his eyes. So I went by +myself one morning quite early, with a bag tied round my neck, and got up. It +was hard work, and I nearly tumbled once; but I got on the bough beneath the +hole at last. It shook very much; it is so rotten, you have no idea. There were +three little ones in the nest, all with great mouths. I took two, and left one +for the old birds. When I was nearly down again, the old birds found me out, +and flew at me, and beat my head with their wings, and pecked—oh, they +did peck! Look here,” and she showed him a scar on her hand; +“that’s where they pecked. But I stuck to my bag, and got down at +last, and I’m glad I did, for we are great friends now; and I am sure the +cross old birds would be quite pleased if they knew how nicely I am educating +their young ones, and how their manners have improved. But I say, Mr. Fraser, +don’t tell Pigott; she cannot climb trees, and does not like to see me do +it. She does not know I went after them myself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t tell her, Angela, my dear; but you must be +careful—you might tumble and kill yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I shall, Mr. Fraser, unless I am meant to. God looks +after me as much when I am up a tree as when I am upon the ground.” +</p> + +<p> +Once more he had nothing to say; he could not venture to disturb her faith. +</p> + +<p> +“I will walk home with you, my dear. Tell me. Angela, would you like to +learn?” +</p> + +<p> +“Learn!—learn what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Books, and the languages that other nations, nations that have passed +away, used to talk, and how to calculate numbers and distances.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I should like to learn very much; but who will teach me? I have +learnt all Pigott knows two years ago, and since then I have been trying to +learn about the trees and flowers and stars; but I look and watch, and +can’t understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! my dear, contact with Nature is the highest education; but the mind +that would appreciate her wonders must have a foundation of knowledge to work +upon. The uneducated man is rarely sensitive to the thousand beauties and +marvels of the fields around him, and the skies above him. But, if you like, I +will teach you, Angela. I am practically an idle man, and it will give me great +pleasure; but you must promise to work and do what I tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how good you are! Of course I will work. When am I to begin?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—to-morrow, if you like; but I must speak to +your father first.” +</p> + +<p> +Her face fell a little at the mention of her father’s name, but presently +she said, quietly— +</p> + +<p> +“My father, he will not care if I learn or not. I hardly ever see my +father; he does not like me. I see nobody but Pigott and you and old Jakes, and +Sam sometimes. You need not ask my father; he will never miss me whilst I am +learning. Ask Pigott.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Pigott herself hove into view, in a great flurry. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, here you are, Miss Angela! Where have you been to, you naughty girl? +At some of your star-gazing tricks again, I’ll be bound, frightening the +life out of a body. It’s just too bad of you, Miss Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +The little girl looked at her with a peculiarly winning smile, and took her +very solid hand between her own tiny palms. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be cross, Pigott, dear,” she said. “I +didn’t mean to frighten you. I couldn’t help going—I +couldn’t indeed; and then I stopped talking to Mr. Fraser.” +</p> + +<p> +“There, there, I should just like to know who can be cross with you when +you put on those ways. Are your feet wet? Ah! I thought so. Run on in and take +them off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t that be just a little difficult?” and she was gone +with a merry laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“There, sir, that’s just like her, catching a body up like and +twisting what she says, till you don’t know which is head and which is +heels. I’ll be bound you found her down yonder;” and she nodded +towards the churchyard. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Pigott drew a little nearer, and spoke in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Tis my belief, sir, that that child sees <i>things</i>; she is +just the oddest child I ever saw. There’s nothing she likes better than +to slip out of a night, and to go to that there beastly churchyard, saving your +presence, for ‘company,’ as she calls it—nice sort of +company, indeed. And it is just the same way with storms. You remember that +dreadful gale a month ago, the one that took down the North Grove and blew the +spire off Rewtham Church. Well, just when it was at its worst, and I was +a-sitting and praying that the roof might keep over our heads, I look round for +Angela, and can’t see her. ‘Some of your tricks again,’ +thinks I to myself; and just then up comes Mrs. Jakes to say that Sam had seen +little missy creeping down the tunnel walk. I was that scared that I ran down, +got hold of Sam, for Jakes said he wouldn’t go out with all them trees +a-flying about in the air like straws—no, not for a thousand pounds, and +off we set after her.” Here Pigott paused to groan at the recollection of +that walk. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Mr. Fraser, who was rather interested—everything +about this queer child interested him; “where did you find her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, you know where the old wall runs out into the water, before +Caresfoot’s Staff there? Well, at the end of it there’s a post sunk +in, with a ring in it to tie boats to. Now, would you believe it? out there at +the end of the wall, and tied to the ring by a scarf passed round her middle, +was that dreadful child. She was standing there, her back against the post, +right in the teeth of the gale, with the spray dashing over her, her arms +stretched out before her, her hat gone, her long hair standing out behind +straight as an iron bar, and her eyes flashing as though they were on fire, and +all the while there were the great trees crashing down all round in a way +enough to make a body sick with fright. We got her back safe, thank God; but +how long we shall keep her, I’m sure I don’t know. Now she is +drowning herself in the lake, for she takes to the water like a duck, and now +breaking her neck off trees, and now going to ghosts in the churchyard for +company. It’s wearing me to the bone—that’s what it +is.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser smiled, for, to tell the truth, Pigott’s bones were pretty +comfortably covered. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said, “you would not part with her for all her +wicked deeds, would you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Part with her,” answered Pigott, in hot indignation, “part +with my little beauty? I would rather part with my head. The love, there never +was another like her, nor never will be, with her sweet ways; and, if I know +anything about girls, she’ll be the beauty of England, she will. +She’s made for a beautiful woman; and look at them eyes and forehead and +hair—where did you ever see the like? And, as for her queer ways, what +can you expect from a child as has got a great empty mind and nothing to put in +it, and no one to talk to but a common woman like me, and a +father”—here she dropped her voice—“as is a miser, and +hates the sight of his own flesh and blood?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! you should not say such things, Pigott! Now I will tell you +something; I am going on to ask your master to allow me to educate +Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m right glad to hear it, sir. She’s sharp enough to learn +anything, and it’s kind of you to teach her. If you can make her mind +like what her body will be if she lives, somebody will be a lucky man one of +these days. Good-night, sir, and many thanks for bringing missy home.” +</p> + +<p> +Next day Angela began her education. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<p> +Reader, we are about to see Angela again, and to see a good deal of her; but +you must be prepared for a change in her personal appearance, for the curtain +has been down for ten years since last you met the child whose odd propensities +excited Pigott’s wonder and indignation and Mr. Fraser’s interest; +and ten years, as we all know, can work many changes in the history of the +world and individuals. In ten years some have been swept clean off the board, +and their places taken by others; a few have grown richer, many poorer, some of +us sadder, some wiser, and all of us ten years older. Now, this was exactly +what had happened to little Angela—that is, the Angela we knew as little, +and ten years make curious differences between the slim child of nine and a +half and the woman of nearly twenty. +</p> + +<p> +When we last saw her, Angela was about to commence her education. Let us +re-introduce ourselves on the memorable evening when, after ten years of study, +Mr. Fraser, a master by no means easily pleased, expressed himself unable to +teach her any more. +</p> + +<p> +It is Christmas Eve. Drip, drop, drip, falls the rain from the leafless boughs +on to the sodden earth. The apology for daylight that has been doing its dull +duty for the last few hours is slowly effacing itself, and the gale is +celebrating the fact, and showing its joy at the closing-in of the melancholy +night by howling its loudest through the trees, and flogging the flying scud it +has brought with it from the sea, till it whirls across the sky like a +succession of ghostly racehorses. +</p> + +<p> +This is outside the vicarage; let us look within. In a well-worn arm- chair in +the comfortable study, near to a table covered with books and holding some +loose sheets of foolscap in his hand, sits Mr. Fraser. His hair is a little +greyer than when he began Angela’s education, about as grey as rather +accommodating hair will get at the age of fifty-three; otherwise his general +appearance is much the same, and his face as refined and gentlemanlike as ever. +Presently he lays down the sheets of paper which he has been studying +attentively, and says: +</p> + +<p> +“Your solution is perfectly sound, Angela; but you have arrived at it in +a characteristic fashion, and by your own road. Not but what your method has +some merits—for one thing, it is more concise than my own; but, on the +other hand, it shows a feminine weakness. It is not possible to follow every +step from your premises to your conclusion, correct as it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” says a low voice, with a happy ripple in it, the owner of +which is busy with some tea-things out of range of the ring of light thrown by +the double reading-lamp, “you often blame me for jumping to conclusions; +but what does it matter, provided they are right? The whole secret is that I +used the equivalent algebraic formula, but suppressed the working in order to +puzzle you,” and the voice laughed sweetly. +</p> + +<p> +“That is not worthy of a mathematician,” said Mr. Fraser, with some +irritation; “it is nothing but a trick, a <i>tour de force</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“The solution is correct, you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I maintain that it is perfectly mathematical; the object of +mathematics is to arrive at the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Vox et preterea nihil.</i> Come out of that corner, my dear. I hate +arguing with a person I cannot see. But there, there, what is the use of +arguing at all? The fact is, Angela, you are a first-class mathematician, and I +am only second-class. I am obliged to stick to the old tracks; you cut a Roman +road of your own. Great masters are entitled to do that. The algebraic formula +never occurred to me when I worked the problem out, and it took me two days to +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are trying to make me vain. You forget that whatever I know, which +is just enough to show me how much I have to learn, I have learnt from you. As +for being your superior in mathematics, I don’t think that, as a +clergyman, you should make such a statement. Here is your tea.” And the +owner of the voice came forward into the ring of light. +</p> + +<p> +She was tall beyond the ordinary height of woman, and possessed unusual beauty +of form, that the tight-fitting grey dress she wore was well calculated to +display. Her complexion, which was of a dazzling fairness, was set off by the +darkness of the lashes that curled over the deep grey eyes. The face itself was +rounded and very lovely, and surmounted by an ample forehead, whilst her hair, +which was twisted into a massive knot, was of a tinge of chestnut gold, and +marked with deep-set ripples. The charm of her face, however, did not, as is so +often the case, begin and end with its physical attractions. There was more, +much more, in it than that. But how is it possible to describe on paper a +presence at once so full of grace and dignity, of the soft loveliness of woman, +and of a higher and more spiritual beauty? There hangs in the Louvre a picture +by Raphael, which represents a saint passing with light steps over the +prostrate form of a dragon. There is in that heaven-inspired face, the equal of +which has been rarely, if ever, put on canvas, a blending of earthly beauty and +of the calm, awe-compelling spirit-gaze—that gaze, that holy dignity +which can only come to such as are in truth and in deed “pure in +heart”—that will give to those who know it a better idea of what +Angela was like than any written description. +</p> + +<p> +At times, but, ah, how rarely! we may have seen some such look as that she wore +on the faces of those around us. It may be brought by a great sorrow, or be the +companion of an overwhelming joy. It may announce the consummation of some +sublime self-sacrifice, or convey the swift assurance of an everlasting love. +It is to be found alike on the features of the happy mother as she kisses her +new-born babe, and on the pallid countenance of the saint sinking to his rest. +The sharp moment that brings us nearer God, and goes nigh to piercing the veil +that hides His presence, is the occasion that calls it into being. It is a +beauty born of the murmuring sound of the harps of heaven; it is the light of +the eternal lamp gleaming faintly through its earthly casket. +</p> + +<p> +This spirit-look, before which all wickedness must feel ashamed, had found a +home in Angela’s grey eyes. There was a strange nobility about her. +Whether it dwelt in the stately form, or on the broad brow, or in the large +glance of the deep eyes, it is not possible to say; but it was certainly a part +of herself as self-evident as her face or features. She might well have been +the inspiration of the lines that run: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Truth in her might, beloved,<br/> +Grand in her sway;<br/> +Truth with her eyes, beloved,<br/> +Clearer than day;<br/> +Holy and pure, beloved,<br/> +Spotless and free;<br/> +Is there one thing, beloved,<br/> +Fairer than thee?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser absently set down the tea that Angela was giving him when we took +the liberty to describe her personal appearance. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Angela, read a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“What shall I read?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! anything you like; please yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus enjoined, she went to a bookshelf, and, taking down two volumes, handed +one to Mr. Fraser, and then, opening her copy at haphazard, announced the page +to her companion, and, sitting down, began to read. +</p> + +<p> +What sound is this, now soft and melodious as the sweep of a summer gale over a +southern sea, and now again like to the distant stamp and rush and break of the +wave of battle? What can it be but the roll of those magnificent hexameters +with which Homer charms a listening world. And rarely have English lips given +them with a juster cadence. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop, my dear, shut up your book; you are as good a Greek scholar as I +can make you. Shut up your book for the last time. Your education, my dear +Angela, is satisfactorily completed. I have succeeded with +you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Completed, Mr. Fraser!” said Angela, open-eyed. “Do you mean +to say that I am to stop now just as I have begun to learn?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, you have learnt everything that I can teach you, and, besides, +I am going away the day after to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Going away!” and then and there, without the slightest warning, +Angela—who, for all her beauty and learning, very much resembled the rest +of her sex—burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, Angela,” said Mr. Fraser, in a voice meant to be +gruff, but only succeeding in being husky, for, oddly enough, it is trying even +to a clergyman on the wrong side of middle-age to be wept over by a lovely +woman; “don’t be nonsensical; I am only going for a few +months.” +</p> + +<p> +At this intelligence she pulled up a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said, between her sobs, “how you frightened me! How +could you be so cruel! Where are you going to?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going for a long trip in southern Europe. Do you know that I have +scarcely been away from this place for twenty years, so I mean to celebrate the +conclusion of our studies by taking a holiday.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish you would take me with you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser coloured slightly, and his eye brightened. He sighed as he +answered— +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid, my dear, that it would be impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +Something warned Angela not to pursue the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Angela, I believe that it is usual, on the occasion of the +severance of a scholastic connection, to deliver something in the nature of a +farewell oration. Well, I am not going to do that, but I want you to listen to +a few words.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer, but, drawing a stool to a corner of the fireplace, she +wiped her eyes and sat down almost at his feet, clasping her knees with her +hands, and gazing rather sadly into the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“You have, dear Angela,” he began, “been educated in a +somewhat unusual way, with the result that, after ten years of steady work that +has been always interesting, though sometimes arduous, you have acquired +information denied to the vast majority of your sex, whilst at the same time +you could be put to the blush in many things by a school-girl of fifteen. For +instance, though I firmly believe that you could at the present moment take a +double first at the University, your knowledge of English literature is almost +nil, and your history of the weakest. All a woman’s ordinary +accomplishments, such as drawing, playing, singing, have of necessity been to a +great extent neglected, since I was not able to teach them to you myself, and +you have had to be guided solely by books and by the light of Nature in giving +to them such time as you could spare. +</p> + +<p> +“Your mind, on the other hand, has been daily saturated with the noblest +thoughts of the intellectual giants of two thousand years ago, and would in +that respect be as much in place in a well-educated Grecian maiden living +before the time of Christ as in an English girl of the nineteenth century. +</p> + +<p> +“I have educated you thus, Angela, partly by accident and partly by +design. You will remember when you began to come here some ten years +since—you were a little thing then—and I had offered to give you +some teaching, because you interested me, and I saw that you were running wild +in mind and body. But, when I had undertaken the task I was somewhat puzzled +how to carry it out. It is one thing to offer to educate a little girl, and +another to do it. Not knowing where to begin, I fell back upon the Latin +grammar, where I had begun myself, and so by degrees you slid into the +curriculum of a classical and mathematical education. Then, after a year or +two, I perceived your power of work and your great natural ability, and I +formed a design. I said to myself, ‘I will see how far a woman cultivated +under favourable conditions can go. I will patiently teach this girl till the +literature of Greece and Rome become as familiar to her as her mother-tongue, +till figures and symbols hide no mysteries from her, till she can read the +heavens like a book. I will teach her mind to follow the secret ways of +knowledge, I will train it till it can soar above its fellows like a falcon +above sparrows.’ Angela, my proud design, pursued steadily through many +years, has been at length accomplished; your bright intellect has risen to the +strain I have put upon it, and you are at this moment one of the best all-round +scholars of my acquaintance.” +</p> + +<p> +She flushed to the eyes at this high praise, and was about to speak, but he +stopped her with a motion of the hand, and went on: +</p> + +<p> +“I have recognized in teaching you a fact but too little known, that a +classical education, properly understood, is the foundation of all learning. +There is little that is worth saying which has not already been beautifully +said by the ancients, little that is worthy of meditation on which they have +not already profoundly reflected, save, indeed, the one great subject of +Christian meditation. This foundation, my dear Angela, you possess to an +eminent degree. Henceforth you will need no assistance from me or any other +man, for, to your trained mind, all ordinary knowledge will be easy to +assimilate. You will receive in the course of a few days a parting present from +myself in the shape of a box of carefully chosen books on European literature +and history. Devote yourself to the study of these, and of the German language, +which was your mother’s native tongue, for the next year, and then I +shall consider that you are fairly finished, and then, too, my dear Angela, I +shall expect to reap a full reward for my labours.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it that you will expect of me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall expect, Angela,” and he rose from his chair and walked up +and down the room in his excitement—“I shall expect to see you take +your proper place in your generation. I shall say: ‘Choose your own line, +become a critical scholar, a practical mathematician, or—and perhaps that +is what you are most suited for with your imaginative powers—a writer of +fiction. For remember that fiction, properly understood and directed to worthy +aims, is the noblest and most far-reaching, as it is also the most difficult of +the arts.’ In watching the success that will assuredly attend you in this +or any other line, I shall be amply rewarded for my trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela shook her head with a gesture of doubt, but he did not wait for her to +answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear, I must not keep you any longer—it is quite dark and +blowing a gale of wind—except to say one more word. Remember that all +this is—indirectly perhaps, but still none the less truly—a means +to an end. There are two educations, the education of the mind and the +education of the soul; unless you minister to the latter, all the time and toil +spent upon the former will prove to little purpose. The learning will, it is +true, remain; but it will be as the quartz out of which the gold has been +already crushed, or the dry husks of corn. It will be valueless and turn to no +good use, will serve only to feed the swine of intellectual voluptuousness and +infidelity. It is, believe me, the higher learning of the soul that gilds our +earthly lore. The loftier object of all education is so to train the intellect +that it may become competent to understand something, however little, of the +nature of our God, and to the true Christian the real end of learning is the +appreciation of His attributes as exemplified in His mysteries and earthly +wonders. But perhaps that is a subject on which you are as well fitted to +discourse as I am, so I will not enter into it. ‘Finis,’ my dear, +‘finis.’” +</p> + +<p> +Angela’s answer to this long oration was a simple one. She rose slowly +from her low seat, and, putting her hands upon Mr. Fraser’s shoulders, +kissed him on the forehead and said— +</p> + +<p> +“How shall I ever learn to be grateful enough for all I owe you? What +should I have been now but for you? How good and patient you have been to +me!” +</p> + +<p> +This embrace affected the clergyman strangely; he put his hand to his heart, +and a troubled look came into his eyes. Thrusting her gently away from him, he +sat down. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” he said presently, “go away now, dear, I am tired +to-night; I shall see you at church to-morrow to say good-by.” +</p> + +<p> +And so she went homewards, through the wind and storm, little knowing that she +left her master to struggle with a tempest far more tremendous than that which +raged around her. +</p> + +<p> +As for him, as the door closed, he gave a sigh of relief. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray God I have not put it off too long,” he said to himself. +“And now for to-morrow’s sermon. Sleep for the young! laughter for +the happy! work for old fools—work, work, work!” +</p> + +<p> +And thus it was that Angela became a scholar. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> + +<p> +The winter months passed away slowly for Angela, but not by any means +unhappily. Though she was quite alone and missed Mr. Fraser sadly, she found +considerable consolation in his present of books, and in the thought that she +was getting a good hold of her new subjects of study. And then came the wonder +of the spring with its rush of budding life, and who, least of all Angela, +could be sad in springtime? But nevertheless that spring marked an important +change in our heroine, for it was during its sweet hours, when, having put her +books aside, she would roam alone, or in company with her ravens, through the +flower-starred woods around the lake, that a feeling of restlessness, amounting +at times almost to dissatisfaction, took possession of her. Indeed, as the +weeks crept on and she drew near the completion of her twentieth year, she +realized with a sigh that she could no longer call herself a girl, and began to +feel that her life was incomplete, that something was wanting in it. And this +was what was wanting in Angela’s life: she had, if we except her nurse, +no one to love, and she had so much love to give! +</p> + +<p> +Did she but guess it, the still recesses of her heart already tremble to the +footfall of one now drawing near: out of the multitude of the lives around her, +a life is marked to mingle with her own. She does not know it, but as the first +reflection of the dawn strikes the unconscious sky and shadows the coming of +its king, so the red flush that now so often springs unbidden to her brow, +tells of girlhood’s twilight ended, and proclaims the advent of +woman’s life and love. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” called her father one day, as he heard her footsteps +passing his study, “come in here; I want to speak to you.” +</p> + +<p> +His daughter stopped, and a look of blank astonishment spread itself over her +face. She had not been called into that study for years. She entered, however, +as bidden. Her father, who was seated at his writing-table, which was piled up +with account-books, did not greatly differ in appearance from what he was when +we last saw him twenty years ago. His frame had grown more massive, and +acquired a slight stoop, but he was still a young, powerful-looking man, and +certainly did not appear a day more than his age of forty-two. The eyes, +however, so long as no one was looking at them, had contracted a concentrated +stare, as though they were eternally gazing at some object in space, and this +appearance was rendered the more marked by an apparently permanent puckering of +the skin of the forehead. The moment, however, that they came under the fire of +anybody else’s optics, and, oddly enough, more particularly those of his +own daughter, the stare vanished, and they grew shifty and uncertain to a +curious degree. +</p> + +<p> +Philip was employed in adding up something when his daughter entered, and +motioned to her to sit down. She did so, and fixed her great grey eyes on him +with some curiosity. The effect was remarkable; her father fidgeted, made a +mistake in his calculations, glanced all round the room with his shifty eyes +(ah, how changed from those bold black eyes with which Maria Lee fell in love +four-and-twenty years ago!) and finally threw down his pen with an exclamation +that would have shocked Angela had she understood it. +</p> + +<p> +“How often, Angela, have I asked you not to stare me out of countenance! +It is a most unladylike trick of yours.” +</p> + +<p> +She blushed painfully. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon; I forgot. I will look out of the window.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be a fool; look like other people. But now I want to speak +to you. In the first place, I find that the household expenditure for the last +year was three hundred and fifty pounds. That is more than I can afford; it +must not exceed three hundred this year.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will do my best to keep the expenses down, father; but I can assure +you that there is no money wasted now.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came a pause, which, after humming and hawing a little, Philip was the +first to break. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that I saw your cousin George yesterday? He is back at last +at Isleworth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Pigott told me that he had come. He has been away a long +while.” +</p> + +<p> +“When did you last see him?” +</p> + +<p> +“When I was about thirteen, I believe; before he lost the election, and +went away.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has been down here several times since then. I wonder that you did +not see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I always disliked him, and kept out of his way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Gad, you can’t dislike him more than I do; but I keep good friends +with him for all that, and you must do the same. Now, look here, Angela, will +you promise to keep a secret?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, father, if you wish it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, I appear to be a poor man, don’t I? And +remember,” he added, hastily, “that, with reference to household +expenses, I am poor; but, as a matter of fact”—and here he sunk his +voice, and glanced suspiciously round—“I am worth at this moment +nearly one hundred and fifty thousand pounds in hard cash.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is six thousand pounds a year at four per cent.,” commented +Angela, without a moment’s hesitation. “Then I really think you +might put a flue into the old greenhouse, and allow a shilling a week to Mrs. +Jakes’ mother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Curse Mrs. Jakes’ mother! Nobody but a woman would have +interrupted with such nonsense. Listen. You must have heard how I was +disinherited on account of my marriage with your mother, and the Isleworth +estates left to your cousin George, and how, with a refined ingenuity, he was +forbidden to bequeath them back to me or to my children. But mark this, he is +not forbidden to sell them to me; no doubt the old man never dreamt that I +should have the money to buy them; but, you see, I have almost enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you get so much money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Get it! First, I took the gold plate my grandfather bought, and sold it. +I had no right to do it, but I could not afford to have so much capital lying +idle. It fetched nearly five thousand pounds. With this I speculated +successfully. In two years I had eighteen thousand. The eighteen thousand I +invested in a fourth share in a coal-mine, when money was scarce and coals +cheap. Coals rose enormously just then, and in five years’ time I sold my +share to the co-holders for eighty-two thousand, in addition to twenty-one +thousand received by way of interest. Since then I have not speculated, for +fear my luck should desert me. I have simply allowed the money to accumulate on +mortgage and other investments, and bided my time, for I have sworn to have +those estates back before I die. It is for this cause that I have toiled, and +thought, and screwed, and been cut by the whole neighbourhood for twenty years; +but now I think that, with your help, my time is coming.” +</p> + +<p> +“With <i>my</i> help. What is it that you wish me to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” answered her father, nervously tapping his pencil on the +account-book before him. “George is not very fond of Isleworth—in +fact, he rather dislikes it; but, like all the Caresfoots, he does not care +about parting with landed property, and, though we appear to be good friends, +he hates me too much ever to consent, under ordinary circumstances, to sell it +to me. It is to you I look to overcome that objection.” +</p> + +<p> +“I! How?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a woman and you ask me how you should get the blind side of a +man!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not in the least understand you.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip smiled incredulously. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I suppose I must explain. If ever you take the trouble to look at +yourself in the glass, you will probably see that Nature has been very kind to +you in the matter of good looks; nor are you by any means deficient in brains. +Your cousin George is very fond of a pretty woman, and, to be plain, what I +want you to do is to make use of your advantages to get him under your thumb +and persuade him into selling the property.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! father, how can you?” ejaculated Angela, in an agony of shame. +</p> + +<p> +“You idiot, I won’t want you to marry him; I only want you to make +a fool of him. Surely, being of the sex you are, you won’t find +<i>that</i> an uncongenial occupation.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela’s blushes had given away to pallor now, and she answered with cold +contempt: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think you quite understand what a girl feels—at +least, what I feel, for I know no other girls. Perhaps it would be useless for +me to try to explain. I had rather go blind than use my eyes for such a +shameful purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” said her father, with as much temper as he ever showed +now, “let me tell you that you are a silly fool; you are more, you are an +encumbrance. Your birth,” he added, bitterly, “robbed me of your +mother, and the fact of your being a girl deprived our branch of the family of +their rights. Now that you have grown up, you prefer to gratify your whims +rather than help me to realize the object of my life by a simple course of +action that could do no one any harm. I never asked you to commit yourself in +any way. Well, well, it is what I must expect. We have not seen much of each +other heretofore, and perhaps the less we meet in the future the better.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no right to talk to me so,” she answered, with flashing +eyes, “though I am your daughter, and it is cowardly to reproach me with +my birth, my sex, and my dependence. Am I responsible for any of these things? +But I will not burden you long. And as to what you wanted me to do, and think +such a little of, I ask you, is it what my poor mother would have wished her +daughter——” +</p> + +<p> +Here Philip abruptly rose, and left the room and the house. +</p> + +<p> +“She is as like her mother as possible,” he mused, as soon as he +was clear of the house. “It might have been Hilda herself, only she is +twice as beautiful as Hilda was. I shall have another bad night after this, I +know I shall. I must get rid of that girl somehow, I cannot bear her about me; +she is a daily reminder of things I dare not remember, and whenever she stares +at me with those great eyes of hers, I feel as though she were looking through +me. I wonder if she knows the story of Maria Lee!” +</p> + +<p> +And then dismissing, or trying to dismiss, the matter from his mind, he took +his way across the fields to Isleworth Hall, a large white brick mansion in the +Queen Anne style, about two miles distant from the Abbey, and, on arrival, +asked for his cousin George, and was at once shown into that gentleman’s +presence. +</p> + +<p> +Years had told upon George more than they had upon Philip, and, though there +were no touches of grey in the flaming red of his hair, the bloodshot eyes, and +the puckered crowsfeet beneath them, to say nothing of the slight but constant +trembling of the hand, all showed that he was a man well on in middle-life, and +who had lived every day of it. Time, too, had made the face more intensely +unpleasant and vulgar-looking than ever. Such Caresfoot characteristics as it +possessed were, year by year, giving place, in an increasingly greater degree, +to the kitchen-maid strain introduced by the mother. In short, George Caresfoot +did not even look a gentleman, whereas Philip certainly did. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t seem very well, George. I am afraid that your travels +have not agreed with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Philip,” answered his cousin, in a languid and affected +voice, “if you had lived the life that I have for the last twenty years, +you would look a little knocked up. I have had some very good times; but the +fact is, that I have been too prodigal of my strength, not thought enough about +the future. It is a great mistake, and one of the worst results is that I am +utterly <i>blase</i> of everything; even <i>la belle passion</i> is played out +for me. I haven’t seen a woman I care twopence about for ten +years.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you should sell this place, and take a house in town; it would suit +you much better.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can do that without selling the place. I don’t intend to sell +the place—in fact, nothing would induce me to do so. Some day I may +marry, and want to transmit it to some future Caresfoot; but I confess I +don’t mean to do that just yet. Marry when you want a nurse, but never +before; that’s my maxim. Marriage is an excellent institution for parsons +and fools, the two classes that Providence has created to populate the world; +but a wise man should as soon think of walking into a spring-trap. Take your +own case, for instance, my dear Philip; look what marriage led to.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” answered his cousin, bitterly, “it led to your +advantage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly; and that is one of the reasons why I have such a respect for +the institution in the abstract. It has been my personal benefactor, and I +worship it accordingly—at a distance. By the way, talking of marriage +reminds me of its legitimate fruits. Bellamy tells me that your daughter Angela +(if I had a daughter, I should call her Diabola, it is more appropriate for a +woman) has grown uncommonly handsome. Bring her to see me; I adore beauty in +all its forms, especially its female form. Is she really so handsome?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am no judge, but you will soon have an opportunity of forming an +opinion—that is, I hope so. I propose coming with Angela to make a formal +call on you to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good. Tell my fair cousin that I shall be certain to be in, and be +prepared, metaphorically, to fall at the feet of so much loveliness. By the +way, that reminds me; you have heard of Bellamy’s, or rather Mrs. +Bellamy’s, good fortune, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“What—not? Why, he is now Sir John Bellamy, knight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! How is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“You remember the bye-election six months back?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes! I was actually badgered by Mrs. Bellamy into promising to vote, +much against my personal convenience.” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly. Well, just at the time old Prescott died, you may remember +that Mr. Showers, the member of the Government, was unseated on petition from +some borough or other, and came down here post-haste to get re-elected. But he +had Sir Percy Vivyan against him, and, as I know to my cost, this benighted +country is not fond of those who preach the gospel of progress. Bellamy, who is +a stout Radical, as you know—chiefly, I fancy, because there is more to +be got out of that side of politics—got the job as Showers’ agent. +But, three days before, it became quite clear that his cause, cabinet minister +or not, was hopeless. Then it was that Mrs.—I beg her pardon, +Lady—Bellamy came to the fore. Just as Showers was thinking of +withdrawing, she demanded a private interview with him. Next day she posted off +to old Sir Percy, who is a perfect fool of the chivalrous school, and was +desperately fond of her, and, <i>mirabile dictu</i>, that evening Sir Percy +withdraws on the plea of ill-health or some such rubbish, and Showers walks +over. Within three months, Mr. Bellamy becomes Sir John Bellamy, nominally for +his services as town-clerk of Roxham, and I hear that old Sir Percy is now +perfectly rampant, and goes about cursing her ladyship up hill and down dale, +and declaring that he has been shockingly taken-in. How our mutual friend +worked the ropes is more than I can tell you, but she did work them, and to +some purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is an uncommonly handsome woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! yes, you’re right there, she is A1; but let us stroll out a +little; it is a fine evening for the 30th of April. To-morrow will be the 1st +of May, so it will, a day neither of us are likely to forget.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip winced at the allusion, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way,” George went on, “I am expecting a visitor, my +ward, young Arthur Heigham, who is just back from India. He will be twenty- +five in a few days, when he comes of age, and is coming down to settle up. The +fact is, that ten thousand of his money is on the Jotley property, and both +Bellamy and myself are anxious that it should stop there for the present, as if +the mortgage were called in it might be awkward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he well off?” +</p> + +<p> +“Comfortably; about a thousand a year; comes of an old family too. +Bellamy and I knew his father, Captain Heigham, slightly, when we were in +business. His wife, by the way, was a distant cousin of ours. They are both +dead now; the captain was wiped out at Inkerman, and, for some unknown reason, +left me the young gentleman’s sole guardian and joint trustee with a +London lawyer, a certain Mr. Borley. I have never seen him yet—my ward, I +mean—he has always been at Eton, or Cambridge, or in India, or +somewhere.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Philip began to manifest signs of considerable uneasiness, the cause of +which was sufficiently apparent; for, whilst they were talking, a very large +and savage-looking animal of the sheep-dog order had emerged from the house, +and was following him up and down, growling in a low and ominous undertone, its +nose being the while glued to his calves as they alternately presented +themselves in his line of vision. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you mind calling off this animal, George?” he said at +length. “He does not look amiable.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! that’s Snarleyow; don’t mind him, he never bites unless +you stop.” Philip instinctively quickened his pace. “Isn’t he +a beauty? He’s a pure bred Thibet sheep-dog, and I will back him to fight +against any animal of his own weight. He killed two dogs in one morning the +other day, and pulled down a beggar-woman in the evening. You should have heard +her holler.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment, fortunately for Philip’s calves, which were beginning to +tingle with an unwholesome excitement, Mr. Snarleyow’s attention was +diverted by the approach of a dog-cart, and he left to enjoy the amusement of +snapping and barking at the horse. The cart pulled up at the door, and out of +it emerged a tall and extremely gentlemanly- looking young fellow, followed by +a very large red bull-dog. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Caresfoot, I believe,” said the young gentleman to George, +taking off his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Heigham, at your service. I am very glad to see you. My cousin, +Mr. Philip Caresfoot.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> + +<p> +“I must apologise for having brought Aleck, my dog, you know, with +me,” began Arthur Heigham; “but the fact was, that at the very last +moment the man I was going to leave him with had to go away, and I had no time +to find another place before the train left. I thought that, if you objected to +dogs, he could easily be sent somewhere into the village. He is very +good-tempered, though appearances are against him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! he will be all right, I daresay,” said George, rather sulkily; +for, with the exception of Snarleyow, in whose fiendish temper he found +something refreshing and congenial, he liked no dogs. “But you must be +careful, or Snarleyow, <i>my</i> dog, will give him a hammering. Here, good +dog, good dog,” and he attempted to pat Aleck on the head, but the animal +growled savagely, and avoided him. +</p> + +<p> +“I never knew him do that before,” ejaculated Arthur, in confusion, +and heartily wishing Aleck somewhere else. “I suppose he has taken a +dislike to you. Dogs do sometimes, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +Next second it struck him that this was one of those things that had better +have been left unsaid, and he grew more uncomfortable than ever. But at this +very moment the situation was rendered intensely lively by the approach of the +redoubtable Snarleyow himself, who, having snapped at the horse’s heels +all the way to the stables, had on his return to the front of the house spotted +Aleck from afar. He was now advancing on tiptoe in full order of battle, his +wicked-looking teeth gleaming, and his coat and tail standing out like an angry +bear’s. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur, already sufficiently put out about the dog question, thought it best to +take no notice; and even when he distinctly heard George quietly +“sah” on his dog as he passed him, he contented himself with giving +Aleck a kick by way of a warning to behave himself, and entered into some +desultory conversation with Philip. But presently a series of growls behind him +announced that an encounter was imminent. Looking round, he perceived that +Snarleyow was standing over the bull-dog, of which he was more than twice the +size, and holding on to the skin of his neck with his long teeth; whilst George +was looking on with scarcely suppressed amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, Mr. Caresfoot, that you had better call your dog off,” +said Arthur, good-temperedly. “Mine is a peaceable animal, but he is an +awkward customer when he does fight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! better let them settle it; they will be much better friends +afterwards. Hold him, Snarleyow.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus encouraged, the big dog seized the other, and fairly lifted him off the +ground, shaking him violently—a proceeding that had the effect of +thoroughly rousing Aleck’s temper. And then began a most Homeric combat. +At first the bull-dog was dreadfully mauled; his antagonist’s size, +weight, and length of leg and jaw, to say nothing of the thick coat by which he +was protected, all telling against him. But he took his punishment very +quietly, never so much as uttering a growl, in strange contrast to the big +dog’s vociferous style of doing business. And at last patience was +rewarded by his enemy’s fore-paw finding its way into Aleck’s +powerful jaw, and remaining there till Snarleyow’s attentions to the back +of his neck forced him to shift his hold. From that time forward the sheep-dog +had to fight on three legs, which he found demoralizing. But still he had the +advantage, and it was not until any other dog of Aleck’s size would have +retreated half killed that the bull-dog’s superior courage and stamina +began to tell. Quite heedless of his injuries, and the blood that poured into +his eyes, he slowly but surely drove the great sheep-dog, who by this time +would have been glad to stop, back into an angle of the wall, and then suddenly +pinned him by the throat. Down went Snarleyow on the top of the bull-dog, and +rolled right over him, but when he staggered to his legs again, his throat was +still in its cruel grip. +</p> + +<p> +“Take your dog off!” shouted George, seeing that affairs had taken +a turn he very little expected. +</p> + +<p> +“I fear that is impossible,” replied Arthur, politely, but looking +anything but polite. +</p> + +<p> +“If you don’t get it off, I will shoot it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will do nothing of the sort, Mr. Caresfoot; you set the dog on, and +you must take the consequences. Ah! the affair is finished.” +</p> + +<p> +As he spoke, the choking Snarleyow, whose black tongue was protruding from his +jaws, gave one last convulsive struggle, and ceased to breathe. Satisfied with +this result, Aleck let go, and having sniffed contemptuously at his dead +antagonist, returned to his master’s side, and, sitting quietly down, +began to lick such of his numerous wounds as he could reach. +</p> + +<p> +George, when he realized that his favourite was dead, turned upon his guest in +a perfect fury. His face looked like a devil’s. But Arthur, acting with +wonderful self-possession for so young a man, stopped him. +</p> + +<p> +“Remember, Mr. Caresfoot, before you say anything that you may regret, +that neither I nor my dog is to blame for what has happened. I am exceedingly +sorry that your dog should have been killed, but it is your own fault. I am +afraid, however, that, after what has happened, I shall be as unwelcome here as +Aleck; so, if you will kindly order the cart for me again, I will move on. Our +business can no doubt be finished off by letter.” +</p> + +<p> +George made no reply: it was evident that he could not trust himself to speak, +but, turning sullenly on his heel, walked towards the house. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait a bit, Mr. Heigham,” said Philip, who had been watching the +whole scene with secret delight. “You are perfectly in the right. I will +go and try to bring my cousin to his senses. I am very thankful to your dog for +killing that accursed brute.” +</p> + +<p> +He was away for about ten minutes, during which Arthur took Aleck to a fountain +there was in the centre of a grass plot in front of the house, and washed his +many wounds, none of which, however, were, thanks to the looseness of his hide, +very serious. Just as he had finished that operation, a gardener arrived with a +wheelbarrow to fetch away the deceased Snarleyow. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, sir,” he said to Arthur, “I am glad to have the job of +tucking up this here brute. He bit my missus last week, and killed a whole +clutch of early ducks. I seed the row through the bushes. That ‘ere dog +of yours, sir, he did fight in proper style; I should like to have a dog like +he.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then the re-arrival of Philip put a stop to the conversation. Drawing +Arthur aside, he told him that George begged to apologise for what had +occurred, and hoped that he would not think of going away. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” added Philip, with a little laugh, “I don’t +pretend that he has taken a fancy to you, and, if I were you, I should cut my +visit short.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is exactly my view of the case. I will leave to-morrow +evening.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip made no further remarks for a few moments. He was evidently thinking. +Presently he said, +</p> + +<p> +“I see you have a fishing-rod amongst your things; if you find the time +hang heavy on your hands to-morrow, or wish to keep out of the way, you had +better come over to Bratham Lake and fish. There are some very large carp and +perch there, and pike too, for the matter of that, but they are out of +season.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur thanked him, and said that he should probably come, and, having received +instructions as to the road, they parted, Arthur to go and shut up Aleck in an +outhouse pointed out to him by his friend the gardener, and thence to dress for +a dinner that he looked forward to with dread, and Philip to make his way home. +As he passed up through the little flower-garden at the Abbey House, he came +across his daughter, picking the blight from her shooting rose-trees. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” he said, “I am sorry if I offended your prejudices +this afternoon. Don’t let us say anything more about it; but I want you +to come and pay a formal call with me at Isleworth to-morrow. It will only be +civil that you should do so.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never paid a call in my life,” she answered, doubtfully, +“and I don’t want to call on my cousin George.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! very well,” and he began to move on. She stopped him. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“At three o’clock, then. Oh! by the way, don’t be surprised +if you see a young gentleman fishing here to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela reflected to herself that she had never yet seen a young gentleman to +speak to in her life, and then asked, with undisguised interest, who he was. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he is a sort of connection of your own, through the Prestons, who +are cousins of ours, if any of them are left. His mother was a Preston, and his +name is Arthur Preston Heigham. George told me something about him just now, +and, on thinking it over, I remember the whole story. He is an orphan, and +George’s ward.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is he like?” asked Angela, ingenuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Really I don’t know; rather tall, I think—a gentlemanly +fellow. It really is a relief to speak to a gentleman again. There has been a +nice disturbance at Isleworth,” and then he told his daughter the history +of the great dog fight. +</p> + +<p> +“I should think Mr. Heigham was perfectly in the right, and I should like +to see his dog,” was her comment on the occurrence. +</p> + +<p> +As Arthur dressed himself for dinner that evening he came to the conclusion +that he disliked his host more than any man he ever saw, and, to say the truth, +he descended into the dining-room with considerable misgivings. Just as he +entered, the opposite door opened, and Sir John Bellamy was announced. On +seeing him, George emerged from the sulky silence into which he was plunged, +and advanced to meet him. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, Bellamy! I must congratulate you upon your accession to +rank.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Caresfoot, thank you,” replied Mr. Bellamy, who, with +the exception that he had grown a size larger, and boasted a bald patch on the +top of his head that gave him something of the appearance of a jolly little monk, +looked very much the same as when we last saw him as a newly married man. +</p> + +<p> +“A kind Providence,” he went on, rubbing his dry hands, and +glancing nervously under the chairs, “has put this honour into my +hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“A Providence in petticoats, you mean,” broke in George. +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly, my dear Caresfoot; but I do not see him. Is it possible that +he is lurking yonder, behind the sofa?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who on earth do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that exceedingly fine dog of yours, Snarleyow. Snarleyow, where +are you? Excuse me for taking precautions, but last time he put his head under +my chair and bit me severely, as I dare say you remember.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur groaned at hearing the subject thus brought forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham’s dog killed Snarleyow this afternoon,” said +George, in a savage voice. +</p> + +<p> +At this intelligence, Sir John’s face became wreathed in smiles. +</p> + +<p> +“I am deeply delighted—I mean grieved—to hear it. Poor +Snarleyow! he was a charming dog; and to think that such a fate should have +overtaken him, when it was only last week that he did the same kind office for +Anne’s spaniel. Poor Snarleyow! you should really have him stuffed. But, +my dear Caresfoot, you have not yet introduced me to the hero of the evening, +Mr. Heigham. Mr. Heigham, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” and +he shook hands with Arthur with gentle enthusiasm, as though he were the last +scion of a race that he had known and loved for generations. +</p> + +<p> +Presently dinner was announced, and the three sat down at a small round table +in the centre of the big dining-room, on which was placed a shaded lamp. It was +not a cheerful dinner. George, having said grace, relapsed into moody silence, +eating and drinking with gusto but in moderation, and savouring every sup of +wine and morsel of food as though he regretted its departure. He was not free +from gluttony, but he was a judicious glutton. For his part, Arthur found a +certain fascination in watching his guardian’s red head as he bobbed up +and down opposite to him, and speculating on the thickness of each individual +hair that contributed to give it such a spiky effect. What had his mother been +like, he wondered, that she had started him in life with such an entirely +detestable countenance? Meanwhile he was replying in monosyllables to Sir +John’s gentle babblings, till at last even that gentleman’s flow of +conversation ran dry, and Arthur was left free to contemplate the head in +solemn silence. As soon as the cloth had been cleared away, George suggested +that they had better get to work. Arthur assented, and Sir John, smiling with +much sweetness, remarked profoundly that business was one of the ills of life, +and must be attended to. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, it is an ill that has agreed uncommonly well with +you,” growled George, as, rising from the table, he went to a solid iron +safe that stood in the corner of the room, and, unlocking it with a small key +that he took from his pocket, extracted a bundle of documents. +</p> + +<p> +“That is an excellent deed-box of yours, Caresfoot,” said Sir John +carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; that lock would not be very easy to pick. It is made on my own +design.” +</p> + +<p> +“But don’t you find that small parcels such as private letters are +apt to get lost in it? It is so big.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! no; there is a separate compartment for them. Now, Mr. +Heigham.” And then, with the able and benign assistance of Sir John, he +proceeded to utterly confuse and mystify Arthur, till stocks, +preference-shares, consols, and mortgages were all whirling in his bewildered +brain. Having satisfactorily reduced him to this condition, he suddenly sprang +upon him the proposal he had in view with reference to the Jotley mortgage, +pointing out to him that it was an excellent investment, and strongly advising +him, “as a friend,” to leave the money upon the land. Arthur +hesitated a little, more from natural caution than anything he could urge to +the contrary, and George, noticing it, said, +</p> + +<p> +“It is only right that, before you come to any decision, you should see +the map of the estate, and a copy of the deed. I have both in the next room, if +you care to come and look at them.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur assented, and they went off together; Sir John, whose eyes appeared to +be a little heavy under the influence of the port, presuming that he was not +wanted. But, no sooner had the door closed, than the worthy knight proved +himself very wide-awake. Indeed, he commenced a singular course of action. +Advancing on tiptoe to the safe in the corner of the room, he closely inspected +it through his eyeglass. Then he cautiously tried the lid of an artfully +contrived subdivision. +</p> + +<p> +“Um!” he muttered, half aloud, “that’s where they are; +I wish I had ten minutes.” +</p> + +<p> +Next he returned swiftly to the table, and, taking a piece of the soft bread +which he was eating instead of biscuit with his wine, he rapidly kneaded it +into dough, and, going to the safe, divided the material into two portions. One +portion he carefully pressed upon the keyhole of the subdivision, and then, +extracting the key of the safe itself, took a very fair impress of its wards on +the other. This done, he carefully put the pieces of dough in his breast-pocket +in such a way that they were not likely to be crushed, and, with a smile of +satisfaction, returned to his chair, helped himself to a glass of port, and +dozed off. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, Bellamy, gone to sleep! Wake up, man. We have settled this +business about the mortgage. Will you write to Mr. Borley, and convey Mr. +Heigham’s decision? And perhaps”—addressing +Arthur—“you will do the same on your own account.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I will write, Caresfoot; and now I think that I must be off. +Her ladyship does not like having to sit up for me.” +</p> + +<p> +George laughed in a peculiarly insulting way. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think she would care much, Bellamy, if you stayed away all +night. But look here, tell her I want to see her to-morrow; don’t +forget.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir John bit his knightly lip, but answered, smiling, that he would remember, +and begging George not to ring, as his trap was at the hall- door, and the +servant waiting, he bade an affectionate good-night to Arthur, to whom he +expressed a hope that they would soon meet again, and let himself out of the +room. But, as soon as the door was closed, he went through another performance +exceedingly inappropriate in a knight. Turning round, his smug face red with +anger, he pirouetted on his toes, and shook his fist violently in the direction +of the door. +</p> + +<p> +“You scoundrel!” he said between his teeth, “you have made a +fool of me for twenty years, and I have been obliged to grin and bear it; but I +will be even with you yet, and her too, more especially her.” +</p> + +<p> +So soon as Sir John had left, Arthur told his host that, if the morning was +fine, he proposed to go and fish in Bratham Lake, and that he also proposed to +take his departure by the last train on the following evening. To these +propositions George offered no objection— indeed, they were distinctly +agreeable to him, as lessening the time he would be forced to spend in the +society of a guest he cordially detested, for such was the feeling that he had +conceived towards Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +Then they parted for the night; but, before he left the room, George went to +lock up the safe that was still open in the corner. Struck by some thought, he +unlocked the separate compartment with a key that hung on his watch-chain, and +extracted therefrom a thick and neatly folded packet of letters. Drawing out +one or two, he glanced through them and replaced them. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Lady Anne, Lady Anne,” he said to himself as he closed the +case, “you are up in the world now, and you aspire to rule the county +society, and have both the wealth and the wit to do it; but you must not kick +over the traces, or I shall be forced to suppress you, Lady Anne, though you +are the wife of a Brummagem knight, and I think that it is time you had a +little reminder. You are growing a touch too independent.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> + +<p> +Arthur’s sleep was oppressed that night by horrible nightmares of +fighting dogs, whereof the largest and most ferocious was fitted with +George’s red head, the effect of which, screwed, without any eye to the +fitness of things, to the body of the deceased Snarleyow, struck him as +peculiarly disagreeable. He himself was armed with a gun, and whilst he was +still arguing with Sir John Bellamy the nice point whether, should he execute +that particular animal, as he felt a carnal longing to do, it would be +manslaughter or dogslaughter, he found himself wide awake. +</p> + +<p> +It was very early in the morning of the 1st of May, and, contrary to the usual +experience of the inhabitants of these islands, the sky gave promise of a +particularly fine day, just the day for fishing. He did not feel sleepy, and, +had he done so, he had had enough of his doggy dreams; so he got up, dressed, +and taking his fishing-rod, let himself out of the house as he had been +instructed to do on the previous evening, and, releasing Aleck from his +outhouse, proceeded towards Bratham Lake. +</p> + +<p> +And about this time Angela woke up too, for she always rose early, and ran to +the window to see what sort of a day she had got for her birthday. Seeing it to +be so fine, she threw open the old lattice, at which her pet raven Jack was +already tapping to be admitted, and let the sweet air play upon her face and +neck, and thought what a wonderful thing it was to be twenty years old. And +then, kneeling by the window, she said her prayers after her own fashion, +thanking God who had spared her to see this day, and praying Him to show her +what to do with her life, and, if it was His will, to make it a little less +lonely. Then she rose and dressed herself, feeling that now that she had done +with her teens, she was in every respect a woman grown— indeed, quite +old. And, in honour of the event, she chose out of her scanty store of dresses, +all of them made by Pigott and herself, her very prettiest, the one she had had +for Sunday wear last summer, a tight-fitting robe of white stuff, with soft +little frills round the neck and wrists. Next she put on a pair of stout boots +calculated to keep out the morning dew, and started off. +</p> + +<p> +Now all this had taken a good time, nearly an hour perhaps; for, being her +birthday, and there having been some mention of a young gentleman who might +possibly come to fish, she had plaited up her shining hair with extra care, a +very laborious business when your hair hangs down to your knees. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile our other early riser, Arthur, had made his way first to the foot of +the lake and then along the little path that skirted its area till he came to +Caresfoot Staff. Having sufficiently admired that majestic oak, for he was a +great lover of timber, he proceeded to investigate the surrounding water with +the eye of a true fisherman. A few yards further up there jutted into the water +that fragment of wall on which stood the post, now quite rotten, to which +Angela had bound herself on the day of the great storm. At his feet, too, the +foundations of another wall ran out for some distance into the lake, being, +doubtless, the underpinning of an ancient boathouse, but this did not rise out +of the water, but stopped within six inches of the surface. Between these two +walls lay a very deep pool. +</p> + +<p> +“Just the place for a heavy fish,” reflected Arthur, and, even as +he thought it, he saw a five-pound carp rise nearly to the surface, in order to +clear the obstruction of the wall, and sink silently into the depths. +</p> + +<p> +Retiring carefully to one of two quaintly carven stone blocks placed at the +foot of the oak-tree, on which, doubtless, many a monk had sat in meditation, +he set himself to get his fishing-gear together. Presently, however, struck by +the beauty of the spot and its quiet, only broken by the songs of many nesting +birds, he stopped a while to look around him. Above his head the branches of a +great oak, now clothing themselves with the most vivid green, formed a +dome-like roof, beneath the shade of which grew the softest moss, starred here +and there with primroses and violets. Outside the circle of its shadow the +brushwood of mingled hazel and ash-stubs rose thick and high, ringing-in the +little spot as with a wall, except where its depths were pierced by the passage +of a long green lane of limes that, unlike the shrubberies, appeared to be kept +in careful order, and of which the arching boughs formed a perfect leafy +tunnel. Before him lay the lake where the long morning lights quivered and +danced, as its calm was now and again ruffled by a gentle breeze. The whole +scene had a lovely and peaceful look, and, gazing on it, Arthur fell into a +reverie. +</p> + +<p> +Sitting thus dreamily, his face looked at its best, its expression of gentle +thoughtfulness giving it an attraction beyond what it was entitled to, judged +purely from a sculptor’s point of view. It was an intellectual face, a +face that gave signs of great mental possibilities, but for all that a little +weak about the mouth. The brow indicated some degree of power, and the mouth +and eyes no small capacities for affection and all sorts of human sympathy and +kindness. These last, in varying lights, could change as often as the English +climate; their groundwork, however, was blue, and they were honest and bonny. +In short, a man in looking at Arthur Heigham at the age of twenty-four would +have reflected that, even among English gentlemen, he was remarkable for his +gentleman-like appearance, and a “fellow one would like to know;” a +girl would have dubbed him “nice-looking;” and a middle-aged +woman—and most women do not really understand the immense difference +between men until they are getting on that way— would have recognized in +him a young man by no means uninteresting, and one who might, according to the +circumstances of his life, develop into anything or—nothing in +particular. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, drawn by some unguessed attraction, Arthur took his eyes off an +industrious water-hen, who was building a nest in a hurried way, as though she +were not quite sure of his intentions, and perceived a large raven standing on +one leg on the grass, about three yards from him, and peering at him comically +out of one eye. This was odd. But his glance did not stop at the raven, for a +yard or two beyond it he caught sight of a white skirt, and his eyes, +travelling upwards, saw first a rounded waist, and then a bust and pair of +shoulders such as few women can boast, and at last, another pair of eyes; and +he then and there fell utterly and irretrievably in love. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens!” he said, aloud—poor fellow, he did not mean +to say it, it was wrung from the depths of his heart—“good heavens, +how lovely she is!” +</p> + +<p> +Let the reader imagine the dreadful confusion produced in that other pair of +eyes at the open expression of such a sentiment, and the vivid blush that +stained the fair face in which they were set, if he can. But somehow they did +not grow angry—perhaps it was not in the nature of the most sternly +repressive young lady to grow angry at a compliment which, however marked, was +so evidently genuine and unpremeditated. In another moment Arthur bethought him +of what he had said, and it was his turn to blush. He recovered himself pretty +well, however. Rising from his stone seat, he took off his hat, and said, +humbly, +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, but you startled me so, and really for a moment I +thought that you were the spirit of the place, or,” he added, gracefully, +pointing to a branch of half-opened hawthorn bloom she held in her hand, +“the original Queen of the May.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela blushed again. The compliment was only implied this time; she had +therefore no possible pretext for getting angry. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment she dropped the sweet eyes that looked as though they were fresh +from reading the truths of heaven before his gaze of unmistakable admiration, +and stood confused; and, as she stood, it struck Arthur that there was +something more than mere beauty of form and feature about her—an +indescribable something, a glory of innocence, a reflection of God’s own +light that tinged the worship her loveliness commanded with a touch of +reverential awe. +</p> + +<p> +“The angels must look like that,” he thought. But he had no time to +think any more, for next moment she had gathered up her courage in both her +hands, and was speaking to him in a soft voice, of which the tones went ringing +on through all the changes of his life. +</p> + +<p> +“My father told me that he had asked you to come and fish, but I did not +expect to meet you so early. I—I fear that I am disturbing you,” +and she made as though she would be going. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur felt that this was a contingency to be prevented at all hazards. +</p> + +<p> +“You are Miss Caresfoot,” he said, hurriedly, “are you +not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—I am Angela; I need not ask your name, my father told it me. +You are Mr. Arthur Heigham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. And do you know that we are cousins?” This was a slight +exaggeration, but he was glad to advance any plea to her confidence that +occurred to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; my father said something about our being related. I have no +relations except my cousin George, and I am very glad to make the acquaintance +of one,” and she held out her hand to him in a winning way. +</p> + +<p> +He took it almost reverently. +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot,” he said with much sincerity, “be more glad than +I am. I, too, am without relations. Till lately I had my mother, but she died +last year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Were you very fond of her?” she asked, softly. +</p> + +<p> +He nodded in reply, and, feeling instinctively that she was on delicate ground, +Angela pursued the conversation no further. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Aleck had awoke from a comfortable sleep in which he was indulging on +the other stone seat, and, coming forward, sniffed at Angela and wagged his +tail in approval—a liberty that was instantly resented by the big raven, +who had now been joined by another not quite so large. Advancing boldly, it +pecked him sharply on the tail—a proceeding that caused Master Aleck to +jump round as quickly as his maimed condition would allow him, only to receive +a still harder peck from its companion bird; indeed, it was not until Angela +intervened with the bough of hawthorn that they would cease from their attack. +</p> + +<p> +“They are such jealous creatures,” she explained; “they +always follow me about, and fly at every dog that comes near me. Poor dog! that +is the one, I suppose, who killed Snarleyow. My father told me all about +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is easy to see that,” said Arthur, laughing, and pointing +to Aleck, who, indeed, was in lamentable case, having one eye entirely closed, +a large strip of plaster on his head, and all the rest of his body more or less +marked with bites. “It is an uncommonly awkward business for me, and your +cousin will not forgive it in a hurry, I fancy; but it really was not poor +Aleck’s fault—he is gentle as a lamb, if only he is let +alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has a very honest face, though his nose does look as though it were +broken,” she said, and, stooping down, she patted the dog. +</p> + +<p> +“But I must be going in to breakfast,” she went on, presently. +“It is eight o’clock; the sun always strikes that bough at eight in +spring,” and she pointed to a dead limb, half hidden by the budding +foliage of the oak. +</p> + +<p> +“You must observe closely to have noticed that, but I do not think that +the sun is quite on it yet. I do not like to lose my new-found relations in +such a hurry,” he added, with a somewhat forced smile, “and I am to +go away from here this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +The intelligence was evidently very little satisfactory to Angela, nor did she +attempt to conceal her concern. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry to hear that,” she said. “I hoped you were +going to stay for some time.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so I might have, had it not been for that brute Aleck, but he has +put a long sojourn with your cousin and the ghost of Snarleyow out of the +question; so I suppose I must go by the 6.20 train. At any rate,” he +added, more brightly, as a thought struck him, “I must go from +Isleworth.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not appear to see the drift of the last part of his remark, but +answered, +</p> + +<p> +“I am going with my father to call at Isleworth at three this afternoon, +so perhaps we shall meet again there; but now, before I go in, I will show you +a better place than this to fish, a little higher up, where Jakes, our +gardener, always sets his night-lines.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur assented, as he would have been glad to assent to anything likely to +prolong the interview, and they walked off slowly together, talking as +cheerfully as a sense that the conversation must soon come to an end would +allow. The spot was reached all too soon, and Angela with evident reluctance, +for she was not accustomed to conceal her feelings, said that she must now go. +</p> + +<p> +“Why must you go so soon?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, to tell you the truth, to-day is my birthday—I am twenty +to-day—and I know that Pigott, my old nurse, means to give me a little +present at breakfast, and she will be dreadfully disappointed if I am late. She +has been thinking a great deal about it, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“May I wish you many, very many, happy returns of the day? +and”—with a little hesitation—“may I also offer you a +present, a very worthless one I fear?” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I——” stammered Angela, when he cut her short. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be afraid; it is nothing tangible, though it is something +that you may not think worth accepting.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” she said bluntly, for her interest was aroused. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be angry. My present is only the offer of myself as your +sincere friend.” +</p> + +<p> +She blushed vividly as she answered, +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind. I have never had but one friend—Mr. Fraser; +but, if you think you can like me enough, it will make me very happy to be your +friend too.” And in another second she was gone, with her ravens flying +after her, to receive her present and a jobation from Pigott for being late, +and to eat her breakfast with such appetite as an entirely new set of +sensations can give. +</p> + +<p> +In the garden she met her father, walking up and down before the house, and +informed him that she had been talking to Mr. Heigham. He looked up with a +curious expression of interest. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you not ask him in to breakfast?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Because there is nothing to eat except bread and milk.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!—well, perhaps you were right. I will go down and speak to him. +No; I forgot I shall see him this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +And Arthur, let those who disbelieve in love at first sight laugh if they will, +sat down to think, trembling in every limb, utterly shaken by the inrush of a +new and strong emotion. He had not come to the age of twenty-four without some +experience of the other sex, but never before had he known any such sensation +as that which now overpowered him, never before had he fully realized what +solitude meant as he did now that she had left him. In youth, when love does +come, he comes as a strong man armed. +</p> + +<p> +And so, steady and overwhelming all resistance, the full tide of a pure passion +poured itself into his heart. There was no pretence or make-believe about it; +the bolt that sped from Angela’s grey eyes had gone straight home, and +would remain an “ever-fixed mark,” so long as life itself should +last. +</p> + +<p> +For only once in a lifetime does a man succumb after this fashion. To many, +indeed, no such fortune—call it good or ill—will ever come, since +the majority of men flirt or marry, indulge in “platonic +friendships,” or in a consistent course of admiration of their +neighbours’ wives, as fate or fancy leads them, and wear their time away +without ever having known the meaning of such love as this. There is no fixed +rule about it; the most unlikely, even the more sordid and contemptible of +mankind, are liable to become the subjects of an enduring passion; only then it +raises them; for though strong affection, especially, if unrequited, sometimes +wears and enervates the mind, its influence is, in the main, undoubtedly +ennobling. But, though such affection is bounded by no rule, it is curious to +observe how generally true are the old sayings which declare that a man’s +thoughts return to his first real love, as naturally and unconsciously as the +needle, that has for a while been drawn aside by some overmastering influence, +returns to its magnetic pole. The needle has wavered, but it has never shaken +off its allegiance; that would be against nature, and is therefore impossible; +and so it is with the heart. It is the eyes that he loved as a lad which he +sees through the gathering darkness of his death-bed; it is a chance but that +he will always adore the star which first came to share his loneliness in this +shadowed world above all the shining multitudes in heaven. +</p> + +<p> +And, though it is not every watcher who will find it, early or late, that star +may rise for him, as it did for Arthur now. A man may meet a face which it is +quite beyond his power to forget, and be touched of lips that print their kiss +upon his very heart. Yes, the star may rise, to pursue its course, perhaps +beyond the ken of his horizon, or only to set again before he has learnt to +understand its beauty— rarely, very rarely, to shed its perfect light +upon him for all his time of watching. The star may rise and set; the sweet +lips whose touch still thrills him after so many years may lie to-day +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Beyond the graveyard’s barren wall,” +</p> + +<p> +or, worse still, have since been sold to some richer owner. But if once it has +risen, if once those lips have met, the memory <i>must</i> remain; the Soul +knows no forgetfulness, and, the little thread of life spun out, will it not +claim its own? For the compact that it has sealed is holy among holy things; +that love which it has given is of its own nature, and not of the body +alone—it is inscrutable as death, and everlasting as the heavens. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, the fiat has gone forth; for good or for evil, for comfort or for scorn, +for the world and for eternity, he loves her! Henceforth that love, so lightly +and yet so irredeemably given, will become the guiding spirit of his inner +life, rough-hewing his destinies, directing his ends, and shooting its memories +and hopes through the whole fabric of his being like an interwoven thread of +gold. He may sin against it, but he can never forget it; other interests and +ties may overlay it, but they cannot extinguish it; he may drown its fragrance +in voluptuous scents, but, when these have satiated and become hateful, it will +re-arise, pure and sweet as ever. Time or separation cannot destroy +it—for it is immortal; use cannot stale it, pain can only sanctify it. It +will be to him as a beacon-light to the sea-worn mariner that tells of home and +peace upon the shore, as a rainbow-promise set upon the sky. It alone of all +things pertaining to him will defy the attacks of the consuming years, and +when, old and withered, he lays him down to die, it will at last present itself +before his glazing eyes, an embodied joy, clad in shining robes, and breathing +the airs of Paradise! +</p> + +<p> +For such is love to those to whom it has been given to see him face to face. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> + +<p> +Arthur did not do much fishing that morning; indeed, he never so much as got +his line into the water—he simply sat there lost in dreams, and hoping in +a vague way that Angela would come back again. But she did not come back, +though it would be difficult to say what prevented her; for, had he but known +it, she was for the space of a full hour sitting within a hundred yards of him, +and occasionally peeping out to watch his mode of fishing with some curiosity. +It was, she reflected, exceedingly unlike that practised by Jakes. She, too, +was wishing that he would detect her, and come to talk to her; but, amongst +other new sensations, she was now the victim of a most unaccountable shyness, +and could not make up her mind to reveal her whereabouts. +</p> + +<p> +At last Arthur awoke from his long reverie, and remembered with a sudden pang +that he had had nothing to eat since the previous evening, and that he was +consequently exceedingly hungry. He also discovered, on consulting his watch, +that it was twelve o’clock, and, moreover, that he was quite stiff from +sitting so long in the same position. So, sighing to think that such a vulgar +necessity as that of obtaining food should force him to depart, he put up his +unused fishing-rod and started for Isleworth, where he arrived just as the bell +was ringing for lunch. +</p> + +<p> +George received him with cold civility, and asked him what sport he had, to +which he was forced to reply—none. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you see anybody there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I met Miss Caresfoot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! trust a girl to trail out a man. What is she like? I remember her a +raw-boned girl of fourteen with fine eyes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that she is the handsomest woman I ever saw,” Arthur +replied, coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said George, with a rude little laugh, “youth is always +enthusiastic, especially when the object is of the dairymaid cut.” +</p> + +<p> +There was something so intensely insolent in his host’s way of talking +that Arthur longed to throw a dish at him, but he restrained his feelings, and +dropped the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see, you are only just home from India, are you?” asked +George, presently. +</p> + +<p> +“I got back at the beginning of last month.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what were you doing there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Travelling about and shooting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you get much sport?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I was rather unfortunate, but I and another fellow killed two +tigers, and went after a rogue elephant; but he nearly killed us. I got some +very good ibix-shooting in Cashmere, however.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you intend to do with yourself now? Your education has been +extravagantly expensive, especially the Cambridge part of it. Are you going to +turn it to any account?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I am going to travel for another year, and then read for the Bar. +There is no particular object in being called too young, and I wish to see +something more of the world first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I see, idleness called by a fine name.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really I cannot agree with you,” said Arthur, who was rapidly +losing his temper. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you can’t, but every man has a right to choose his own +road to the dogs. Come,” he added, with a smile of malice, as he noticed +Arthur’s rising colour, “no need to get angry; you see I stand +<i>in loco parentis</i>, and feel bound to express my opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must congratulate you on the success with which you assume the +character,” answered Arthur, now thoroughly put-out; “but, as +everything I have done or mean to do is so distasteful to you, I think it is a +pity that you did not give me the benefit of your advice a little +sooner.” +</p> + +<p> +George’s only answer was a laugh, and presently the two parted, detesting +each other more cordially than ever. +</p> + +<p> +At half-past three, when George was still away, for he had gone out with his +bailiff immediately after lunch, Philip and his daughter were shown into the +drawing-room, where we may be sure Arthur was awaiting them. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Caresfoot is not back yet,” said Arthur, “but I do not +suppose that he will be long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! he will be here soon,” said Philip, “because I told him +we were coming to call. What sort of sport did you have? What, none! I am very +sorry. You must come and try again—ah! I forgot you are going away. By +the way, Mr. Heigham, why should you go just yet? If you are fond of fishing, +and have nothing better to do, come and put up at the Abbey House for a while; +we are plain people, but there is plenty of room, and you shall have a hearty +welcome. Would you care to come?” +</p> + +<p> +It would have been amusing to any outsider to watch Angela’s face as she +heard this astounding proposition, for nobody had been invited inside her +father’s doors within her recollection. It assumed first of all a look of +blank amazement, which was presently changed into one of absolute horror. +</p> + +<p> +“Would he come, indeed?” reflected Arthur. “Would he step +into Paradise? would he accept the humble offer of free quarters in the Garden +of Eden?” Rapture beamed so visibly from every feature of his face that +Philip saw it and smiled. Just as he was about to accept with enthusiasm, he +caught sight of Angela’s look of distress. It chilled him like the sudden +shock of cold water; she did not wish him to come, he thought, she did not care +for him. Obliged, however, to give an answer, he said, +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be delighted if”—and here he bowed towards +her—“Miss Caresfoot does not object.” +</p> + +<p> +“If father,” broke in Angela, with hesitation, “you could +arrange that Mr. Heigham came to-morrow, not to-day, it would be more +convenient. I must get a room ready.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! domestic details; I had overlooked them. I daresay you can manage +that—eh, Heigham?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! yes, easily, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +As he said the words, the door was flung open, and “Lady Bellamy” +was announced with the energy that a footman always devotes to the enunciation +of a title, and next second a splendid creature, magnificently dressed, sailed +into the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! how do you do, Mr. Caresfoot?” she said, in that low, rich +voice that he remembered so well. “It is some time since we met; indeed, +it quite brings back old times to see you, when we were all young people +together.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, Lady Bellamy, you show no signs of age; indeed, if you will +permit me to say so, you look more beautiful than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Mr. Caresfoot, you have not forgotten how to be gallant, but let me +tell you that it entirely depends upon what light I am in. If you saw me in the +midst of one of those newfangled electric illuminations, you would see that I +do look old; but what can one expect at forty?” Here her glance fell upon +Angela’s face for the first time, and she absolutely started; the great +pupils of her eyes expanded, and a dark frown spread itself for a moment over +her countenance. Next second it was gone. “Is it possible that that +beautiful girl is your daughter? But, remembering her mother, I need not ask. +Look at her, Mr. Caresfoot, and then look at me, and say whether or not I look +old. And who is the young man? Her lover, I suppose—at any rate, he looks +like it; but please introduce me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” said Philip, crossing to the window where they were +talking, “let me introduce you to Lady Bellamy. Mr. Heigham—Lady +Bellamy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Caresfoot, though I think +it is very generous of me to say so.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela looked puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“What! do you not guess why it is generous? Then look at yourself in the +glass, and you will see. I used to have some pretension to good looks, but I +could never have stood beside you at the best of times, and now—— +Your mother, even when I was at my best, always <i>killed</i> me if I was in +the same room with her, and you are even handsomer than your mother.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela blushed very much at this unqualified praise, and, putting it and the +exclamation her appearance had that morning wrung from Arthur together, she +suddenly came to the conclusion—for, odd as it may seem, she had never +before taken the matter into serious consideration —that she must be very +good-looking, a conclusion that made her feel extremely happy, she could not +quite tell why. +</p> + +<p> +It was whilst she was thus blushing and looking her happiest and loveliest that +George, returning from his walk, chanced to look in at the window and see her, +and, gradually drawn by the attraction of her beauty, his eyes fixed themselves +intently upon her, and his coarse features grew instinct with a mixture of +hungry wickedness and delighted astonishment. It was thus that Arthur and Lady +Bellamy saw him. Philip, who was looking at a picture in the corner of the +room, did not see him; nor, indeed, did Angela. The look was unmistakable, and +once more the dark frown settled upon Lady Bellamy’s brow, and the +expanding pupils filled the heavy-lidded eyes. As for Arthur, it made him feel +sick with unreasonable alarm. +</p> + +<p> +Next minute George entered the room with a stupid smile upon his face, and +looking as dazed as a bat that has suddenly been shown the sun. Angela’s +heaven-lit beauty had come upon his gross mind as a revelation; it fascinated +him, he had lost his command over himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! here you are at last, George,” said Lady Bellamy—it was +always her habit to call him George. “We have all been like sheep without +a shepherd, though I saw you keeping an eye on the flock through the +window.” +</p> + +<p> +George started. He did not know that he had been observed. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know that you were all here, or I would have been back +sooner,” he said, and then began to shake hands. +</p> + +<p> +When he came to Angela, he favoured her with a tender pressure of the fingers +and an elaborate and high-flown speech of welcome, both of which were +inexpressibly disagreeable to her. But here Lady Bellamy intervened, and +skilfully forced him into a conversation with her, in which Philip joined. +</p> + +<p> +“What does Lady Bellamy remind you of?” Angela asked Arthur, as +soon as the hum of talk made it improbable that they would be overheard. +</p> + +<p> +“Of an Egyptian sorceress, I think. Look at the low, broad forehead, the +curling hair, the full lips, and the inscrutable look of the face.” +</p> + +<p> +“To my mind she is an ideal of the Spirit of Power. I am very much afraid +of her, and, as for him”—nodding towards George—“I +dislike him even more than I was prepared to,” and she gave a little +shudder. “By the way, Mr. Heigham, you really must not be so rash as to +accept my father’s invitation.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you do not wish to see me, of course I will not,” he answered, +in a hurt and disappointed tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it is not that, indeed; how could you think so, when only this +morning we agreed to be friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what is it, then?” he asked, blankly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Heigham, the fact is that we—that is, my old nurse and I, +for my father is irregular in his meals, and always takes them by +himself—live so very plainly, and I am ashamed to ask you to share our +mode of life. For instance, we have nothing but bread and milk for +breakfast;” and the golden head sunk in some confusion before his amused +gaze. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! is that all?” he said, cheerily. “I am very fond of +bread and milk.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then,” went on Angela with her confession, “we never +drink wine, and I know that gentlemen do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am a teetotaller, so that does not matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—really.” +</p> + +<p> +“But then, you know, my father shuts himself up all day, so that you will +have nobody but myself to talk to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! never mind”—encouragingly. “I am sure that we +shall get on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if, in spite of all this and a great deal more—ah! a very +great deal that I have not time to tell you—you still care to come, I +will do my best to amuse you. At any rate, we can read together; that will be +something, if you don’t find me too stupid. You must remember that I have +only had a private education, and have never been to college like you. I shall +be glad of the opportunity of rubbing up my classics a little; I have been +neglecting them rather lately, and actually got into a mess over a passage in +Aristophanes that I shall ask you to clear up.” +</p> + +<p> +This was enough for Arthur, whose knowledge of the classics was that of the +ordinary University graduate; he turned the subject with remarkable +promptitude. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” he said, looking her straight in the face, “are +you glad that I am coming?” +</p> + +<p> +The grey eyes dropped a little before the boldness of his gaze, but she +answered, unhesitatingly, +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, for my own sake I am glad; but I fear that you will find it very +dull.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Angela, we must be off; I want to be home by a quarter to +six,” said Philip just then. +</p> + +<p> +She rose at once and shook hands with Arthur, murmuring, “Good-by till +to-morrow morning,” and then with Lady Bellamy. +</p> + +<p> +George, meanwhile, with the most unwonted hospitality, was pressing her father +to stay to dinner, and, when he declined, announcing his intention of coming +over to see him on the morrow. At last he got away, but not before Lady Bellamy +had bid him a seemingly cordial adieu. +</p> + +<p> +“You and your charming daughter must come and see me at Rewtham House, +when we get in. What, have you not heard that Sir John has bought it from poor +Maria Lee’s executors?” +</p> + +<p> +Philip turned pale as death, and hurried from the room. +</p> + +<p> +“It is good,” reflected Lady Bellamy, as she watched the effect of +her shaft, “to let him know that I never forget.” +</p> + +<p> +But, even when her father had gone, the path was still blocked to Angela. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” said George, who was, when in an amiable mood, that worst +of all cads, a jocose cad, “are you going to play truant, too, my pretty +cousin? Then first you must pay the penalty, not a very heavy one, +however.” And he threw his long arm round her waist, and prepared to give +her a cousinly embrace. +</p> + +<p> +At first Angela, not being accustomed to little jokes of the sort, did not +understand what his intentions were, but as soon as she did, being an extremely +powerful young woman, she soon put a stop to them, shaking George away from her +so sharply by a little swing of her lithe body, that, stumbling over a +footstool in his rapid backward passage, he in a trice measured his length upon +the floor. Seeing what she had done, Angela turned and fled after her father. +</p> + +<p> +As for Arthur, the scene was too much for his risible nerves, and he fairly +roared with laughter, whilst even Lady Bellamy went as near to it as she ever +did. +</p> + +<p> +George rose white with wrath. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham,” he said, “I see nothing to laugh at in an +accident.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you?” replied Arthur. “I do; it is just the most +ludicrous accident that I ever saw.” +</p> + +<p> +George turned away muttering something that it was perhaps as well his guest +did not hear, and at once began to attack Lady Bellamy. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear George,” was her rejoinder, “let this little +adventure teach you that it is not wise for middle-aged men to indulge in +gallantries towards young ladies, and especially young ladies of thews and +sinews. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +At the same moment the footman announced that the dog-cart which Arthur had +ordered was waiting for him. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-by, Mr. Heigham, good-by,” said George, with angry sarcasm. +“Within twenty-four hours you have killed my favourite dog, taken offence +at my well-meant advice, and ridiculed my misfortune. If we should ever meet +again, doubtless you will have further surprises in store for me;” and, +without giving Arthur time to make any reply, he left the room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> + +<p> +Early on the day following Arthur’s departure from Isleworth, Lady +Bellamy received a note from George requesting her, if convenient, to come and +see him that morning, as he had something rather important to talk to her +about. +</p> + +<p> +“John,” she said to her husband at breakfast, “do you want +the brougham this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I am going over to Isleworth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hadn’t you better take the luggage-cart too, and your luggage in +it, and live there altogether? It would save trouble, sending backwards and +forwards,” suggested her husband, with severe sarcasm. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy cut the top off an egg with a single clean stroke—all her +movements were decisive—before she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought,” she said, “that we had done with that sort of +nonsense some years ago; are you going to begin it again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Lady Bellamy, I am. I am not going to stand being bullied and +jeered at by that damned scoundrel Caresfoot any more. I am not going to stand +your eternal visits to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have stood them for twenty years; rather late in the day to object +now, isn’t it?” she remarked, coolly, beginning her egg. +</p> + +<p> +“It is never too late to mend; it is not too late for you to stop quietly +at home and do your duty by your husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Most men would think that I had done my duty by him pretty well. Twenty +years ago you were nobody, and had, comparatively speaking, nothing. Now you +have a title and between three and four thousand a year. Who have you to thank +for that? Certainly not yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Curse the title and the money! I had rather be a poor devil of an +attorney with a large family, and five hundred a year to keep them on, than +live the life I do between you and that vulgar beast Caresfoot. It’s a +dog’s life, not a man’s;” and poor Bellamy was so overcome at +his real or imaginary wrongs that the tears actually rolled down his puffy +little face. +</p> + +<p> +His wife surveyed him with some amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” she said, “that you are a miserable +creature.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I am, Anne; but I tell you what it is, even a miserable creature +can be driven too far. It may perhaps be worth your while to be a little +careful.” +</p> + +<p> +She cast one swift look at him, a look not without apprehension in it, for +there was a ring about his voice that she did not like, but his appearance was +so ludicrously wretched that it reassured her. She finished her egg, and then, +slowly driving the spoon through the shell, she said, +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t threaten, John; it is a bad habit, and shows an un-Christian +state of mind; besides, it might force me to cr-r-rush you, in self- defence, +you know;” and John and the egg-shell having finally collapsed together, +Lady Bellamy ordered the brougham. +</p> + +<p> +Having thus sufficiently scourged her husband, she departed in due course to +visit her own taskmaster, little guessing what awaited her at his hands. After +all, there is a deal of poetic justice in the world. Little Smith, fresh from +his mother’s apron-strings, is savagely beaten by the cock of the school, +Jones, and to him Jones is an all-powerful, cruel devil, placed above all +possibility of retribution. If, however, little Smith could see the omnipotent +Jones being mentally ploughed and harrowed by his papa the clergyman, in +celebration of the double event of his having missed a scholarship and taken +too much sherry, it is probable that his wounded feelings would be greatly +soothed. Nor does it stop there. Robinson, the squire of the parish, takes it +out of the Reverend Jones, and speaks ill of him to the bishop, a Low +Churchman, on the matter of vestments, and very shortly afterwards Sir Buster +Brown, the Chairman of the Quarter Sessions, expresses his opinion pretty +freely of Robinson in his magisterial capacity, only in his turn to receive a +most unexampled wigging from Her Majesty’s judge, Baron Muddlebone, for +not showing him that respect he was accustomed to receive from the High Sheriff +of the county. And even over the august person of the judge himself there hangs +the fear of the only thing that he cannot commit for contempt, public opinion. +Justice! why, the world is full of it, only it is mostly built upon a +foundation of wrong. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy found George sitting in the dining-room beside the safe that had +so greatly interested her husband. It was open, and he was reading a selection +from the bundle of letters which the reader may remember having seen in his +hands before. +</p> + +<p> +“How do, Anne?” he said, without rising. “You look very +handsome this morning. I never saw a woman wear better.” +</p> + +<p> +She vouchsafed no reply to his greeting, but turned as pale as death. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” she said, huskily, pointing with her finger to the letters +in his hand, “what are you doing with those letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo, Anne; quite tragic. What a Lady Macbeth you would make! Come +quote, ‘All the perfumes of Araby will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, +oh, oh!’ Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you doing with those letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you never broken a dog by showing him the whip, Anne? I have got +something to ask of you, and I wish to get you into a generous frame of mind +first. Listen now, I am going to read you a few extracts from a past that is so +vividly recorded here.” +</p> + +<p> +She sank into a chair, hid her face in her hands, and groaned. George, whose +own features betrayed a certain nervousness, took a yellow sheet of paper, and +began to read. +</p> + +<p> +“‘Do you know how old I am to-day? Nineteen, and I have been +married a year and a half. Ah! what a happy lass I was before I married; how +they worshipped me in my old home! “Queen Anne,” they always called +me. Well, they are dead now, and pray God they sleep so sound that they can +neither hear nor see. Yes, a year and a half—a year of happiness, half a +year of hell; happiness whilst I did not know you, hell since I saw your face. +What secret spring of wickedness did you touch in my heart? I never had a +thought of wrong before you came. But when I first set eyes upon your face, I +felt some strange change come over me: I recognized my evil destiny. How you +discovered my fascination, how you led me on to evil, you best know. I am no +coward, I do not wish to excuse myself, but sometimes I think that you have +much to answer for, George. Hark, I hear my baby crying, my beautiful boy with +his father’s eyes. Do you know, I believe that the child has grown afraid +of me: it beats at me with its tiny hands. I think that my very dog dislikes me +now. They know me as I am; Nature tells them; everybody knows me except +<i>him</i>. He will come in presently from visiting his sick and poor, and kiss +me and call me his sweet wife, and I shall act the living lie. Oh! God, I +cannot bear it much longer——’ +</p> + +<p> +“There is more of the same sort,” remarked George, coolly. +“It affords a most interesting study of mental anatomy, but I have no +time to read more of it. We will pass on to another.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy did not move; she sat trembling a little, her face buried in her +hands. +</p> + +<p> +He took up a second letter and began to read a marked passage. +</p> + +<p> +“‘The die is cast, I will come; I can no longer resist your +influence; it grows stronger every day, and now it makes me a murderess, for +the shock will kill him. And yet I am tired of the sameness and smallness of my +life; my mind is too big to be cramped in such narrow fetters.’ +</p> + +<p> +“That extract is really very funny,” said George, critically. +“But don’t look depressed, Anne, I am only going to trouble you +with one more dated a year or so later. Listen. +</p> + +<p> +“‘I have several times seen the man you sent me; he is a fool and +contemptible in appearance, and, worst of all, shows signs of falling in love +with me; but, if you wish it, I will go through the marriage ceremony with him, +poor little dupe! You will not marry me yourself, and I would do more than that +to keep near you; indeed, I have no choice, I <i>must</i> keep near you. I went +to the Zoological Gardens the other day and saw a rattlesnake fed upon a live +rabbit; the poor thing had ample room to run away in, but could not, it was +fascinated, and sat still and screamed. At last the snake struck it, and I +thought that its eyes looked like yours. I am as helpless as that poor animal, +and you are much more cruel than the snake. And yet my mind is infinitely +stronger than your own in every way. I cannot understand it. What is the source +of your power over me? But I am quite reckless now, so what does it matter? I +will do anything that does not put me within reach of the law. You know that my +husband is dead. I <i>knew</i> that he would die; he expired with my name upon +his lips. The child, too, I hear, died in a fit of croup; the nurse had gone +out, and there was no one to look after it. Upon my word, I may well be +reckless, for there is no forgiveness for such as you and I. As for little +B——, as I think I told you, I will lead him on and marry him: at +any rate, I will make his fortune for him: I <i>must</i> devote myself to +something, and ambition is more absorbing than anything else—at least, I +shall rise to something great. Good-night; I don’t know which aches most, +my head or my heart.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Now that extract would be interesting reading to Bellamy, would it +not?” +</p> + +<p> +Here she suddenly sprang forward and snatched at the letter. But George was too +quick for her; he flung it into the safe by his side, and swung the heavy lid +to. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, my dear Anne, that property is too valuable to be parted with +except for a consideration.” +</p> + +<p> +Her attempt frustrated, she dropped back into her chair. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you torturing me for?” she asked, hoarsely. “Have +you any object in dragging up the ghost of that dead past, or is it merely for +amusement?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did I not tell you that I had a favour to ask of you, and wished to get +you into a proper frame of mind first?” +</p> + +<p> +“A favour. You mean that you have some wickedness in hand that you are +too great a coward to execute yourself. Out with it; I know you too well to be +shocked.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well. You saw Angela Caresfoot, Philip’s daughter, here +yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I saw her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. I mean to marry her, and you must manage it for me.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy sat quite still, and made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +“You will now,” continued George, relieved to find that he had not +provoked the outburst he had expected, “understand why I read you those +extracts. I am thoroughly determined upon marrying that girl at whatever cost, +and I see very clearly that I shall not be able to do so without your help. +With your help, the matter will be easy; for no obstacle, except the death of +the girl herself, can prevail against your iron determination and unbounded +fertility of resource.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if I refuse?” +</p> + +<p> +“I must have read those extracts to very little purpose for you to talk +about refusing. If you refuse, the pangs of conscience will overcome me, and I +shall feel obliged to place these letters, and more especially those referring +to himself, in the hands of your husband. Of course it will, for my own sake, +be unpleasant to me to have to do so, but I can easily travel for a year or two +till the talk has blown over. For you it will be different. Bellamy has no +cause to love you now; judge what he will feel when he knows all the truth. He +will scarcely keep the story to himself, and, even were he to do so, it could +easily be set about in other ways, and, in either case, you will be a ruined +woman, and all that you have toiled and schemed for for twenty years will be +snatched from you in an instant. If, on the other hand, you do not refuse, and +I cannot believe that you will, I will on my wedding-day burn these +uncomfortable records before your eyes, or, if you prefer it, you shall burn +them yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have only seen this girl once; is it possible that you are in +earnest in wishing to marry her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that I should go through this scene by way of a joke? I +never was so much in earnest in my life before. I am in love with her, I tell +you, as much in love as though I had known her for years. What happened to you +with reference to me has happened to me with reference to her, or something +very like it, and marry her I must and will.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy, as she heard these words, rose from her chair and flung herself +on the ground before him, clasping his knees with her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, George, George!” she cried, in a broken voice, “have +some little pity; do not force me to do this unnatural thing. Is your heart a +stone, or are you altogether a devil, that by such cruel threats you can drive +me into becoming the instrument of my own shame? I know what I am, none better: +but for whose sake did I become so? Surely, George, I have some claim on your +compassion, if I have none on your love. Think again, George; and, if you will +not give her up, choose some other means to compass this poor girl’s +ruin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Get up, Anne, and don’t talk sentimental rubbish. Not but +what,” he added, with a sneer, “it is rather amusing to hear you +pitying your successful rival.” +</p> + +<p> +She sprang to her feet, all the softness and entreaty gone from her face, which +was instead now spread with her darkest and most vindictive look. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> pity her!” she said. “I hate her. Look you, if I +have to do this, my only consolation will be in knowing that what I do will +drag my successor down below my own level. I suffer; she shall suffer more; I +know you a fiend, she shall find a whole hell with you; she is purer and better +than I have ever been; soon you shall make her worse than I have dreamt of +being. Her purity shall be dishonoured, her love betrayed, her life reduced to +such chaos that she shall cease to believe even in her God, and in return for +these things I will give her—<i>you</i>. Your new plaything shall pass +through my mill, George Caresfoot, before ever she comes to yours; and on her I +will repay with interest all that I have suffered at your hands;” and, +exhausted with the fierceness of her own invective and the violence of +conflicting passions, she sank back into her chair. +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo, Anne! quite in your old style. I daresay that the young lady will +require a little moulding, and she could not be in better hands; but mind, no +tricks—I am not going to be cheated out of my bride.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not fear, George; I shall not murder her. I do not believe in +violence; it is the last resort of fools. If I did, you would not be alive +now.” +</p> + +<p> +George laughed a little uneasily. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we are good friends again, so there is no need to talk of such +things,” he said. “The campaign will not be by any means an easy +one— there are many obstacles in the way, and I don’t think that my +intended has taken a particular fancy to me. You will have to work for your +letters, Anne; but first of all take a day or two to think it over, and make a +plan of the campaign. And now good-by; I have got a bad headache, and am going +to lie down.” +</p> + +<p> +She rose, and went without another word; but all necessity for setting about +her shameful task was soon postponed by news that reached her the next morning, +to the effect that George Caresfoot was seriously ill. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> + +<p> +The dog-cart that Arthur had hired to take him away belonged to an +old-fashioned inn in the parish of Rewtham, situated about a mile from Rewtham +House (which had just passed into the hands of the Bellamys), and two from +Bratham Abbey, and thither Arthur had himself driven. His Jehu, known through +all the country round as “Old Sam,” was an ancient ostler, who had +been in the service of the Rewtham “King’s Head,” man and +boy, for over fifty years, and from him Arthur collected a good deal of +inaccurate information about the Caresfoot family, including a garbled version +of all the death of Angela’s mother and Philip’s disinheritance. +</p> + +<p> +After all, there are few more comfortable places than an inn; not a huge London +hotel, where you are known as No. 48, and have to lock the door of your cell +when you come out of it, and deliver up your key to the warder in the hall; but +an old-fashioned country establishment where they cook your breakfast exactly +as you like it, and give you sound ale and a four-poster. At least, so thought +Arthur, as he sat in the private parlour smoking his pipe and reflecting on the +curious vicissitudes of existence. Now, here he was, with all the hopes and +interests of his life utterly changed in a single space of six-and- twenty +hours. Why, six-and-twenty hours ago, he had never met his respected guardian, +nor Sir John and Lady Bellamy, nor Philip and his daughter. He could hardly +believe that it was only that morning that he had first seen Angela. It seemed +weeks ago, and, if time could have been measured on a new principle, by events +and not by minutes, it would have been weeks. The wheel of life, he thought, +revolves with a strange irregularity. For months and years it turns slowly and +steadily under the even pressure of monotonous events. But, on some unexpected +day, a tide comes rushing down the stream of being, and spins it round at +speed; and then tears onward to the ocean called the Past, leaving its +plaything to creak and turn, to turn and creak, or wrecked perhaps and useless. +</p> + +<p> +Thinking thus, Arthur made his way to bed. The excitement of the day had +wearied him, and for a while he slept soundly, but, as the fatigue of the body +wore off, the activity of his mind asserted itself, and he began to dream +vague, happy dreams of Angela, that by degrees took shape and form, till they +stood out clear before the vision of his mind. He dreamt that he and Angela +were journeying, two such happy travellers, through the green fields in summer, +till by-and-by they came to the dark entrance of a wood, into which they +plunged, fearing nothing. Thicker grew the overshadowing branches, and darker +grew the path, and now they journeyed lover-wise, with their arms around each +other. But, as they passed along, they came to a place where the paths forked, +and here he stooped to kiss her. Already he could feel the thrill of her +embrace, when she was swept from him by an unseen force, and carried down the +path before them, leaving him rooted where he was. But still he could trace her +progress as she went, wringing her hands in sorrow; and presently he saw the +form of Lady Bellamy, robed as an Egyptian sorceress, and holding a letter in +her hand, which she offered to Angela, whispering in her ear. She took it, and +then in a second the letter turned to a great snake, with George’s head, +that threw its coils around her and struck at her with its fangs. Next, the +darkness of night rushed down upon the scene, and out of the darkness came wild +cries and mocking laughter, and the choking sounds of death. And his senses +left him. +</p> + +<p> +When sight and sense came back, he dreamt that he was still walking down a +wooded lane, but the foliage of the overhanging trees was of a richer green. +The air was sweet with the scent of unknown flowers, beautiful birds flitted +around him, and from far-off came the murmur of the sea. And as he travelled, +broken-hearted, a fair woman with a gentle voice stood by his side, and kissed +and comforted him, till at length he grew weary of her kisses, and she left +him, weeping, and he went on his way alone, seeking his lost Angela. And then +at length the path took a sudden turn, and he stood on the shore of an +illimitable ocean, over which brooded a strange light, as where +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“The quiet end of evening smiles<br/> +Miles on miles.” +</p> + +<p> +And there, with the soft light lingering on her hair, and tears of gladness in +her eyes, stood Angela, more lovely than before, her arms outstretched to greet +him. And then the night closed in, and he awoke. +</p> + +<p> +His eyes opened upon the solemn and beautiful hour of the first quickening of +the dawn, and the thrill and softness that comes from contact with the things +we meet in sleep was still upon him. He got up and flung open his lattice +window. From the garden beneath rose the sweet scent of May flowers, very +different from that of his dream which yet lingered in his nostrils, whilst +from a neighbouring lilac- bush streamed the rich melody of the nightingale. +Presently it ceased before the broadening daylight, but in its stead, pure and +clear and cold, arose the notes of the mavis, giving tuneful thanks and glory +to its Maker. And, as he listened, a great calm stole upon his spirit, and +kneeling down there by the open window, with the breath of spring upon his +brow, and the voice of the happy birds within his ears, he prayed to the +Almighty with all his heart that it might please Him in His wise mercy to +verify his dream, inasmuch as he would be well content to suffer, if by +suffering he might at last attain to such an unutterable joy. And rising from +his knees, feeling better and stronger, he knew in some dim way that that +undertaking must be blest which, in such a solemn hour of the heart, he did not +fear to pray God to guide, to guard, and to consummate. +</p> + +<p> +And on many an after-day, and in many another place, the book of his life would +reopen at this well-conned page, and he would see the dim light in the faint, +flushed sky, and hear the song of the thrush swelling upwards strong and sweet, +and remember his prayer and the peace that fell upon his soul. +</p> + +<p> +By ten o’clock that morning, Arthur, his dog, and his portmanteau, had +all arrived together in front of the Abbey House. Before his feet had touched +the moss-grown gravel, the hall-door was flung open, and Angela appeared to +welcome him, looking, as old Sam the ostler forcibly put it afterwards to his +helper, “just like a hangel with the wings off.” Jakes, too, +emerged from the recesses of the garden, and asked Angela, in a tone of +aggrieved sarcasm, as he edged his way suspiciously past Aleck, why the +gentleman had not brought the “rampingest lion from the Zoologic +Gardens” with him at once? Having thus expressed his feelings on the +subject of bull-dogs, he shouldered the portmanteau, and made his way with it +upstairs. Arthur followed him up the wide oak stairs, every one of which was +squared out of a single log, stopping for a while on the landing, where the +staircase turned, to gaze at the stern-faced picture that hung so that it +looked through the large window facing it, right across the park and over the +whole stretch of the Abbey lands, and to wonder at the deep-graved inscription +of “Devil Caresfoot” set so conspicuously beneath. +</p> + +<p> +His room was the largest upon the first landing, and the same in which +Angela’s mother had died. It had never been used from that hour to this, +and, indeed, in a little recess or open space between a cupboard and the wall, +there still stood two trestles, draped with rotten black cloth, that had +originally been brought there to rest her coffin on, and which Angela had +overlooked in getting the room ready. +</p> + +<p> +This spacious but somewhat gloomy apartment was hung round with portraits of +the Caresfoots of past ages, many of which bore a marked resemblance to Philip, +but amongst whom he looked in vain for one in the slightest degree like Angela, +whose handiwork he recognized in two large bowls of flowers placed upon the +dark oak dressing-table. +</p> + +<p> +Just as Jakes had finished unbuckling his portmanteau, a task that he had +undertaken with some groaning, and was departing in haste, lest he should be +asked to do something else, Arthur caught sight of the trestles. +</p> + +<p> +“What are those?” he asked, cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Coffin-stools,” was the abrupt reply. +</p> + +<p> +“Coffin-stools!” ejaculated Arthur, feeling that it was unpleasant +to have little details connected with one’s latter end brought thus +abruptly into notice. “What the deuce are they doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Brought to put the last as slept in that ‘ere bed on, and stood +ever since.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think,” insinuated Arthur, gently, “that you +had better take them away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t do so; they be part of the furniture, they be—stand +there all handy for the next one, too, maybe you;” and he vanished with a +sardonic grin. +</p> + +<p> +Jakes did not submit to the indignities of unbuckling portmanteaus and having +his legs sniffed at by bull-dogs for nothing. Not by any means pleased by +suggestions so unpleasant, Arthur took his way downstairs, determined to renew +the coffin-stool question with his host. He found Angela waiting for him in the +hall, and making friends with Aleck. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you come in and see my father for a minute before we go out?” +she said. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur assented, and she led the way into the study, where Philip always sat, +the same room in which his father had died. He was sitting at a writing-table +as usual, at work on farm accounts. Rising, he greeted Arthur civilly, taking, +however, no notice of his daughter, although he had not seen her since the +previous day. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Heigham, so you have made up your mind to brave these barbarous +wilds, have you? I am delighted to see you, but I must warn you that, beyond a +pipe and a glass of grog in the evening, I have not much time to put at your +disposal. We are rather a curious household. I don’t know whether Angela +has told you, but for one thing we do not take our meals together, so you will +have to make your choice between the dining-room and the nursery, for my +daughter is not out of the nursery yet;” and he gave a little laugh. +“On the whole, perhaps you had better be relegated to the nursery; it +will, at any rate, be more amusing to you that the society of a morose old +fellow like myself. And, besides, I am very irregular in my habits. Angela, you +are staring at me again; I should be so very much obliged if you would look the +other way. I only hope, Heigham, that old Pigott won’t talk your head +off; she has got a dreadful tongue. Well, don’t let me keep you any +longer; it is a lovely day for the time of year. Try to amuse yourself somehow, +and I hope for your sake that Angela will not occupy herself with you as she +does with me, by staring as though she wished to examine your brains and +backbone. Good-by for the present.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does he mean?” asked Arthur, as soon as they were fairly +outside the door, “about your staring at him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mean!” answered poor Angela, who looked as though she were going +to cry. “I wish I could tell you; all I know is that he cannot bear me to +look at him—he is always complaining of it. That is why we do not take +our meals together—at least, I believe it is. He detests my being near +him. I am sure I don’t know why; it makes me very unhappy. I cannot see +anything different in my eyes from anybody else’s, can you?” and +she turned them, swimming as they were with tears of mortification, full upon +Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +He scrutinized their depths very closely, so closely indeed, that presently she +turned them away again with a blush. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, “I am sure you have looked long enough. Are +they different?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very different,” replied the oracle, with enthusiasm. +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, they—they are larger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all?” +</p> + +<p> +“And they are deeper.” +</p> + +<p> +“Deeper—that is nothing. I want to know if they produce any +unpleasant effect upon you—different from other people’s eyes, I +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you ask me, I am afraid that your eyes do produce a strange +effect upon me, but I cannot say that it is an unpleasant one. But you did not +look long enough for me to form a really sound opinion. Let us try +again.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I will not; and I do believe that you are laughing at me. I think +that is very unkind;” and she marched on in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be angry with me, or I shall be miserable. I really was not +laughing at you; only, if you knew what wonderful eyes you have got, you would +not ask such ridiculous questions about them. Your father must be a strange man +to get such ideas. I am sure I should be delighted if you would look at me all +day long. But tell me something more about your father: he interests me very +much.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela felt the tell-tale blood rise to her face as he praised her eyes, and +bit her lips with vexation; it seemed to her that she had suddenly caught an +epidemic of blushing. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot tell you very much about my father, because I do not know much; +his life is, to a great extent, a sealed book to me. But they say that once he +was a very different man, when he was quite young, I mean. But all of a sudden +his father—my grand-father, you know—whose picture is on the +stairs, died, and within a day or two my mother died too; that was when I was +born. After that he broke down, and became what he is now. For twenty years he +has lived as he does now, poring all day over books of accounts, and very +rarely seeing anybody, for he does all his business by letter, or nearly all of +it, and he has no friends. There was some story about his being engaged to a +lady who lived at Rewtham when he married my mother, which I daresay you have +heard; but I don’t know much about it. But, Mr. Heigham”—and +here she dropped her voice—“there is one thing that I must warn you +of: my father has strange fancies at times. He is dreadfully superstitious, and +thinks that he has communications with beings from another world. I believe +that it is all nonsense, but I tell you so that you may not be surprised at +anything he says or does. He is not a happy man, Mr. Heigham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Apparently not. I cannot imagine any one being happy who is +superstitious; it is the most dreadful bondage in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are your ravens to-day?” asked Arthur, presently. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; I have not seen very much of them for the last week +or two. They have made a nest in one of the big trees at the back of the house, +and I daresay that they are there, or perhaps they are hunting for their +food—they always feed themselves. But I will soon tell you,” and +she whistled in a soft but penetrating note. +</p> + +<p> +Next minute there was a swoop of wings, and the largest raven, after hovering +over her for a minute, lit upon her shoulder, and rubbed his black head against +her face. +</p> + +<p> +“This is Jack, you see; I expect that Jill is busy sitting on her eggs. +Fly away, Jack, and look after your wife.” She clapped her hands, and the +great bird, giving a reproachful croak, spread his wings, and was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“You have a strange power over animals to make those birds so fond of +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so? It is only because I have, living as I do quite alone, +had time to study all their ways, and make friends of them. Do you see that +thrush there? I know him well; I fed him during the frost last winter. If you +will stand back with the dog, you shall see.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur hid himself behind a thick bush and watched. Angela whistled again, but +in another note, with a curious result. Not only the thrush in question, but +quite a dozen other birds of different sorts and sizes, came flying round her, +some settling at her feet, and one, a little robin, actually perching itself +upon her hat. Presently she dismissed them as she had done the raven, by +clapping her hands, and came back to Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“In the winter time,” she said, “I could show you more +curious things than that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that you are a witch,” said Arthur, who was astounded at +the sight. +</p> + +<p> +She laughed as she answered, +</p> + +<p> +“The only witchery that I use is kindness.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> + +<p> +Pigott, Angela’s old nurse, was by no means sorry to hear of +Arthur’s visit to the Abbey House, though, having in her youth been a +servant in good houses, she was distressed at the nature of his reception. But, +putting this aside, she thought it high time that her darling should see a +young man or two, that she might “learn what the world was like.” +Pigott was no believer in female celibacy, and Angela’s future was a +frequent subject of meditation with her, for she knew very well that her +present mode of life was scarcely suited either to her birth, her beauty, or +her capabilities. Not that she ever, in her highest flights, imagined Angela as +a great lady, or one of society’s shining stars; she loved to picture her +in some quiet, happy home, beloved by her husband, and surrounded by children +as beautiful as herself. It was but a moderate ambition for one so peerlessly +endowed, but she would have been glad to see it fulfilled. For of late years +there had sprung up in nurse Pigott’s mind an increasing dislike of her +surroundings, which sometimes almost amounted to a feeling of horror. Philip +she had always detested, with his preoccupied air and uncanny ways. +</p> + +<p> +“There must,” she would say, “be something wicked about a man +as is afraid to have his own bonny daughter look him in the face, to say +nothing of his being that mean as to grudge her the clothes on her back, and +make her live worse nor a servant-girl.” +</p> + +<p> +Having, therefore, by a quiet peep through the curtains, ascertained that he +was nice-looking and about the right age, Pigott confessed to herself that she +was heartily glad of Arthur’s arrival, and determined that, should she +take to him on further acquaintance, he should find a warm ally in her in any +advances he might choose to make on the fortress of Angela’s affections. +</p> + +<p> +“I do so hope that you don’t mind dining at half-past twelve, and +with my old nurse,” Angela said, as they went together up the stairs to +the room they used as a dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I don’t—I like it, really I do.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela shook her head, and, looking but partially convinced, led the way down +the passage, and into the room, where, to her astonishment, she perceived that +the dinner-table was furnished with a more sumptuous meal than she had seen +upon it for years, the fact being that Pigott had received orders from Philip +which she did not know of, not to spare expense whilst Arthur was his guest. +</p> + +<p> +“What waste,” reflected Angela, in whom the pressure of +circumstances had developed an economical turn of mind, as she glanced at the +unaccustomed jug of beer. “He said he was a teetotaller.” +</p> + +<p> +A loud “hem!” from Pigott, arresting her attention, stopped all +further consideration of the matter. That good lady, who, in honour of the +occasion, was dressed in a black gown of a formidable character and a +many-ribboned cap, was standing up behind her chair waiting to be introduced to +the visitor. Angela proceeded to go through the ceremony which Pigott’s +straight-up-and-down attitude rendered rather trying. +</p> + +<p> +“Nurse, this is the gentleman that my father has asked to stay with us. +Mr. Heigham, let me introduce you to my old nurse Pigott.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur bowed politely, whilst Pigott made two obligatory curtsies, requiring a +step backwards after each, as though to make room for another. Her speech, too, +carefully prepared for the occasion, is worthy of transcription. +</p> + +<p> +“Hem!” she said, “this, sir, is a pleasure as I little +expected, and I well knows that it is not what you or the likes is accustomed +to, a-eating of dinners and teas with old women; which I hopes, sir, how as you +will put up with it, seeing how as the habits of this house is what might, +without mistake, be called peculiar, which I says without any offence to Miss +Angela, ‘cause though her bringing-up has been what I call odd, she knows +it as well as I do, which, indeed, is the only consolation I has to offer, +being right sure, as indeed I am, how as any young gentleman as ever breathed +would sit in a pool of water to dine along with Miss Angela, let alone an old +nurse. I ain’t such a fool as I may look; no need for you to go +a-blushing of, Miss Angela. And now, sir, if you please, we will sit down, for +fear lest the gravy should begin to grease;” and, utterly exhausted by +the exuberance of her own verbosity, she plunged into her chair—an +example which Arthur, bowing his acknowledgements of her opening address, was +not slow to follow. +</p> + +<p> +One of his first acts was, at Pigott’s invitation, to help himself to a +glass of beer, of which, to speak truth, he drank a good deal. +</p> + +<p> +Angela watched the proceeding with interest. +</p> + +<p> +“What,” she asked presently, “is a teetotaller?” +</p> + +<p> +The recollection of his statement of the previous day flashed into his mind. He +was, however, equal to the occasion. +</p> + +<p> +“A teetotaller,” he replied, with gravity, “is a person who +only drinks beer,” and Angela, the apparent discrepancy explained, +retired satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +That was a very pleasant dinner. What a thing it is to be young and in love! +How it gilds the dull gingerbread of life; what new capacities of enjoyment it +opens up to us, and, for the matter of that, of pain also; and oh! what +stupendous fools it makes of us in everybody else’s eyes except our own, +and, if we are lucky, those of our adored! +</p> + +<p> +The afternoon and evening passed much as the morning had done. Angela took +Arthur round the place, and showed him all the spots connected with her strange +and lonely childhood, of which she told him many a curious story. In fact, +before the day was over, he knew all the history of her innocent life, and was +struck with amazement at the variety and depth of her scholastic acquirements +and the extraordinary power of her mind, which, combined with her simplicity +and total ignorance of the ways of the world, produced an effect as charming as +it was unusual. Needless to say that every hour he knew her he fell more deeply +in love with her. +</p> + +<p> +At length, about eight o’clock, just as it was beginning to get dark, she +suggested that he should go and sit a while with her father. +</p> + +<p> +“And what are you going to do?” asked Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I am going to read a little, and then go to bed; I always go to bed +about nine;” and she held out her hand to say good-night. He took it and +said, +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, then; I wish it were to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because then I should be saying, ‘Good-morning, Angela,’ +instead of ‘Good-night, Angela,’ May I call you Angela? We seem to +know each other so well, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course,” she laughed back; “everybody I know calls +me Angela, so why shouldn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“And will you call me Arthur? Everybody I know calls me Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela hesitated, and Angela blushed, though why she hesitated and why she +blushed was perhaps more than she could have exactly said. +</p> + +<p> +“Y-e-s, I suppose so—that is, if you like it. It is a pretty name, +Arthur. Good-night, Arthur,” and she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +His companion gone, Arthur turned and entered the house. The study- door was +open, so he went straight in. Philip, who was sitting and staring in an +abstracted way at the empty fireplace with a light behind him, turned quickly +round as he heard the footstep. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it’s you, is it, Heigham? I suppose Angela has gone upstairs; +she goes to roost very early. I hope that she has not bored you, and that old +Pigott hasn’t talked your head off. I told you that we were an odd lot, +you know; but, if you find us odder than you bargained for, I should advise you +to clear out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, I have spent a very happy day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I am glad to hear it. You must be easily satisfied, have an +Arcadian mind, and that sort of thing. Take some whisky, and light your +pipe.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur did so, and presently Philip, in that tone of gentlemanly ease which +above everything distinguished him from his cousin, led the conversation round +to his guest’s prospects and affairs, more especially his money affairs. +Arthur answered him frankly enough, but this money talk had not the same charms +for him that it had for his host. Indeed, a marked repugnance to everything +that had to do with money was one of his characteristics; and, wearied out at +length with pecuniary details and endless researches into the mysteries of +investment, he took advantage of a pause to attempt to change the subject. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “I am much obliged to you for your advice, +for I am very ignorant myself, and hate anything to do with money. I go back to +first principles, and believe that we should all be better without it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I always thought,” answered Philip, with a semi-contemptuous +smile, “that the desire of money, or, amongst savage races, its +equivalent, shells or what not, was <i>the</i> first principle of human +nature.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it is—I really don’t know; but I heartily wish that +it could be eliminated off the face of the earth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me,” laughed Philip, “but that is the speech of a +very young man. Why, eliminate money, and you take away the principal interest +of life, and destroy the social fabric of the world. What is power but money, +comfort?—money, social consideration?—money, ay, and love, and +health, and happiness itself? Money, money, money. Tell me,” he went on, +rising, and addressing him with a curious earnestness, “what god is there +more worthy of our adoration than Plutus, seeing that, if we worship him +enough, he alone of the idols we set in high places, will never fail us at +need?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a worship that rarely brings lasting happiness with it. In our +greed to collect the means of enjoyment, surely we lose the power to +enjoy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw! that is the cant of fools, of those who do not know, of those who +cannot feel. But I know and I feel, and I tell you that it is not so. The +collection of those means is in itself a pleasure, because it gives a +consciousness of power. Don’t talk to me of Fate; that sovereign” +(throwing the coin on to the table) “is Fate’s own seal. You see +me, for instance, apparently poor and helpless, a social pariah, one to be +avoided, and even insulted. Good; before long these will right all that for me. +I shall by their help be powerful and courted yet. Ay, believe me, Heigham, +money is a living moving force; leave it still, and it accumulates; expend it, +and it gratifies every wish; save it, and that is best of all, and you hold in +your hand a lever that will lift the world. I tell you that there is no height +to which it cannot bring you, no gulf it will not bridge you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Except,” soliloquized Arthur, “the cliffs of the Hereafter, +and—the grave.” +</p> + +<p> +His words produced a curious effect. Philip’s eloquence broke off short, +and for a moment a great fear crept into his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Silence ensued which neither of them seemed to care to break. Meanwhile the +wind suddenly sprang up, and began to moan and sigh amongst the half-clad +boughs of the trees outside—making, Arthur thought to himself, a very +melancholy music. Presently Philip laid his hand upon his guest’s arm, +and he felt that it shook like an aspen- leaf. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “what do you see +there?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur started, and followed the direction of his eyes to the bare wall +opposite the window, at that end of the room through which the door was made. +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” he said, “some moving shadows.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do they resemble?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; nothing in particular. What are they?” +</p> + +<p> +“What are they?” hissed Philip, whose face was livid with terror, +“they are the shades of the dead sent here to torture me. Look, she goes +to meet him; the old man is telling her. Now she will wring her hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Mr. Caresfoot, nonsense,” said Arthur, shaking himself +together; “I see nothing of the sort. Why, it is only the shadows flung +by the moonlight through the swinging boughs of that tree. Cut it down, and you +will have no more writing upon your wall.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! of course you are right, Heigham, quite right,” ejaculated his +host, faintly, wiping the cold sweat from his brow; “it is nothing but +the moonlight. How ridiculous of me! I suppose I am a little out of +sorts—liver wrong. Give me some whisky, there’s a good fellow, and +I’ll drink damnation to all the shadows and <i>the trees that throw +them</i>. Ha, ha, ha!” +</p> + +<p> +There was something so uncanny about his host’s manner, and his evident +conviction of the origin of the wavering figures on the wall (which had now +disappeared), that Arthur felt, had it not been for Angela, he would not be +sorry to get clear of him and his shadows as soon as possible, for +superstition, he knew, is as contagious as small-pox. When at length he reached +his great bare bed-chamber, not, by the way, a comfortable sort of place to +sleep in after such an experience, it was only after some hours, in the excited +state of his imagination, that, tired though he was, he could get the rest he +needed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> + +<p> +Next morning, when they met at their eight o’clock breakfast, Arthur +noticed that Angela was distressed about something. +</p> + +<p> +“There is bad news,” she said, almost before he greeted her; +“my cousin George is very ill with typhus fever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” remarked Arthur, rather coolly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I must say it does not appear to distress you very much.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I can’t say it does. To be honest, I detest your cousin, and I +don’t care if he is ill or not; there.” +</p> + +<p> +As she appeared to have no reply ready, the subject then dropped. +</p> + +<p> +After breakfast Angela proposed that they should walk—for the day was +again fine—to the top of a hill about a mile away, whence a view of the +surrounding country could be obtained. He consented, and on the way told her of +his curious experiences with her father on the previous night. She listened +attentively, and, when he had finished, shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“There is,” she said, “something about my father that +separates him from everybody else. His life never comes out into the sunlight +of the passing day, it always gropes along in the shadow of some gloomy past. +What the mystery is that envelops him I neither know nor care to inquire; but I +am sure that there is one.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you explain the shadows?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe your explanation is right; they are, under certain conditions +of light, thrown by a tree that grows some distance off. I have seen something +that looks like figures on that wall myself in full daylight. That he should +interpret such a simple thing as he does shows a curious state of mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not think, then,” said Arthur, in order to draw her out, +“that it is possible, after all, he was right, and that they were +something from another place? The reality of his terror was almost enough to +make one believe in them, I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I do not,” answered Angela, after a minute’s thought. +“I have no doubt that the veil between ourselves and the unseen world is +thinner than we think. I believe, too, that communication, and even warnings +sometimes, under favourable conditions, or when the veil is worn thin by +trouble or prayer, can pass from the other world to ourselves. But the very +fact of my father’s terror proves to me that his shadows are nothing of +the sort, for it is hardly possible that spirits can be permitted to come to +terrify us poor mortals; if they come at all, it is in love and gentleness, to +comfort or to warn, and not to work upon our superstitions.” +</p> + +<p> +“You speak as though you knew all about it; you should join the new Ghost +Society,” he answered, irreverently, sitting himself down on a fallen +tree, an example that she followed. +</p> + +<p> +“I have thought about it sometimes, that is all, and, so far as I have +read, I think that my belief is a common one, and what the Bible teaches us; +but, if you will not think me foolish, I will tell you something that confirms +me in it. You know that my mother died when I was born; well, it may seem +strange to you, but I am convinced that she is sometimes very near me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that you see or hear her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I only feel her presence; more rarely now, I am sorry to say, as I +grow older.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can hardly explain what I mean, but sometimes—it may be at +night, or when I am sitting alone in the daytime—a great calm comes upon +me, and I am a changed woman. All my thoughts rise into a higher, purer air, +and are, as it were, tinged with a reflected light; everything earthly seems to +pass away from me, and I feel as though fetters had fallen from my soul, and I +<i>know</i> that I am near my mother. Then everything passes, and I am left +myself again.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what are the thoughts you have at these times?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I wish I could tell you; they pass away with her who brought them, +leaving nothing but a vague after-glow in my mind like that in the sky after +the sun has set. But now look at the view; is it not beautiful in the sunlight? +All the world seems to be rejoicing.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela was right; the view was charming. Below lay the thatched roofs of the +little village of Bratham, and to the right the waters of the lake shone like +silver in the glancing sunlight, whilst the gables of the old house, peeping +out from amongst the budding foliage, looked very picturesque. The spring had +cast her green garment over the land; from every copse rang out the melody of +birds, and the gentle breeze was heavy with the scent of the unnumbered violets +that starred the mossy carpet at their feet. In the fields where grew the wheat +and clover, now springing into lusty life, the busy weeders were at work, and +on the warm brown fallows the sower went forth to sow. From the early pastures +beneath, where purled a little brook, there came a pleasant lowing of kine, +well-contented with the new grass, and a cheerful bleating of lambs, to whom as +yet life was nothing but one long skip. It was a charming scene, and its +influence sank deep into the gazers’ hearts. +</p> + +<p> +“It is depressing to think,” said Arthur, rather sententiously, but +really chiefly with the object of getting at his companion’s views, +“that all this cannot last, but is, as it were, like ourselves, under +sentence of death.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“It rose and fell and fleeted<br/> +Upon earth’s troubled sea,<br/> +A wave that swells to vanish<br/> +Into eternity.<br/> +Oh! mystery and wonder<br/> +Of wings that cannot fly,<br/> +Of ears that cannot hearken, Of life that lives—to di<br/> e!” +</p> + +<p> +quoth Angela, by way of comment. +</p> + +<p> +“Whose lines are those?” asked Arthur. “I don’t know +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“My own,” she said, shyly; “that is, they are a translation +of a verse of a Greek ode I wrote for Mr. Fraser. I will say you the original, +if you like; I think it better than the translation, and I believe that it is +fair Greek.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, thank you, Miss Blue-stocking; I am quite satisfied with your +English version. You positively alarm me, Angela. Most people are quite content +if they can put a poem written in English into Greek; you reverse the process, +and, having coolly given expression to your thoughts in Greek, condescend to +translate them into your native tongue. I only wish you had been at Cambridge, +or—what do they call the place?—Girton. It would have been a joke +to see you come out double-first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she broke in, blushing, “you are like Mr. Fraser, you +overrate my acquirements. I am sorry to say I am not the perfect scholar you +think me, and about most things I am shockingly ignorant. I should indeed be +silly if, after ten years’ patient work under such a scholar as Mr. +Fraser, I did not know some classics and mathematics. Why, do you know, for the +last three years that we worked together, we used as a rule to carry on our +ordinary conversations during work in Latin and Greek, month and month about, +sometimes with the funniest results. One never knows how little one does know +of a dead language till one tries to talk it. Just try to speak in Latin for +the next five minutes, and you will see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, I am not going to expose my ignorance for your amusement, +Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, “it is you who wish to amuse yourself at my +expense by trying to make me believe that I am a great scholar. But what I was +going to say, before you attacked me about my fancied acquirements, was that, +in my opinion, your remark about the whole world being under sentence of death, +was rather a morbid one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? It is obviously true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, in a sense; but to my mind this scene speaks more of resurrection +than of death. Look at the earth pushing up her flowers, and the dead trees +breaking into beauty. There is no sign of death there, but rather of a renewed +and glorified life.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but there is still the awful <i>fact</i> of death to face; Nature +herself has been temporarily dead before she blooms into beauty; she dies every +autumn, to rise again in the same form every spring. But how do we know in what +form <i>we</i> shall emerge from the chrysalis? As soon as a man begins to +think at all, he stands face to face with this hideous problem, to the solution +of which he knows himself to be drawing daily nearer. His position, I often +think, is worse than that of a criminal under sentence, because the criminal is +only being deprived of the employment of a term, indefinite, indeed, but +absolutely limited; but man at large does not know of what he is deprived, and +what he must inherit in the aeons that await him. It is the uncertainty of +death that is its most dreadful part, and, with that hanging over our race, the +wonder to me is not only that we, for the most part, put the subject entirely +out of mind, but that we can ever think seriously of anything else.” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember,” answered Angela, “once thinking very much in +the same way, and I went to Mr. Fraser for advice. ‘The Bible,’ he +said, ‘will satisfy your doubts and fears, if only you will read it in a +right spirit.’ And indeed, more or less, it did. I cannot, of course, +venture to advise you, but I pass his advice on; it is that of a very good +man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you, then, no dread of death, or, rather, of what lies beyond +it?” +</p> + +<p> +She turned her eyes upon him with something of wonder in them. +</p> + +<p> +“And why,” she said, “should I, who am immortal, fear a +change that I know has no power to harm me, that can, on the contrary, only +bring me nearer to the purpose of my being? Certainly I shrink from death +itself, as we all must, but of the dangers beyond I have no fear. Pleasant as +this world is at times, there is something in us all that strives to rise above +it, and, if I knew that I must die within this hour, I <i>believe</i> that I +could meet my fate without a qualm. I am sure that when our trembling hands +have drawn the veil from Death, we shall find His features, passionless indeed, +but very beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur looked at her with astonishment, wondering what manner of woman this +could be, who, in the first flush of youth and beauty, could face the great +unknown without a tremor. When he spoke again, it was with something of envious +bitterness. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! it is very well for you, whose life has been so pure and free from +evil, but it is different for me, with all my consciousness of sins and +imperfections. For me, and thousands like me, strive as we will, immortality +has terrors as well as hopes. It is, and always will be, human to fear the +future, for human nature never changes. You know the lines in +‘Hamlet.’ It is +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘that the dread of something after death,—<br/> +The undiscovered country from whose bourn<br/> +No traveller returns,—puzzles the will<br/> +And makes us rather bear those ills we have<br/> +Than fly to others that we know not of.<br/> +Thus conscience does make cowards of us all.’ +</p> + +<p> +“They are true, and, while men last, they always will be true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Arthur,” she answered, earnestly, and for the first time +addressing him in conversation by his Christian name, “how limited your +trust must be in the mercy of a Creator, whose mercy is as wide as the ocean, +that you can talk like that! You speak of me, too, as better than +yourself—how am I better? I have my bad thoughts and do bad things as +much as you, and, though they may not be the same, I am sure they are quite as +black as yours, since everybody must be responsible according to their +characters and temptations. I try, however, to trust in God to cover my sins, +and believe that, if I do my best, He will forgive me, that is all. But I have +no business to preach to you, who are older and wiser than I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“If,” he broke in, laying his hand involuntarily upon her own, +“you knew—although I have never spoken of them to any one before, +and could not speak of them to anybody but yourself—how these things +weigh upon my mind, you would not say that, but would try to teach me your +faith.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I teach you, Arthur, when I have so much to learn myself?” +she answered, simply, and from that moment, though she did not know it as yet, +she loved him. +</p> + +<p> +This conversation—a very curious one, Arthur thought to himself +afterwards, for two young people on a spring morning—having come to an +end, nothing more was said for some while, and they took their way down the +hill, varying the route in order to pass through the little hamlet of Bratham. +Under a chestnut-tree that stood upon the village green, Arthur noticed, +<i>not</i> a village blacksmith, but a small crowd, mostly composed of +children, gathered round somebody. On going to see who it was, he discovered a +battered-looking old man with an intellectual face, and the remnants of a +gentlemanlike appearance, playing on the violin. A very few touches of his bow +told Arthur, who knew something of music, that he was in the presence of a +performer of no mean merit. Seeing the quality of his two auditors, and that +they appreciated his performance, the player changed his music, and from a +village jig passed to one of the more difficult opera airs, which he executed +in brilliant fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“Bravo!” cried Arthur, as the last notes thrilled and died away; +“I see you understand how to play the fiddle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, and so I should, for I have played first violin at Her +Majesty’s Opera before now. Name what you like, and I will play it you. +Or, if you like it better, you shall hear the water running in a brook, the +wind passing through the trees, or the waves falling on the beach. Only say the +word.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur thought for a moment. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a beautiful day, let us have a contrast—give us the music of +a storm.” +</p> + +<p> +The old man considered a while. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand, but you set a difficult subject even for me,” and +taking up his bow he made several attempts at beginning. “I can’t +do it,” he said, “set something else.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, try again, that or nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +Again he started, and this time his genius took possession of him. The notes +fell very softly at first, but with an ominous sound, then rose and wailed like +the rising of the wind. Next the music came in gusts, the rain pattered, and +the thunder roared, till at length the tempest seemed to spend its force and +pass slowly away into the distance. +</p> + +<p> +“There, sir, what do you say to that—have I fulfilled your +expectations?” +</p> + +<p> +“Write it down and it will be one of the finest pieces of violin music in +the country.” +</p> + +<p> +“Write it down. The divine ‘afflatus’ is not to be caged, +sir, it comes and goes. I could never write that music down.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur felt in his pocket without answering, and found five shillings. +</p> + +<p> +“If you will accept this?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, sir, very much. I am gladder of five shillings now than I +once was of as many pounds;” and he rose to go. +</p> + +<p> +“A man of your talent should not be wandering about like this.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must earn a living somehow, for all Talleyrand’s witticism to +the contrary,” was the curious answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you no friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, this is my only friend; all the rest have deserted me,” +and he tapped his violin and was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, sir,” said a farmer, who was standing by, “he’s +gone to get drunk; he is the biggest old drunkard in the countryside, and yet +they do say he was gentleman once, and the best fiddler in London; but he +can’t be depended on, so no one will hire him now.” +</p> + +<p> +“How sad,” said Angela, as they moved homewards. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and what music that was; I never heard any with such imagination +before. You have a turn that way, Angela; you should try to put it into words, +it would make a poem.” +</p> + +<p> +“I complain like the old man, that you set a difficult subject,” +she said; “but I will try, if you will promise not to laugh at the +result.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you succeed on paper only half so well as he did on the violin, your +verses will be worth listening to, and I certainly shall not laugh.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> + +<p> +On the following day the somewhat curious religious conversation between Arthur +and Angela—a conversation which, begun on Arthur’s part out of +curiosity, had ended on both sides very much in earnest— the weather +broke up and the grand old English climate reasserted its treacherous +supremacy. From summer weather the inhabitants of the county of Marlshire +suddenly found themselves plunged into a spell of cold that was by contrast +almost Arctic. Storms of sleet drove against the window-panes, and there was +even a very damaging night-frost, while that dreadful scourge, which nobody in +his senses except Kingsley <i>can</i> ever have liked, the east wind, literally +pervaded the whole place, and went whistling through the surrounding trees and +ruins in a way calculated to make even a Laplander shiver. +</p> + +<p> +Under these cheerless circumstances our pair of companions—for as yet +they were, ostensibly at any rate, nothing more—gave up their outdoor +excursions and took to rambling over the disused rooms in the old house, and +hunting up many a record, some of them valuable and curious enough, of +long-forgotten Caresfoots, and even of the old priors before them; a splendidly +illuminated missal being amongst the latter prizes. When this amusement was +exhausted, they sat together over the fire in the nursery, and Angela +translated to him from her favourite classical authors, especially Homer, with +an ease and fluency of expression that, to Arthur, was little short of +miraculous. Or, when they got tired of that, he read to her from standard +writers, which, elaborate as her education had been, in certain respects, she +had scarcely yet even opened, notably Shakespeare and Milton. Needless to say, +herself imbued with a strong poetic feeling, these immortal writers were a +source of intense delight to her. +</p> + +<p> +“How is it that Mr. Fraser never gave you Shakespeare to read?” +asked Arthur one day, as he shut up the volume, having come to the end of +“Hamlet.” +</p> + +<p> +“He said that I should be better able to appreciate it when my mind had +been prepared to do so by the help of a classical and mathematical education, +and that it would be ‘a mistake to cloy my mental palate with sweets +before I had learnt to appreciate their flavours.’” +</p> + +<p> +“There is some sense in that,” remarked Arthur. “By the way, +how are the verses you promised to write me getting on? Have you done them +yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have done something,” she answered, modestly, “but I +really do not think that they are worth producing. It is very tiresome of you +to have remembered about them.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur, however, by this time knew enough of Angela’s abilities to be +sure that her “something” would be something more or less worth +hearing, and mildly insisted on their production, and then, to her confusion, +on her reading them aloud. They ran as follows, and whatever Angela’s +opinion of them may have been, the reader shall judge of them for himself: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +A STORM ON THE STRINGS<br/> +<br/> +“The minstrel sat in his lonely room,<br/> +Its walls were bare, and the twilight grey<br/> +Fell and crept and gathered to gloom;<br/> +It came like the ghost of the dying day,<br/> +And the chords fell hushed and low.<br/> +Pianissimo!<br/> +<br/> +“His arm was raised, and the violin<br/> +Quivered and shook with the strain it bore,<br/> +While the swelling forth of the sounds within<br/> +Rose with a sweetness unknown before,<br/> +And the chords fell soft and low.<br/> +Piano!<br/> +<br/> +“The first cold flap of the tempest’s wings<br/> +Clashed with the silence before the storm,<br/> +The raindrops pattered across the strings<br/> +As the gathering thunder-clouds took form—<br/> +Drip, drop, high and low.<br/> +Staccato!<br/> +<br/> +“Heavily rolling the thunder roared,<br/> +Sudden and jagged the lightning played,<br/> +Faster and faster the raindrops poured,<br/> +Sobbing and surging the tree-crests swayed,<br/> +Cracking and crashing above, below.<br/> +Crescendo!<br/> +<br/> +“The wind tore howling across the wold,<br/> +And tangled his train in the groaning trees,<br/> +Wrapped the dense clouds in his mantle cold,<br/> +Then shivered and died in a wailing breeze,<br/> +Whistling and weeping high and low,<br/> +Sostenuto!<br/> +<br/> +“A pale sun broke from the driving cloud,<br/> +And flashed in the raindrops serenely cool:<br/> +At the touch of his finger the forest bowed,<br/> +As it shimmered and glanced in the ruffled pool,<br/> +While the rustling leaves soughed soft and low.<br/> +Gracioso!<br/> +<br/> +“It was only a dream on the throbbing strings,<br/> +An echo of Nature in phantasy wrought,<br/> +A breath of her breath and a touch of her wings<br/> +From a kingdom outspread in the regions of thought.<br/> +Below rolled the sound of the city’s din,<br/> +And the fading day, as the night drew in,<br/> +Showed the quaint old face and the pointed chin,<br/> +And the arm that was raised o’er the violin,<br/> +As the old man whispered his hope’s dead tale,<br/> +To the friend who could comfort, though others might fail,<br/> +And the chords stole hushed and low.<br/> +Pianissimo!” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, and the sheet of paper fell from his hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, with all the eagerness of a new-born writer, +“tell me, do you think them <i>very</i> bad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Angela, you know——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! go on now; I am ready to be crushed. Pray don’t spare my +feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was about to say that, thanks be to Providence, I am not a critic; but +I think——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! yes, let me hear what you think. You are speaking so slowly, in +order to get time to invent something extra cutting. Well, I deserve it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t interrupt; I was going to say that I think the piece above +the average of second-class poetry, and that a few of the lines touch the +first-class standard. You have caught something of the ‘divine +afflatus’ that the drunken old fellow said he could not cage. But I do +not think that you will ever be popular as a writer of verses if you keep to +that style; I doubt if there is a magazine in the kingdom that would take those +lines unless they were by a known writer. They would return them marked, +‘Good, but too vague for the general public.’ Magazine editors +don’t like lines from ‘a kingdom outspread in the regions of +thought,’ for, as they say, such poems are apt to excite vagueness in the +brains of that dim entity, the ‘general public.’ What they do like +are commonplace ideas, put in pretty language, and sweetened with +sentimentality or emotional religious feelings, such as the thinking powers of +their subscribers are competent to absorb without mental strain, and without +leaving their accustomed channels. To be popular it is necessary to be +commonplace, or at the least to describe the commonplace, to work in a +well-worn groove, and not to startle—requirements which, unfortunately, +simple as they seem, very few persons possess the art of acting up to. See what +happens to the unfortunate novelist, for instance, who dares to break the +unwritten law, and defraud his readers of the orthodox transformation scene of +the reward of virtue and the discomfiture of vice; or to make his creation +finish up in a way that, however well it may be suited to its tenor, or +illustrate its more subtle meaning, is contrary to the ‘general +reader’s’ idea as to how it should end—badly, as it is +called. He simply collapses, to rise no more, if he is new at the trade, and, +if he is a known man, that book won’t sell.” +</p> + +<p> +“You talk quite feelingly,” said Angela, who was getting rather +bored, and wanted, not unnaturally, to hear more about her own lines. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” replied Arthur, grimly; “I do. Once I was fool enough +to write a book, but I must tell you that it is a painful subject with me. It +never came out. Nobody would have it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Arthur, I am so sorry; I should like to read your book. But, as +regards the verses, I am glad that you like them, and I really don’t care +what a hypothetical general public would say; I wrote them to please you, not +the general public.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear, I am sure I am much obliged to you; I shall value them +doubly, once for the giver’s sake, and once for their own.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela blushed, but did not reprove the term of endearment which had slipped +unawares from his lips. Poetry is a dangerous subject between two young people +who at heart adore one another; it is apt to excite the brain, and bring about +startling revelations. +</p> + +<p> +The following day the reading of Angela’s piece of poetry was rendered +remarkable by two events, of which the first was that the weather suddenly +turned a somersault, and became beautifully warm; and the second that news +reached the Abbey House that, thanks chiefly to Lady Bellamy’s devoted +nursing—who, fearless of infection, had, to the great admiration of all +her neighbours, volunteered her services when no nurse could be found to +undertake the case—George was pronounced out of danger. This piece of +news was peculiarly grateful to Philip, for, had his cousin died, the estates +must have passed away for ever under the terms of his uncle’s will, for +he knew that George had made none. Angela, too, tried, like a good girl as she +was, to lash herself into enthusiasm about it, though in her heart she went as +near hating her cousin, since his attempted indignity towards herself, as her +gentle nature would allow. Arthur alone was cynically indifferent; he hated +George without any reservation whatsoever. +</p> + +<p> +And after this there came for our pair of embryo lovers some ten or twelve such +happy days (for there was no talk of Arthur’s departure, Philip having on +several occasions pointedly told him that the house was at his disposal for as +long as he chose to remain in it). The sky was blue in those days, or only +flecked with summer clouds, just as Arthur and Angela’s perfect +companionship was flecked and shaded with the deeper hues of dawning passion. +Alas, the sky in this terrestrial clime is never <i>quite</i> blue! +</p> + +<p> +But as yet nothing of love had passed between them, no kiss or word of +endearment; only when hand touched hand a strange thrill had moved them both, +and sent the warm blood to stain Angela’s clear brow, like a wavering +tint of sunlight thrown upon the marble features of some white Venus; only in +each other’s eyes they found a holy mystery. The spell was not yet fully +at work, but the wand of earth’s great enchanter had touched them, and +they were changed. Angela is hardly the same girl she was when we met her a +little more than a fortnight back. A nameless change has come over her face and +manner; the merry smile, once so bright, has grown softer and more sweet, and +the laughing light of her grey eyes has given place to a look of some such +gratitude and wonder, as that with which the traveller in lonely deserts gazes +on the oasis of his perfect rest. +</p> + +<p> +Many times Arthur had almost blurted out the truth to the woman he passionately +adored, and every day so added to the suppressed fire of his love that at +length he felt that he could not keep his secret to himself much longer. And +yet he feared to tell it; better, he thought, to live happy, if in doubt, than +to risk all his fortune on a single throw, for before his eyes there lay the +black dread of failure; and then, what would life be worth? Here with Angela he +lived in a Garden of Eden that no forebodings, no anxieties, no fear of that +partially scotched serpent George, could render wretched, so long as it was +gladdened by the presence of her whom he hoped to make his Eve. But without, +and around where she could not be, there was nothing but clods and thistles and +a black desolation that, even in imagination, he dared not face. +</p> + +<p> +And Angela, gazing on veiled mysteries with wondering eyes, was she happy +during those spring-tide days? Almost; but still there was in her heart a +consciousness of effort, a sense of transformation and knowledge of the growth +of hidden things. The bud bursting into the glory of the rose, must, if there +be feeling in a rose, undergo some such effort before it can make its beauty +known; the butterfly but newly freed from the dull husk that hid its +splendours, at first must feel the imperfect wings it stretches in the sun to +be irksome to its unaccustomed sense. And so it was with Angela; she spread her +half- grown wings in the sun of her new existence, and found them strange, not +knowing as yet that they were shaped to bear her to the flower- crowned heights +of love. +</p> + +<p> +Hers was one of those rare natures in which the passion that we know by the +generic term of love, approached as near perfection as is possible in our human +hearts. For there are many sorts and divisions of love, ranging from the +affection, pure, steady, and divine, that is showered upon us from above, to +the degrading madness of such a one as George Caresfoot. It is surely one of +the saddest evidences of our poor humanity that, even among the purest of us, +there are none who can altogether rid the whiteness of the love they have to +offer of its earthly stain. Indeed, if we could so far conquer the promptings +of our nature as to love with perfect purity, we should become like angels. +But, just as white flowers are sometimes to be found on the blackest peak, so +there do bloom in the world spirits as pure as they are rare—so free from +evil, so closely shadowed by the Almighty wing, that they can almost reach to +this perfection. Then the love they have to give is too refined, too holy and +strong, to be understood of the mass of men: often it is squandered on some +unequal and unanswering nature; sometimes it is wisely offered up to Him from +whom it came. +</p> + +<p> +We gaze upon an ice-bound river, and there is nothing to tell us that beneath +that white cloak its current rushes to the ocean. But presently the spring +comes, the prisoned waters burst their fetters, and we see a glad torrent +sparkling in the sunlight. And so it was with our heroine’s heart; the +breath of Arthur’s passion and the light of Arthur’s eyes had beat +upon it, and almost freed the river of its love. Already the listener might +hear the ice-sheets crack and start; soon they will be gone, and her deep +devotion will set as strong towards him as the tide of the torrent towards its +receiving sea. +</p> + +<p> +“Fine writing!” perhaps the reader will say; but surely none too +fine to describe the most beautiful thing in this strange world, the +irrevocable gift of a good woman’s love! +</p> + +<p> +However that may be, it will have served its purpose if it makes it clear that +a crisis is at hand in the affairs of the heart of two of the central actors on +this mimic stage. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> + +<p> +One Saturday morning, when May was three-parts gone, Philip announced his +intention of going up to London till the Monday on business. He was a man who +had long since become callous to appearances, and though Arthur, fearful lest +spiteful things should be said of Angela, almost hinted that it would look odd, +his host merely laughed, and said that he had little doubt but that his +daughter was quite able to look after herself, even when such a fascinating +young gentleman as himself was concerned. As a matter of fact, his object was +to get rid of Angela by marrying her to this young Heigham, who had so +opportunely tumbled down from the skies, and whom he rather liked than +otherwise. This being the case, he rightly concluded that, the more the two +were left together, the greater probability there was of his object being +attained. Accordingly he left them together as much as possible. +</p> + +<p> +It was on the evening of this Saturday that Arthur gathered up his courage and +asked Angela to come and walk through the ruins with him. Angela hesitated a +little; the shadow of something about to happen had fallen on her mind; but the +extraordinary beauty of the evening, to say nothing of the prospect of his +company, turned the scale in Arthur’s favour. +</p> + +<p> +It was one of those nights of which, if we are lucky, we get some five or six +in the course of an English summer. The moon was at her full, and, the twilight +ended, she filled the heavens with her light. Every twig and blade of grass +showed out as clearly as in the day, but looked like frosted silver. The +silence was intense, and so still was the air that the sharp shadows of the +trees were motionless upon the grass, only growing with the growing hours. It +was one of those nights that fill us with an indescribable emotion, bringing us +into closer companionship with the unseen than ever does the garish, busy day. +In such an hour, we can sometimes feel, or think that we can feel, other +presences around us, and involuntarily we listen for the whisper of the wings +and the half-forgotten voices of our beloved. +</p> + +<p> +On this particular evening some such feeling was stirring in Angela’s +heart as with slow steps she led the way into the little village churchyard, a +similar spot to that which is to be found in many a country parish, except +that, the population being very small, there were but few recent graves. Most +of the mounds had no head-stones to recall the names of the neglected dead, but +here and there were dotted discoloured slabs, some sunk a foot or two into the +soil, a few lying prone upon it, and the remainder thrown by the gradual +subsidence of their supports into every variety of angle, as though they had +been suddenly halted in the maddest whirl of a grotesque dance of death. +</p> + +<p> +Picking her way through these, Angela stopped under an ancient yew, and, +pointing to one of the two shadowed mounds to which the moonlight scarcely +struggled, said, in a low voice, +</p> + +<p> +“That is my mother’s grave.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a modest tenement enough, a little heap of close green turf, surrounded +by a railing, and planted with sweet-williams and forget- me-nots. At its head +was placed a white marble cross, on which Arthur could just distinguish the +words “Hilda Caresfoot,” and the date of death. +</p> + +<p> +He was about to speak, but she stopped him with a gentle movement, and then, +stepping forward to the head of the railing, she buried her face in her hands, +and remained motionless. Arthur watched her with curiosity. What, he wondered, +was passing in the mind of this strange and beautiful woman, who had grown up +so sweet and pure amidst moral desolation, like a white lily blooming alone on +the black African plains in winter? Suddenly she raised her head, and saw the +inquiring look he bent upon her. She came towards him, and, in that sweet, +half- pleading voice which was one of her greatest charms, she said, +</p> + +<p> +“I fear you think me very foolish?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I think you foolish?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I have come here at night to stand before a half-forgotten +grave.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think you foolish, indeed. I was only wondering what was +passing in your mind.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela hung her head and made no answer, and the clock above them boomed out +the hour, raising its sullen note in insolent defiance of the silence. What is +it that is so solemn about the striking of the belfry-clock when one stands in +a churchyard at night? Is it that the hour softens our natures, and makes them +more amenable to semi- superstitious influences? Or is it that the thousand +evidences of departed mortality which surround us, appealing with dumb force to +natural fears, throw open for a space the gates of our world-sealed +imagination, to tenant its vast halls with prophetic echoes of our end? Perhaps +it is useless to inquire. The result remains the same: few of us can hear those +tones at night without a qualm, and, did we put our thoughts into words, they +would run something thus: +</p> + +<p> +“That sound once broke upon the living ears of those who sleep around us. +We hear it now. In a little while, hour after hour, it will echo against the +tombstones of <i>our</i> graves, and new generations, coming out of the silent +future, will stand where we stand, and hearken; and muse, as we mused, over the +old problems that we have gone to solve; whilst we—shall we not be deaf +to hear and dumb to utter?” +</p> + +<p> +Such, at any rate, were the unspoken thoughts that crept into the hearts of +Arthur and Angela as the full sound from the belfry thinned itself away into +silence. She grew a little pale, and glanced at him, and he gave an involuntary +shiver, while even the dog Aleck sniffed and whined uncomfortably. +</p> + +<p> +“It feels cold,” he said. “Shall we go?” +</p> + +<p> +They turned and walked towards the gate, and, by the time they reached it, all +superstitious thoughts had vanished—at any rate, from Arthur’s +mind, for he recollected that he had set himself a task to do, and that now +would be the time to do it. Absorbed in this reflection, he forgot his +politeness, and passed first through the turnstile. On the further side he +paused, and looked earnestly into his beloved’s face. Their eyes met, and +there was that in his that caused her to swiftly drop her own. A silence ensued +as they stood by the gate. He broke it. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lovely night. Let us walk through the ruins.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall wet my feet: the dew must be falling.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no dew falling to-night. Won’t you come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go to-morrow; it is later than I generally go in. Pigott will +wonder what has become of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind Pigott. The night is too fine to waste asleep; besides, you +know, one should always look at ruins by moonlight. Please come.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him doubtfully, hesitated, and came. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you want to see?” she said presently, with as near an +approach to irritation as he had ever heard her indulge in. “That is the +famous window that Mr. Fraser always goes into raptures about.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is beautiful. Shall we sit down here and look at it?” +</p> + +<p> +They sat down on a low mass of fallen masonry some fifteen paces from the +window. Around them lay a delicate tracery of shadows, whilst they themselves +were seated in the eye of the moonlight, and remained for a while as silent and +as still as though they had been the shades of the painted figures that had +once filled the stony frame above them. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” he said at length—“Angela, listen, and I will +tell you something. My mother, a woman to whom sorrow had become almost an +inspiration, when she was dying, spoke to me something thus: ‘There +is,’ she said, ‘but one thing that I know of that has the power to +make life happy as God meant it to be, and as the folly and weakness of men and +women render it nearly impossible for it to be, and that is —love. Love +has been the consolation of my own existence in the midst of many troubles; +first, the great devotion I bore your father, and then that which I entertain +for yourself. Without these two ties, life would indeed have been a desert. And +yet, though it is a grief to me to leave you, and though I shrink from the dark +passage that lies before me, so far does that first great love outweigh the +love I bear you, that in my calmer moments I am glad to go, because I know I am +awaited by your father. And from this I wish you to learn a lesson: look for +your happiness in life from the love of your life, for there only will you find +it. Do not fritter away your heart, but seek out some woman, some one good and +pure and true, and in giving her your devotion, you will reap a full reward, +for her happiness will reflect your own, and, if your choice is right, you +will, however stormy your life may be, lay up for yourself, as I feel that I +have done, an everlasting joy.’” +</p> + +<p> +She listened to him in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” he went on, boldly enough, now that the ice was broken, +“I have often thought about what my mother said, but until now I have +never <i>quite</i> understood her meaning. I do understand it now. Angela, do +<i>you</i> understand me?” +</p> + +<p> +There was no answer; she sat there upon the fallen masonry, gazing at the ruins +round her, motionless and white as a marble goddess, forgotten in her +desecrated fane. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Angela, listen to me—listen to me! I have found the woman of +whom my mother spoke, who must be so ‘good and pure and true.’ You +are she. I love you, Angela, I love you with my whole life and soul; I love you +for this world and the next. Oh! do not reject me; though I am so little worthy +of you, I will try to grow so. Dearest, can you love me?” +</p> + +<p> +Still there was silence, but he thought that he saw her breast heave gently. +Then he placed his hand, all trembling with the fierce emotion that throbbed +along his veins, upon the palm that hung listless by her side, and gazed into +her eyes. Still she neither spoke nor shrank, and, in the imperfect light, her +face looked very pale, while her lovely eyes were dark and meaningless as those +of one entranced. +</p> + +<p> +Then slowly he gathered up his courage for an effort, and, raising his face to +the level of her own, he kissed her full upon her lips. She stirred, she +sighed. He had broken the spell; the sweet face that had withdrawn itself drew +nearer to him; for a second the awakened eyes looked into his own, and filled +them with reflected splendour, and then he became aware of a warm arm thrown +about his neck, and next— the stars grew dim, and sense and life itself +seemed to shake upon their thrones, for a joy almost too great for mortal man +to bear took possession of his heart as she laid her willing lips upon his own. +And then, before he knew her purpose, she slid down upon her knees beside him, +and placed her head upon his breast. +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest,” he said, “don’t kneel so; look at me.” +</p> + +<p> +Slowly she raised her face, wreathed and lovely with many blushes, and looked +upon him with tearful eyes. He tried to raise her. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me be,” she said, speaking very low. “I am best so; it +is the attitude of adoration, and I have found—my divinity.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I cannot bear to see you kneel to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Arthur, you do not understand; a minute since <i>I</i> did not +understand that a woman is very humble when she really loves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you—really love me, Angela?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you known that long?” +</p> + +<p> +“I only <i>knew</i> it when—when you kissed me. Before then there +was something in my heart, but I did not know what it was. Listen, dear,” +she went on, “for one minute to me first, and I will get up” (for +he was again attempting to raise her). “What I have to say is best said +upon my knees, for I want to thank God who sent you to me, and to thank you too +for your goodness. It is so wonderful that you should love a simple girl like +me, and I am so thankful to you. Oh! I have never lived till now, and” +(rising to her full stature) “I feel as though I had been crowned a queen +of happy things. Dethrone me, desert me, and I will still be grateful to you +for this hour of imperial happiness. But if you, after a while, when you know +all my faults and imperfections better, can still care for me, I know that +there is something in me that will enable me to repay you for what you have +given me, by making your whole life happy. Dear, I do not know if I speak as +other women do, but, believe me, it is out of the fulness of my heart. Take +care, Arthur, oh! take care, lest your fate should be that of the magician you +spoke of the other day, who evoked the spirit, and then fell down before it in +terror. You have also called up a spirit, and I pray that it was not done in +sport, lest it should trouble you hereafter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Angela, do not speak so to me; it is I who should have knelt to you. +Yes, you were right when you called yourself ‘a queen of happy +things.’ You are a queen——” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! Don’t overrate me; your disillusion will be the more +painful. Come, Arthur, let us go home.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose and went with her, in a dream of joy that for a moment precluded +speech. At the door she bade him good-night, and, oh! happiness, gave him her +lips to kiss. Then they parted, their hearts too full for words. One thing he +asked her, however. +</p> + +<p> +“What was it that took you to your mother’s grave to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him with a curiously mixed expression of shy love and conviction +on her face, and answered, +</p> + +<p> +“Her spirit, who led me to your heart.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> + +<p> +George’s recovery, when the doctors had given up all hope, was +sufficiently marvellous to suggest the idea that a certain power had +determined—on the hangman’s principle, perhaps—to give him +the longest of ropes; but it could in reality be traced to a more terrestrial +influence—namely, Lady Bellamy’s nursing. Had it not been for this +nursing, it is very certain that her patient would have joined his forefathers +in the Bratham churchyard. For whole days and nights she watched and tended +him, scarcely closing her own eyes, and quite heedless of the danger of +infection; till in the end she conquered the fever, and snatched him from the +jaws of the grave. How often has not a woman’s devotion been successful +in such a struggle! +</p> + +<p> +On the Monday following the events narrated in the last chapter, George, now in +an advanced stage of convalescence, though forbidden to go abroad for another +fortnight, was sitting downstairs enjoying the warm sunshine, and the sensation +of returning life and vigour that was creeping into his veins, when Lady +Bellamy came into the room, bringing with her some medicine. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is your tonic, George; it is the last dose that I can give you, as +I am going back to my disconsolate husband at luncheon-time.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t have you go away yet; I am not well enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must go, George; people will begin to talk if I stop here any +longer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you must, I suppose you must,” he answered, sulkily. +“But I must say I think that you show a great want of consideration for +my comfort. Who is to look after me, I should like to know? I am far from well +yet—far from well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Believe me,” she said, softly, “I am very sorry to leave +you, and am glad to have been of help to you, though you have never thought +much about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I am sure I am much obliged, but it is not likely that you would +leave me to rot of fever without coming to look after me.” +</p> + +<p> +She sighed as she answered, +</p> + +<p> +“You would not do as much for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, bother, Anne, don’t get sentimental. Before you go, I must +speak to you about that girl Angela. Have you taken any steps?” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy started. +</p> + +<p> +“What, are you still bent upon that project?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I am. It seemed to me that all my illness was one long dream +of her. I am more bent upon it than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you still insist upon my playing the part you had marked out for +me? Do you know, George, that there were times in your illness when, if I had +relaxed my care for a single five minutes, it would have turned the scale +against you, and that once I did not close my eyes for five nights? Look at me, +how thin and worn I am: it is from nursing you. I have saved your life. Surely +you will not now force me to do this unnatural thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“If, my dear Anne, you had saved my life fifty times, I would still force +you to do it. Ah! it is no use your looking at that safe. I have no doubt that +you got my keys and searched it whilst I was ill, but I was too sharp for you. +I had the letters moved when I heard that you were coming to nurse me. They are +back there now, though. How disappointed you must have been!” And he +chuckled. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have done better to let you die, monster of wickedness and +ingratitude that you are!” she said, stamping her foot upon the floor, +and the tears of vexation standing in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“The letters, my dear Anne; remember that you have got to earn your +letters. I am very much obliged to you for your nursing, but business is +business.” +</p> + +<p> +She was silent for a moment, and then spoke in her ordinary tone. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, talking of letters, there was one came for you this morning +in your cousin Philip’s handwriting, and with a London postmark. Will you +read it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Read it—yes; anything from the father of my inamorata will be +welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +She fetched the letter and gave it him. He read it aloud. After a page of +congratulations on his convalescence, it ended, +</p> + +<p> +“And now I want to make a proposal to you—viz., to buy back the +Isleworth lands from you. I know that the place is distasteful to you, and will +probably be doubly so after your severe illness; but, if you care to keep the +house and grounds, I am not particularly anxious to acquire them. I am prepared +to offer a good price,” &c. &c. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see him hanged first,” was George’s comment. +“How did he get the money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Saved it and made it, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, at any rate, he shall not buy me out with it. No, no, Master +Philip; I am not fond enough of you to do you that turn.” +</p> + +<p> +“It does not strike you,” she said, coldly, “that you hold in +your hands a lever that may roll all your difficulties about this girl out of +the way.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, you are right, Anne. Trust a woman’s brain. But I +don’t want to sell the estates unless I am forced to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you rather part with the land, or give up your project of marrying +Angela Caresfoot?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because you will have to choose between the two.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I had rather sell.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had better give it up, George. I am not superstitious, but I have +knowledge in things that you do not understand, and I foresee nothing but +disaster in this plan.” +</p> + +<p> +“Once and for all, Anne, I will not give it up whilst I have any breath +left in my body, and I take my oath that unless you help me, and help me +honestly, I will expose you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I am your very humble servant; you may count on me. The galley- +slave pulls well when the lash hangs over his shoulders,” and she laughed +coldly. +</p> + +<p> +Just then a servant announced that Mr. Caresfoot was at the door, and anxious +to speak to his cousin. He was ordered to show him into the drawing-room. As +soon as he had gone on his errand, George said, +</p> + +<p> +“I will not see him; say I am too unwell. But do you go, and see that you +make the most of your chance.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy nodded, and left the room. She found Philip in the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! how do you do, Mr. Caresfoot? I come from your cousin to say that he +cannot see you to-day; he has scarcely recovered sufficiently from the illness +through which I have been nursing him; but of course you know all about +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! yes, Lady Bellamy, I have heard all about it, including your own +brave behaviour, to which, the doctor tells me, George owes his life. I am +sorry that he cannot see me, though. I have just come down from town, and +called in on my way from Roxham. I had some rather important business that I +wanted to speak about.” +</p> + +<p> +“About your offer to repurchase the Isleworth lands?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you know of the affair. Yes, that was it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I am commissioned to give you a reply.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip listened anxiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Your cousin absolutely refuses to sell any part of the lands.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will nothing change his determination? I am ready to give a good price, +and pay a separate valuation for the timber.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing; he does not intend to sell.” +</p> + +<p> +A deep depression spread itself over her hearer’s face. +</p> + +<p> +“Then there go the hopes of twenty years,” he said. “For +twenty long years, ever since my misfortune, I have toiled and schemed to get +these lands back, and now it is all for nothing. Well, there is nothing more to +be said,” and he turned to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop a minute, Mr. Caresfoot. Do you know, you interest me very +much.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am proud to interest so charming a lady,” he answered, a touch +of depressed gallantry. +</p> + +<p> +“That is as it should be; but you interest me because you are an instance +of the truth of the saying that every man has some ruling passion, if only one +could discover it. Why do you want these particular lands? Your money will buy +others just as good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why does a Swiss get home-sick? Why does a man defrauded of his own wish +to recover it?” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy mused a little. +</p> + +<p> +“What would you say if I showed you an easy way to get them?” +</p> + +<p> +Philip turned sharply round with a new look of hope upon his face. +</p> + +<p> +“You would earn my eternal gratitude—a gratitude that I should be +glad to put into a practical shape.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! you must speak to Sir John about that. Now listen; I am going to +surprise you. Your cousin wants to get married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Get married! George wants to get married!” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly so; and now I have a further surprise in store for you—he +wants to marry your daughter Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +This time Philip said nothing, but he started in evident and uncomfortable +astonishment. If Lady Bellamy wished to surprise him, she had certainly +succeeded. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely you are joking!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I never was further from joking in my life; he is desperately in love +with her, and wild to marry her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, don’t you now see a way to force your cousin to sell the +lands?” +</p> + +<p> +“At the price of Angela’s hand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip walked up and down the room in thought. Though, as the reader may +remember, he had himself, but a month before, been base enough to suggest that +his daughter should use her eyes to forward his projects, he had never, in +justice to him be it said, dreamt of forcing her into a marriage in every way +little less than unnatural. His idea of responsibility towards his daughter +was, as regards sins of omission, extremely lax, but there were some of +commission that he did not care to face. Certain fears and memories oppressed +him too much to allow of it. +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Bellamy,” he said, presently, “you have known my cousin +George intimately for many years, and are probably sufficiently acquainted with +his habits of life to know that such a marriage would be an infamy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Many a man who has been wild in his youth makes a good husband,” +she answered, quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“The more I think of it,” went on Philip, excitedly, after the +fashion of one who would lash himself into a passion, “the more I see the +utter impossibility of any such thing, and I must say that I wonder at your +having undertaken such an errand. On the one hand, there is a young girl who, +though I do not, from force of circumstances, see much of myself, is, I +believe, as good as she is handsome——” +</p> + +<p> +“And on the other,” broke in Lady Bellamy, ironically, “are +the Isleworth estates.” +</p> + +<p> +“And on the other,” went on Philip, without paying heed to her +remark —“I am going to speak plainly, Lady Bellamy—is a man +utterly devoid of the foundations of moral character, whose appearance is +certainly against him, who I have got reason to know is not to be trusted, and +who is old enough to be her father, and her cousin to boot—and you ask me +to forward such a marriage as this! I will have nothing to do with it; my +responsibilities as a father forbid it. It would be the wickedest thing I have +ever done to put the girl into the power of such a man.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy burst into a low peal of laughter; she never laughed aloud. She +thought that it was now time to throw him a little off his balance. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me,” she said, with her sweetest smile, “but you +must admit that there is something rather ludicrous in hearing the hero of the +great Maria Lee scandal talking about moral character, and the father who +detests his daughter so much that he fears to look her in the face, and whose +sole object is to rid himself of an encumbrance, prating of his paternal +responsibilities.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip started visibly at her words. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Mr. Caresfoot,” she went on, “I surprise you by my +knowledge, but we women are sad spies, and it is my little amusement to find +out other people’s secrets, a very useful little amusement. I could tell +you many things——” +</p> + +<p> +“I was about to say,” broke in Philip, who had naturally no desire +to see more of the secrets of his life unveiled by Lady Bellamy, “that, +even if I did wish to get rid of Angela, I should have little difficulty in +doing so, as young Heigham, who has been stopping at the Abbey House for a +fortnight or so, is head over ears in love with her; indeed, I should think it +highly probable that they are at this moment engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +It was Lady Bellamy’s turn to start now. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she said, “I did not know that; that complicates +matters.” And then, with a sudden change of tone—“Mr. +Caresfoot, as a friend, let me beg of you not to throw away such a chance in a +hurry for the sake of a few nonsensical ideas abut a girl. What is she, after +all, that she should stand in the way of such grave interests as you have in +hand? I tell you that he is perfectly mad about her. You can make your own +terms and fix your own price.” +</p> + +<p> +“Price! ay, that is what it would be—a price for her body and +soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, and what of it? The thing is done every day, only one does not +talk of it in that way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who taught you, who were once a young girl yourself, to plead such a +cause as this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, it is a very good cause—a cause that will benefit +everybody, especially your daughter. George will get what he wants; you, with +the recovery of the estates, will also recover your lost position and +reputation, both to a great extent an affair of landed property. Mr. Heigham +will gain a little experience, whilst she will bloom into a great lady, and, +like any other girl in the same circumstances, learn to adore her husband in a +few months.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what will <i>you</i> get, Lady Bellamy?” +</p> + +<p> +“I!” she replied, with a gay laugh. “Oh! you know, virtue is +its own reward. I shall be quite satisfied in seeing everybody else made happy. +Come, I do not want to press you about the matter at present. Think it over at +your leisure. I only beg you not to give a decided answer to young Heigham, +should he ask you for Angela, till I have seen you again—say, in a +week’s time. Then, if you don’t like it, you can leave it alone, +and nobody will be a penny the worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“As you like; but I tell you that I can never consent;” and Philip +took his leave. +</p> + +<p> +“Your cousin entirely refuses his consent, and Angela is by this time +probably engaged to your ex-ward, Arthur Heigham,” was Lady +Bellamy’s not very promising report to the interesting invalid in the +dining- room. +</p> + +<p> +After relieving his feelings at this intelligence in language more forcible +than polite, George remarked that, under these circumstances, matters looked +very bad. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all; they look very well. I shall see your cousin again in a +week’s time, when I shall have a different tale to tell.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why wait a week with that young blackguard making the running on the +spot?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I have put poison into Philip’s mind, and the surest +poison always works slow. Besides, the mischief has been done. Good-by. I will +come and see you in a day or two, when I have made my plans. You see I mean to +earn my letters.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> + +<p> +With what degree of soundness our pair of lovers slumbered on that memorable +Saturday night, let those who have been so fortunate or unfortunate as to have +been placed in analogous circumstances, form their own opinion. +</p> + +<p> +It is, however, certain that Arthur gazed upon the moon and sundry of the +larger planets for some hours, until they unkindly set, and left him, for his +candle had burnt out, to find his way to bed in the dark. With his reflections +we will not trouble ourselves; or, rather, we will not intrude upon their +privacy. But there was another person in the house who sat at an open window +and looked upon the heavens— Angela to wit. Let us avail ourselves of our +rightful privilege, and look into her thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur’s love had come upon her as a surprise, but it had found a perfect +home. All the days and hours that she had spent in his company, had, unknown to +herself, been mysteriously employed in preparing a habitation to receive it. We +all know the beautiful Bible story of the Creation, how first there was an +empty void, and the Spirit brooding on the waters, then light, and then life, +and last, man coming to turn all things to his uses. Surely that story, which +is the type and symbol of many things, is of none more so than of the growth +and birth of a perfected love in the human heart. +</p> + +<p> +The soil is made ready in the dead winter, and receives the seed into its +bosom. Then comes the spring, and it is clothed with verdure. Space is void +till the sun shoots its sudden rays athwart it, and makes it splendid; the +heart is cold and unwitting of its ends, till the spirit broods upon it, as +upon the waters, and it grows quick with the purposes of life. And then what a +change is there! What has the flower in common with the seed from whence it +sprang, or the noonday sky with the darkness before the dawn? +</p> + +<p> +Thinking in her chamber, with the night air playing on her hot brow, and her +hand pressed upon her heart, as though to still the tumult of its joy, Angela +grew vaguely conscious of these things. +</p> + +<p> +“Was she the same in heart and mind that she had been a month ago? No, a +thousand times, no. Then what was this mysterious change that seemed to shake +her inmost life to its foundations? What angel had troubled the waters into +which she had so newly plunged? And whence came the healing virtue that she +found in them, bringing rest after the vague trouble of the last two weeks, +with sight to see the only good—her love, with speed to follow, and +strength to hold? Oh, happy, happy world! oh, merciful Creator, who gave her to +drink of such a living spring! oh, Arthur, beloved Arthur!” +</p> + +<p> +On Sunday mornings it was Pigott’s habit to relax the Draconian severity +of her laws in the matter of breakfast, which, generally speaking, was not till +about half-past eight o’clock. At that hour precisely, on the Sabbath in +question, she appeared as usual—no, not as usual, for, it being Sunday, +she had on her stiff, black gown—and, with all due solemnity, made the +tea. +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes elapsed, and Angela entered, dressed in white, and very lovely in +her simple, tight-fitting robe, but a trifle pale, and with a shy look upon her +face. +</p> + +<p> +She greeted her nurse with a kiss. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what is the matter with you, dearie?” ejaculated Pigott, +whose watchful eye detected a change she could not define; “you look +different somehow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! I will tell you by-and-by.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Arthur’s quick step was heard advancing down the passage, +together with a pattering noise that announced the presence of Aleck. And, as +they came, Angela, poor Angela, grew red and redder, and yet more painfully +red, till Pigott, watching her face, was enabled to form a shrewd guess as to +what was the cause of her unaccustomed looks. +</p> + +<p> +On came the steps, and open flew the door, more and more ready to sink into the +earth looked Angela, and so interested grew nurse Pigott, that she actually +poured some hot tea on to her dress, a thing she could never remember having +done before. +</p> + +<p> +The first to enter was Aleck, who, following his custom, sprang upon Angela and +licked her hand, and behind Aleck, looking somewhat confused, but handsome and +happy—for his was one of those faces that become handsome when their +owners are happy—came Aleck’s master. And then there ensued an +infinitesimal but most awkward pause. +</p> + +<p> +On such occasions as the present, namely, the first meeting after an +engagement, there is always—especially when it occurs in the presence of +a third person—a very considerable difficulty in the minds of the parties +to know what demeanour they are to adopt towards one another. Are they to treat +the little affair of the previous evening as a kind of confidential +communication, not to be alluded to except in private conversation, and to drop +into the Mr. and Miss of yesterday? That would certainly be the easiest, but +then it would also be a decided act of mutual retreat. Or are they to rush into +each other’s arms as becomes betrothed lovers? This process is so new +that they feel that it still requires private rehearsal. And, meanwhile, time +presses, and everybody is beginning to stare, and something <i>must</i> be +done. +</p> + +<p> +These were very much the feelings of Arthur and Angela. He hesitated before +her, confused, and she kept her head down over the dog. But presently Aleck, +getting bored, moved on, and, as it would have been inane to continue to stare +at the floor, she had to raise herself as slowly as she might. Soon their eyes +arrived in the same plane, and whether a mutual glance of intelligence was +exchanged, or whether their power of attraction overcame his power of +resistance, it is not easy to determine, but certain it is that, following a +primary natural law, Arthur gravitated towards her, and kissed her on the face. +</p> + +<p> +“My!” exclaimed Pigott, and the milk-jug rolled unheeded on the +floor. +</p> + +<p> +“Hum! I suppose I had better explain,” began he. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you have spilt the milk,” added she. +</p> + +<p> +“That we have become engaged and are——” +</p> + +<p> +“All to pieces, I declare,” broke in Angela, with her head +somewhere near the carpet. +</p> + +<p> +And then they both laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I never, no, not in all my born days! Sir and Miss Angela, all I +have got to say about this extraordinary proceeding”—they glanced +at each other in alarm—“is that I am very glad to hear on it, and I +hope and pray how as you may be happy, and, if you treat my Angela right, +you’ll be just the happiest and luckiest man in the three kingdoms, +including Ireland the Royal Family, and, if you treat her wrong, worse will +come to you; and her poor mother’s last words, as I heard with my own +ears, will come true to you, and serve you right— and there’s all +the milk upon the floor. And God bless you both, my dears, is the prayer of an +old woman.” +</p> + +<p> +And here the worthy soul broke down, and began to cry, nor were Angela’s +eyes free from tears. +</p> + +<p> +After this little episode, breakfast proceeded in something like the usual way. +Church was at 10.30, and, a while before the hour, Arthur and Angela strolled +down to the spot that had already become as holy ground to them, and looked +into each other’s eyes, and said again the same sweet words. Then they +went on, and mingling with the little congregation—that did not number +more than thirty souls—they passed into the cool quiet of the church. +</p> + +<p> +“Lawks!” said a woman, as they went by, “ain’t she just +a beauty. What a pretty wedding they’d make!” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur overheard it, and noted the woman, and afterwards found a pretext to +give her five shillings, because he said it was a lucky omen. +</p> + +<p> +On the communion-table of the pretty little church there was spread the +“fair white cloth” of the rubric. It was the day for the monthly +celebration of the Sacrament, that met the religious requirements of the +village. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you stay to the Sacrament with me?” whispered Angela to her +lover, in the interval between their seating themselves and the entry of the +clergyman, Mr. Fraser’s <i>locum tenens</i>. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur nodded assent. +</p> + +<p> +And so, when the time came, those two went up together to the altar- rails, +and, kneeling side by side, ate of the bread and drank of the cup, and, rising, +departed thence with a new link between them. For, be sure, part of the prayers +which they offered up at that high moment were in humble petition to the +Almighty to set His solemn seal and blessing on their love. Indeed, so far as +Angela was concerned, there were few acts of her simple life that she did not +consecrate by prayer, how much more, then, was she bent on bringing this, the +greatest of all her acts, before her Maker’s throne. +</p> + +<p> +Strange indeed, and full of a holy promise, is the yearning with which we turn +to Heaven to seek sanctification of our deeds, feeling our weakness and craving +strength from the source of strength; a yearning of which the church, with that +subtle knowledge of human nature, which is one of the mainsprings of its power, +has not been slow to avail itself. And this need is more especially felt in +matters connected with the noblest of all passions, perhaps because all true +love and all true religion come from a common home. +</p> + +<p> +Thus pledged to one another with a new and awful pledge, and knit together in +the bonds of an universal love, embracing their poor affection as the wide +skies embrace the earth, they rose, and went their ways, purer to worship, and +stronger to endure. +</p> + +<p> +That afternoon, Arthur had a conversation with his betrothed that, partaking of +a business nature in the beginning, ended rather oddly. +</p> + +<p> +“I must speak to your father when he comes back to-morrow, dear,” +he began. +</p> + +<p> +“My father! Oh yes, I had forgotten about that;” and she looked a +little anxious. +</p> + +<p> +“Fortunately, I am fairly well off, so I see no cause why he should +object.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I think that he will be rather glad to get rid of Pigott and +myself. You know that he is not very fond of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is strange want of taste on his part.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know. Everybody does not see me with your eyes, +Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because they have not the chance. All the world would love you, if it +knew you. But, seriously, I think that he can hardly object, or he would not +have allowed us to be thrown so much together; for, in nine cases out of ten, +that sort of thing has only one result.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that to import a young fellow into the house, and throw him +solely into a daughter’s company, is very apt to bring about—well, +what has been brought about.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you mean that you think that I should have fallen in love with any +gentleman who had come here?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur, not seeing the slight flash of indignation in her eyes, replied, +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you know, there is always a risk, but I should imagine that it +would very much depend upon the gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur”—with a little stamp—“I am ashamed of +you. How can you think such things of me? You must have a very poor opinion of +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, why should I suppose myself superior to anybody else, that you +should only fall in love with me? You set too high a value on me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you set too low a value on me; you do not understand me. You are my +fate, my other self; how would it have been possible for me to love any one but +you? I feel as though I had been travelling to meet you since the beginning of +the world, to stand by your side till it crumbles away, yes, for eternity +itself. Oh! Arthur, do not laugh at what I say. I am, indeed, only a simple +girl, but, as I told you last night, there is something stirring in me now, my +real life, my eternal part, something that you have awakened, and with which +you have to deal, something apart from the <i>me</i> you see before you. As I +speak, I feel and know that when we are dead and gone, I shall love you still; +when more ages have passed than there are leaves upon that tree, I shall love +you still. Arthur, I am yours for ever, for the time that is, and is to +be.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke with the grand freedom of one inspired, nay, he felt that she was +inspired, and the same feeling of awe that had come upon him when he first saw +her face, again took possession of him. Taking her hand, he kissed it. +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest,” he said, “dearest Angela, who am I that you should +love me so? What have I done that such a treasure should be given to me? I hope +that it may be as you say!” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be as I say,” she answered, as she bent to kiss him. And +they went on in silence. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> + +<p> +Philip arrived home about one o’clock on the Monday, and, after their +nursery dinner, Arthur made his way to the study, and soon found himself in the +dread presence—for what presence is more dread (most people would rather +face a chief-justice with the gout)—of the man whose daughter he was +about to ask in marriage. +</p> + +<p> +Philip, whom he found seated by a tray, the contents of which he seemed in no +humour to touch, received him with his customary politeness, saying, with a +smile, that he hoped he had not come to tell him that he was sick of the place +and its inhabitants, and was going away. +</p> + +<p> +“Far from it, Mr. Caresfoot, I come to speak to you on a very different +subject.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip glanced up with a quick look of expectant curiosity, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“In short,” said Arthur, desperately, “I come to ask you to +sanction my engagement to Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +A pause—a very awkward pause—ensued. +</p> + +<p> +“You are, then, engaged to my daughter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Subject to your consent, I am.” +</p> + +<p> +Then came another pause. +</p> + +<p> +“You will understand me, Heigham, when I say that you take me rather by +surprise in this business. Your acquaintance with her has been short.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is true, but I have seen a great deal of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps; but she knows absolutely nothing of the world, and her +preference for you—for, as you say you are engaged to her, I presume she +has shown a preference—may be a mistake, merely a young girl’s +romantic idea.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur thought of his conversation of the previous day with Angela, and could +not help smiling as he answered, +</p> + +<p> +“I think if you ask her that, she will tell you that is not the +case.” +</p> + +<p> +“Heigham, I will be frank with you. I like you, and you have, I believe, +sufficient means. Of course, you know that my daughter will have +nothing—at any rate, till I am dead,” he added, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought about the matter, but I shall be only too glad to marry +her with nothing but herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. I was going to say that, notwithstanding this, marriage is an +important matter; and I must have time to think over it before I give you a +decided answer, say a week. I shall not, however, expect you to leave here +unless you wish to do so, nor shall I seek to place any restrictions on your +intercourse with Angela, since it would appear that the mischief is already +done. I am flattered by your proposal; but I must have time, and you must +understand that in this instance hesitation does not necessarily mean +consent.” +</p> + +<p> +In affairs of this nature a man is satisfied with small mercies, and willing to +put up with inconveniences that appear trifling in comparison with the +disasters that might have overtaken him. Arthur was no exception to the general +rule. Indeed, he was profuse in his thanks, and, buoyed up with all the +confidence of youth, felt sure in his heart that he would soon find a way to +extinguish any objections that might still linger in Philip’s mind. +</p> + +<p> +His would-be father-in-law contented himself with acknowledging his remarks +with courtesy, and the interview came to an end. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur gone, however, his host lost all his calmness of demeanour, and, rising +from his untasted meal, paced up and down the room in thought. Everything had, +he reflected, fallen out as he wished. Young Heigham wished to marry his +daughter, and he could not wish for a better husband. Save for the fatality +which had sent that woman to him on her fiend’s errand, he would have +given his consent at once, and been glad to give it. Not that he meant to +refuse it—he had no such idea. And then he began to think what, supposing +that Lady Bellamy’s embassy had been of a nature that he could entertain, +which it was not, it would mean to him. It would mean the realization of the +work and aspirations of twenty years; it would mean his re-entry into the +property and position from which he had, according to his own view, been +unjustly ousted; it would mean, last but not least, triumph over George. And +now chance, mighty chance (as fools call Providence), had at last thrown into +his hands a lever with which it would be easy to topple over every +stumbling-block that lay in his path to triumph; more, he might even be able to +spoil that Egyptian George, giving him less than his due. +</p> + +<p> +Oh, how he hungered for the broad acres of his birthright! longing for them as +a lover longs for his lost bride. The opportunity would never come again; why +should he throw it away? To do so would be to turn his cousin into an open and +implacable foe. Why should he allow this girl, whose birth had bereft him of +the only creature he had ever loved, whose sex had alienated the family +estates, and for whose company he cared nothing, to come as a destruction on +his plans? She would be well-off; the man loved her. As for her being engaged +to this young Heigham, women soon got over those things. After all, now that he +came to think of the matter calmly, what valid cause was there why the thing +should not be? +</p> + +<p> +And as he paced to and fro, and thought thus, an answer came into his mind. For +there rose up before him a vision of his dying wife, and there sounded in his +ears the murmur of her half-forgotten voice, that, for all its broken softness, +had, with its last accents, called down God’s winged vengeance and His +everlasting doom on him who would harm her unprotected child. And, feeling that +if he did this thing, on him would be the vengeance and the doom, he thought of +the shadows of the night, and grew afraid. +</p> + +<p> +When Arthur and his host met, according to their custom, that evening, no +allusion was made on either side to their conversation of the afternoon, nor +did her father even speak a word to Angela on the subject. Life, to all +appearance, went on in the old house precisely as though nothing had happened. +Philip did not attempt to put the smallest restraint on Arthur and his +daughter, and studiously shut his eyes to the pretty obvious signs of their +mutual affection. For them, the long June days were golden, but all too short. +Every morning found their mutual love more perfect, but when the flakes of +crimson light faded from the skies, and night dropped her veil over the tall +trees and peaceful lake, by some miracle it had grown deeper and more perfect +still. Day by day, Arthur discovered new charms in Angela; here some hidden +knowledge, there an unsuspected grace, and everywhere an all-embracing charity +and love. Day by day he gazed deeper into the depths of her mind, and still +there were more to plumb. For it was a storehouse of noble thoughts and high +ambitions—ambitions, many of which could only find fulfilment in another +world than this. And, the more he saw of her, the prouder he was to think that +such a perfect creature should so dearly love himself; and with the greater joy +did he look forward to that supreme and happy hour when he should call her his. +And so day added itself to day, and found them happy. +</p> + +<p> +Indeed, the aspect of their fortunes seemed as smooth and smiling as the summer +surface of the lake. About Philip’s final consent to their engagement +they did not trouble themselves, judging, not unnaturally, that his conduct was +in itself a guarantee of approval. If he meant to raise any serious objections, +he would surely have done so before, Arthur would urge, and Angela would quite +agree with him, and wonder what parent could find it in his heart to object to +her bonnie-eyed lover. +</p> + +<p> +What a merciful provision of Providence it is that throws a veil over the +future, only to be pierced by the keenest-eyed of Scotchmen! Where should we +find a flavour in those unfrequent cups that the shyest of the gods, Joy, holds +to our yearning lips, could we know of the bitter that lurks in the tinselled +bowl? Surely we have much to be thankful for, but for nothing should we be so +grateful as for this blessed impotence of foresight! +</p> + +<p> +But, as it is often on the bluest days that the mercury begins to sink beneath +the breath of far-off hurricane, so there is a warning spirit implanted in +sensitive minds that makes them mistrustful of too great happiness. We feel +that, for most of us, the wheel of our fortunes revolves too quickly to allow +of a long continuance of unbroken joy. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur,” said Angela, one morning, when eight days had passed +since her father’s return from town, “we are too happy. We should +throw something into the lake.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not got a ring, except the one you gave me,” he answered; +for his signet was on her finger. “So, unless we sacrifice Aleck or the +ravens, I don’t know what it is to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t joke, Arthur. I tell you we are too happy.” +</p> + +<p> +Could Arthur have seen through an acre or so of undergrowth as Angela uttered +these words, he would have perceived a very smart page-boy with the Bellamy +crest on his buttons delivering a letter to Philip. It is true that there was +nothing particularly alarming about that, but its contents might have given a +point to Angela’s forebodings. It ran thus: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Rewtham House, Monday.<br/> + +“My dear Mr. Caresfoot,<br/> + +“With reference to our conversation last week about your daughter and G., +can you come over and have a quiet chat with me this afternoon?<br/> + +“Sincerely yours, “Anne Bellamy.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip read this note, and then re-read it, knowing in his heart that now was +his opportunity to act up to his convictions, and put an end to the whole +transaction in a few decisive words. But a man who has for so many years given +place to the devil of avarice, even though it be avarice with a legitimate +object, cannot shake himself free from his clothes in a moment; even when, as +in Philip’s case, honour and right, to say nothing of a still more +powerful factor, superstition, speak so loudly in his ears. Surely, he thought, +there would be no harm in hearing what she had to say. He could explain his +reasons for having nothing to do with the matter so much better in person. Such +mental struggles have only one end. Presently the smart page-boy bore back this +note: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dear Lady Bellamy,<br/> + +“I will be with you at half-past three.<br/> + +“P.C.” +</p> + +<p> +It was with very curious sensations that Philip was that afternoon shown into a +richly furnished boudoir in Rewtham House. He had not been in that room since +he had talked to Maria Lee, sitting on that very sofa now occupied by Lady +Bellamy’s still beautiful form, and he could not but feel that it was a +place of evil omen for him. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy rose to greet him with her most fascinating smile. +</p> + +<p> +“This is very kind,” she said, as she motioned him to a seat, which +Philip afterwards discovered had been carefully arranged so as to put his +features in the full light, whilst, sitting on the sofa, her own were +concealed. “Well, Mr. Caresfoot,” she began, after a little pause, +“I suppose I had better come to the point at once. First of all, I +presume that, as you anticipated would be the case, there exists some sort of +understanding between Mr. Heigham and your daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, your cousin is as determined as ever about the matter. Indeed, he +is simply infatuated or bewitched, I really don’t know which.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry for it, Lady Bellamy, as I cannot——” +</p> + +<p> +“One moment, Mr. Caresfoot; first let me tell you his offer, then we can +talk it over. He offers, conditionally on his marriage with your daughter, to +sell you the Isleworth estates at a fair valuation hereafter to be agreed upon, +and to make a large settlement.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what part does he wish me to play in the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“This. First, you must get rid of young Heigham, and prevent him from +holding <i>any</i> communication, either with Angela herself, or with any other +person connected with this place, for one year from the date of his departure. +Secondly, you must throw no obstacle in George’s path. Thirdly, if +required, you must dismiss her old nurse, Pigott.” +</p> + +<p> +“It cannot be, Lady Bellamy. I came here to tell you so. I dare not force +my daughter into such a marriage for all the estates in England.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“It is amusing,” she said, “to see a father afraid of his own +daughter; but you are over-hasty, Mr. Caresfoot. Who asked you to force her? +All you are asked to do is not to interfere, and leave the rest to myself and +George. You will have nothing to do with it one way or the other, nor will any +responsibility rest with you. Besides, it is very probable that your cousin +will live down his fancy, or some other obstacle will arise to put an end to +the thing, in which case Mr. Heigham will come back at the end of his +year’s probation, and events will take their natural course. It is only +wise and right that you should try the constancy of these young lovers, instead +of letting them marry out of hand. If, on the other hand, Angela should in the +course of the year declare a preference for her cousin, surely that will be no +affair of yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand what your interest is in this matter, Lady +Bellamy.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mr. Caresfoot, what does my interest matter to you? Perhaps I +have one, perhaps I have not; all women love match-making, you know; what +really is important is your decision,” and she shot a glance at him from +the heavy-lidded eyes, only to recognize that he was not convinced by her +arguments, or, if convinced, obstinate. “By the way,” she went on, +slowly, “George asked me to make a payment to you on his account, money +that has, he says, been long owing, but which it has not hitherto been +convenient to repay.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the sum?” asked Philip, abstractedly. +</p> + +<p> +“A large one; a thousand pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +It did not require the peculiar intonation she threw into her voice to make the +matter clear to him. He was well aware that no such sum was owing. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is the cheque,” she went on; and, taking from her purse a +signed and crossed cheque upon a London banker, she unfolded it and threw it +upon the table, watching him the while. +</p> + +<p> +Philip gazed at the money with the eyes of a hungry wolf. A thousand pounds! +That might be his for the asking, nay, for the taking. It would bind him to +nothing. The miser’s greed took possession of him as he looked. Slowly he +raised his hand, twitching with excitement, and stretched it out towards the +cheque, but, before his fingers touched it, Lady Bellamy, as though by +accident, dropped her white palm upon the precious paper. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that Mr. Heigham will leave to-morrow on the understanding we +mentioned?” she said carelessly, but in a significant tone. +</p> + +<p> +Philip nodded. +</p> + +<p> +The hand was withdrawn as carelessly as it had come, leaving the cheque, +blushing in all its naked beauty, upon the table. Philip took it as +deliberately as he could, and put it in his pocket. Then, rising, he said +good-bye, adding, as he passed through the door: +</p> + +<p> +“Remember, I have no responsibility in the matter. I wash my hands of it, +and wish to hear nothing about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The thousand pounds has done it,” reflected Lady Bellamy. “I +told George that he would rise greedily at money. I have not watched him for +twenty years for nothing. Fancy selling an only daughter’s happiness in +life for a thousand pounds, and such a daughter too! I wonder how much he would +take to murder her, if he were certain that he would not be found out. Upon my +word, my work grows quite interesting. That cur, Philip, is as good as a +play,” and she laughed her own peculiar laugh. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> + +<p> +Into Philip’s guilty thoughts, as he wended his homeward way, we will not +inquire, and indeed, for all the warm glow that the thousand pound cheque in +his pocket diffused through his system, they were not to be envied. Perhaps no +scoundrel presents at heart such a miserable object to himself and all who know +him, as the scoundrel who attempts to deceive himself and, whilst reaping its +profits, tries to shoulder the responsibility of his iniquity on to the backs +of others! +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately, in this prosaic world of bargains, one cannot receive cheques +for one thousand pounds without, in some shape or form, giving a <i>quid pro +quo</i>. Now Philip’s <i>quid</i> was to rid his house and the +neighbourhood of Arthur Heigham, his guest and his daughter’s lover. It +was not a task he liked, but the unearned cheque in his breeches- pocket +continually reminded him of the obligation it entailed. +</p> + +<p> +When Arthur came to smoke his pipe with his host that evening, the latter +looked so gloomy and depressed, that he wondered to himself if he was going to +be treated to a repetition of the shadow scene, little guessing that there was +something much more personally unpleasant before him. +</p> + +<p> +“Heigham,” Philip said, suddenly, and looking studiously in the +other direction, “I want to speak to you. I have been thinking over our +conversation of about a week ago on the subject of your engagement to Angela, +and have now come to a final determination. I may say at once that I approve of +you in every way” (here his hearer’s heart bounded with delight), +“but, under all the circumstances, I don’t think that I should be +right in sanctioning an immediate engagement. You are not sufficiently sure of +each other for that. I may seem old-fashioned, but I am a great believer in the +virtue of constancy, and I’m anxious, in your own interests, to put yours +and Angela’s to the test. The terms that I can offer you are these. You +must leave here to-morrow, and must give me your word of honour as a +gentleman—which I know will be the most effectual guarantee that I can +take from you—that you will not for the space of a year either attempt to +see Angela again, or to hold any written communication with her, or anybody in +any way connected with her. The year ended, you can return, and, should you +both still be of the same mind, you can then marry her as soon as you like. If +you decline to accede to these terms—which I believe to be to your mutual +ultimate advantage—I must refuse my consent to the engagement +altogether.” +</p> + +<p> +A silence followed this speech. The match that Arthur had lit before Philip +began, burnt itself out between his fingers without his appearing to suffer any +particular inconvenience, and now his pipe fell with a crash into the grate, +and broke into fragments—a fit symbol of the blow dealt to his hopes. For +some moments he was so completely overwhelmed at the idea of losing Angela for +a whole long year, losing her as completely as though she were dead, that he +could not answer. At length he found his voice, and said, hoarsely: +</p> + +<p> +“Yours are hard terms.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot argue the point with you, Heigham; such as they are, they are +my terms, founded on what I consider I owe to my daughter. Do you accept +them?” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot answer you off-hand. My happiness and Angela’s are too +vitally concerned to allow me to do so. I must consult her first.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, I have no objection; but you must let me have your answer by +ten to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +Had Arthur only known his own strength and Philip’s weakness—the +strength that honesty and honour ever have in the face of dishonour and +dishonesty—had he known the hesitating feebleness of Philip’s +avarice-tossed mind, how easy it would have been for him to tear his bald +arguments to shreds, and, by the bare exhibition of unshaken purpose, to +confound and disallow his determinations—had he then and there refused to +agree to his ultimatum, so divided was Philip in his mind and so shaken by +superstitious fears, that he would have accepted it as an omen, and have +yielded to a decision of character that had no real existence in himself. But +he did not know; indeed, how could he know? and he was, besides, too thorough a +gentleman to allow himself to suspect foul play. And so, too sad for talk, and +oppressed by the dread sense of coming separation from her whom he loved more +dearly than his life, he sought his room, there to think and pace, to pace and +think, until the stars had set. +</p> + +<p> +When, wearied out at length, he threw himself into bed, it was only to exchange +bad for worse; for on such occasions sleep is worse than wakefulness, it is so +full of dreams, big with coming pain. Shortly after dawn he got up again, and +went into the garden and listened to the birds singing their matin hymn. But he +was in no mood for the songs of birds, however sweet, and it was a positive +relief to him when old Jakes emerged, his cross face set in the gladness of the +morning, like a sullen cloud in the blue sky, and began to do something to his +favourite bed of cabbages. Not that Arthur was fond of old Jakes; on the +contrary, ever since the coffin-stand conversation, which betrayed, he +considered, a malevolent mind, he detested him personally; but still he set a +fancy value on him because he was connected with the daily life of his +betrothed. +</p> + +<p> +And then at last out came Angela, having spied him from behind the curtains of +her window, clothed in the same white gown in which he had first beheld her, +and which he consequently considered the prettiest of frocks. Never did she +look more lovely than when she came walking towards him that morning, with her +light, proud step, which was so full of grace and womanly dignity. Never had he +thought her more sweet and heart-compelling, than when, having first made sure +that Jakes had retreated to feed his pigs, she shyly lifted her bright face to +be greeted with his kiss. But she was quick of sympathy, and had learned to +read him like an open page, and before his lips had fairly fallen on her own +she knew that things had gone amiss. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what is it, Arthur?” she said, with a little pant of fear. +</p> + +<p> +“Be brave, dear, and I will tell you.” And in somewhat choky tones, +he recounted word for word what had passed between her father and himself. +</p> + +<p> +She listened in perfect silence, and bore the blow as a brave woman should. +When he had finished, she said, with a little tremor in her voice: +</p> + +<p> +“You will not forget me in a year, will you, Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +He kissed her by way of answer, and then they agreed to go together to Philip, +and try to turn him from his purpose. +</p> + +<p> +Breakfast was not a cheerful meal that day, and Pigott, noticing the prevailing +depression, remarked, with sarcasm, that they might, for all appearance to the +contrary, have been married for twenty years; but even this spirited sally did +not provoke a laugh. Ten o’clock, the hour that was to decide their fate, +came all too soon, and it was with very anxious hearts that they took their way +to the study. Philip, who was seated in residence, appeared to view +Angela’s arrival with some uneasiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course, Angela,” he said, “I am always glad to see you, +but I hardly expected——” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon for intruding, father,” she answered; +“but, as this is very important to me, I thought that I had better come +too, and hear what is settled.” +</p> + +<p> +As it was evident that she meant to stay, Philip did not attempt to gainsay +her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, very well, very well—I suppose you have heard the terms upon +which I am prepared to consent to your engagement.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Arthur has told me; and it is to implore you to modify them that we +have come. Father, they are cruel terms—to be dead to each other for a +whole long year.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot help it, Angela. I am sorry to inflict pain upon either of you; +but I have arrived at them entirely in your own interests, and after a great +deal of anxious thought. Believe me, a year’s probation will be very good +for both of you; it is not probable that, where my only child is concerned, I +should wish to do anything except what is for her happiness!” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur looked rebellion at Angela. Philip saw it, and added: +</p> + +<p> +“Of course you can defy me—it is, I believe, rather the fashion for +girls, nowadays, to do so—but, if you do, you must both clearly +understand, first, that you cannot marry without my consent till the first of +May next, or very nearly a year hence, when Angela comes of age, and that I +shall equally forbid all intercourse in the interval; and secondly, that when +you do so, it will be against my wish, and that I shall cut her name out of my +will, for this property is only entailed in the male line. It now only remains +for me to ask you if you agree to my conditions.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela answered him, speaking very slowly and clearly: +</p> + +<p> +“I accept them on my own behalf, not because I understand them, or think +them right, or because of your threats, but because, though you do not care for +me, I am your daughter, and should obey you—and believe that you wish to +do what is best for me. That is why I accept, although it will make my life +wretched for a year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you hear what she says?” said Philip, turning to Arthur. +“Do you also agree?” +</p> + +<p> +He answered boldly, and with some temper (how would he have answered could he +have seen the thousand pound cheque that was reposing upon the table in +Philip’s rusty pocket-book, and known for what purpose it came there?). +</p> + +<p> +“If it had not been Angela’s wish, I would never have agreed. I +think your terms preposterous, and I only hope that you have some satisfactory +reason for them; for you have not shown us any. But since she takes this view +of the matter, and because, so far as I can see, you have completely cornered +us, I suppose I must. You are her father, and cannot in nature wish to thwart +her happiness; and if you have any plan of causing her to forget me—I +don’t want to be conceited, but I believe that it will fail.” Here +Angela smiled somewhat sadly. “So, unless one of us dies before the year +is up, I shall come back to be married on the 9th of June next year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, my dear Heigham, your way of talking is so aggressive, that some +fathers might be tempted to ask you not to come back at all; but perhaps it is, +under the circumstances, excusable.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would probably think so, if you were in my place,” blurted out +Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“You give me, then, your word of honour as a gentleman that you will +attempt, either in person or by letter, no communication with Angela or with +anybody about this place for one year from to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the condition that, at the end of the year, I may return and marry +her as soon as I like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly; your marriage can take place on the 9th of June next, if you +like, and care to bring a license and a proper settlement—say, of half +your income—with you,” answered Philip, with a half smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I take you at your word,” said Arthur, eagerly, “that is, if +Angela agrees.” Angela made no signs of disagreement. “Then, on +those terms, I give you my promise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Then that is settled, and I will send for a dog-cart to take +you to the four o’clock train. I fear you will hardly be ready for the +12.25. I shall, however, hope,” he added, “to have the pleasure of +presenting this young lady to you for good and all on this day next year. +Good-bye for the present. I shall see you before you go.” +</p> + +<p> +It is painful to have to record that when Arthur got outside the door, and out +of Angela’s hearing, he cursed Philip, in his grief and anger, for the +space of some minutes. +</p> + +<p> +To linger over those last hours could only be distressing to the sympathetic +reader of this history, more especially if he, or she, has ever had the +misfortune to pass through such a time in their own proper persons. The day of +any one’s departure is always wretched, but much more is it wretched, +when the person departing is a lover, whose face will not be seen and of whom +no postman will bear tidings for a whole long year. +</p> + +<p> +Some comfort, however, these two took in looking forward to that joyous day +when the year of probation should have been gathered to its predecessors, and +in making the most minute arrangements for their wedding: how Angela was to +warn Mr. Fraser that his services would be required; where they should go to +for their honeymoon, and even of what flowers the wedding bouquet, which Arthur +was to bring down from town with him, should be composed. +</p> + +<p> +And thus the hours passed away, all too quickly, and each of them strove to be +merry, in order to keep up the spirits of the other. But it is not in human +nature to feel cheerful with a lump of ice upon the heart! Dinner was even more +dismal than breakfast, and Pigott, who had been informed of the impending +misfortune, and who was distrustful of Philip’s motives, though she did +not like to add to the general gloom by saying so, made, after the manner of +half-educated people, a painful and infectious exhibition of her grief. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Aleck,” said Angela, when the time drew near, bending down +over the dog to hide a tear, as she had once before bent down to hide a blush; +“poor Aleck, I shall miss you almost as much as your master.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will not miss him, Angela, because I am going to make you a present +of him if you will keep him.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very good of you, dear. I shall be glad to have him for your +sake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, keep him, love, he is a good dog; he will quite have transferred +his allegiance by the time I come back. I hope you won’t have done the +same, Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur, why will you so often make me angry by saying such things? +The sun will forget to shine before I forget you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, love, I did not mean it,” and he took her in his arms. And +so they sat there together under the oak where first they had met, hand in hand +and heart to heart, and it was at this moment that the self- reliant strength, +and more beautiful serenity of Angela’s character as compared with her +lover’s came into visible play. For whilst, as the moment of separation +drew nigh, he could scarcely contain his grief, she on the other hand grew more +and more calm, strengthening his weakness with her quiet power; and bidding him +seek consolation in his trouble at the hands of Him who for His own purposes +decreed it. +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest,” she said, in answer to his complainings, “there +are so many things in the world that we cannot understand, and yet they must be +right and lead to a good end. What may happen to us before this year is out, of +course we cannot say, but I feel that all love is immortal, and that there is a +perfect life awaiting us, if not in this world, then in the next. Remember, +dear, that these few years are, after all, but as a breath to the general air, +or as that dew-drop to the waters of the lake, when compared with the future +that awaits us there, and that until we attain that future we cannot really +know each other, or the true meaning and purpose of our love. So look forward +to it without fear, dear heart, and if it should chance that I should pass out +of your life, or that other ties should spring up round you that shall forbid +the outward expression of our love——” Here Arthur started and +was about to interrupt, but she stopped him. “Do not start, Arthur. Who +can read the future? Stranger things have happened, and if, I say, such a thing +should come about in our case, then remember, I implore you, that in that +future lies the answer to the puzzles of the world, and turn your eyes to it, +as to the horizon beyond which you will find me waiting for you, and not only +me, but all that you have ever loved. Only, dear, try to be a good man and love +me always.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her in wonder. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” he said, “what has made you so different from other +women? With all whom I have known, love is an affair of passion or amusement, +of the world and the day, but yours gazes towards Heaven, and looks to find its +real utterance in the stillness of Eternity! To be loved by you, my dear, would +be worth a century of sorrows.” +</p> + +<p> +At last the moment came, as all moments good and bad must come. To Pigott, who +was crying, he gave a hug and a five-pound note, to Aleck, a pat on the head, +to Philip, who could not look him in the face, a shake of the hand, and to +Angela, who bravely smiled into his eyes—a long last kiss. +</p> + +<p> +But, when the cruel wheels began to crunch upon the gravel, the great tears +welling to her eyes blotted him from sight. Blindly she made her way up to her +room, and throwing herself upon the bed let her unrestrained sorrow loose, +feeling that she was indeed desolate and alone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> + +<p> +When Angela was still quite a child, the permanent inhabitants of Sherborne +Lane, King William Street, in the city of London, used to note a very pretty +girl, of small stature and modest ways, passing out —every evening after +the city gentlemen had locked up their offices and gone home—from the +quiet of the lane into the roar and rush of the city. This young girl was +Mildred James, the only daughter of a struggling, a very struggling, city +doctor, and her daily mission was to go to the cheap markets, and buy the +provisions that were to last the Sherborne Lane household (for her father lived +in the same rooms that he practised in) for the ensuing twenty-four hours. The +world was a hard place for poor Mildred in those days of provision hunting, +when so little money had to pay for so many necessaries, and to provide also +for the luxuries that were necessaries to her invalid mother. Some years later, +when she was a sweet maiden of eighteen, her mother died, but medical +competition was keen in Sherborne Lane, and her removal did not greatly +alleviate the pressure of poverty. At last, one evening, when she was about +twenty years of age, a certain Mr. Carr, an old gentleman with whom her father +had some acquaintance, sent up a card with a pencilled message on it to the +effect that he would be glad to see Dr. James. +</p> + +<p> +“Run, Mildred,” said her father, “and tell Mr. Carr that I +will be with him in a minute. It will never do to see a new patient in this +coat.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred departed, and, gliding into the gloomy consulting-room like a sunbeam, +delivered her message to the old gentleman, who appeared to be in some pain, +and prepared to return. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t go away,” almost shouted the aged patient; “I +have crushed my finger in a door, and it hurts most confoundedly. You are +something to look at in this hole, and distract my attention.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred thought to herself that this was an odd way of paying a compliment, if +it was meant for one; but then, old gentlemen with crushed fingers are not +given to weighing their words. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you Dr. James’ daughter?” he asked, presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ugh, I have lived most of my life in Sherborne Lane, and never saw +anything half so pretty in it before. Confound this finger!” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment the doctor himself arrived, and wanted to dismiss Mildred, but +Mr. Carr, who was a headstrong old gentleman, vowed that no one else should +hold his injured hand whilst it was dressed, and so she stayed just long enough +for him to fall as completely in love with her shell-like face, as though he +had been twenty instead of nearly seventy. +</p> + +<p> +Now, Mr. Carr was not remarkable for good looks, and in addition to having seen +out so many summers, had also buried two wives. It will, therefore, be clear +that he was scarcely the suitor that a lovely girl, conscious of capacities for +deep affection, would have selected of her own free will; but, on the other +hand, he was honest and kind- hearted, and, what was more to the point, perhaps +the wealthiest wine- merchant in the city. Mildred resisted as long as she +could, but want is a hard master, and a father’s arguments are difficult +to answer, and in the end she married him, and, what is more, made him a good +and faithful wife. +</p> + +<p> +She never had any cause to regret it, for he was kindness itself towards her, +and when he died, some five years afterwards, having no children of his own, he +left her sole legatee of all his enormous fortune, bound up by no restrictions +as to re-marriage. About this time also her father died, and she was left as +much alone in the world as it is possible for a young and pretty woman, +possessing in her own right between twenty and thirty thousand a year, to be. +</p> + +<p> +Needless to say, Mrs. Carr was thenceforth one of the catches of her +generation; but nobody could catch her, though she alone knew how many had +tried. Once she made a list of all the people who had proposed to her; it +included amongst others a bishop, two peers, three members of parliament, no +less than five army officers, an American, and a dissenting clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“It is perfectly marvellous, my dear,” she said to her companion, +Agatha Terry, “how fond people are of twenty thousand a year, and yet +they all said that they loved me for myself, that is, all except the dissenter, +who wanted me to help to ‘feed his flock,’ and I liked him the best +of the lot, because he was the honestest.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Carr had a beautiful house in Grosvenor Square, a place in Leicestershire, +where she hunted a little, a place in the Isle of Wight that she rarely +visited, and, lastly, a place at Madeira where she lived for nearly half the +year. There never had been a breath of scandal against her name, nor had she +given cause for any. “As for loving,” she would say, “the +only things she loved were beetles and mummies,” for she was a clever +naturalist, and a faithful student of the lore of the ancient Egyptians. The +beetles, she would explain, had been the connecting link between the two +sciences, since beetles had led her to scarabaei, and scarabaei to the human +husks with which they are to be found; but this statement, though amusing, was +not strictly accurate, as she had in reality contracted the taste from her late +husband, who had left her a large collection of Egyptian antiquities. +</p> + +<p> +“I do adore a mummy,” she would say, “I am small enough in +mind and body already, but it makes me feel inches smaller, and I like to +measure my own diminutiveness.” +</p> + +<p> +She was not much of a reader; life was, she declared, too short to waste in +study; but, when she did take up a book, it was generally of a nature that most +women of her class would have called stiff, and then she could read it without +going to sleep. +</p> + +<p> +In addition to these occupations, Mrs. Carr had had various crazes at different +stages of her widowhood, which had now endured for some five years. She had +travelled, she had “gone-in for art;” once she had speculated a +little, but finding that, for a woman, it was a losing game, she was too shrewd +to continue this last pastime. But she always came back to her beetles and her +mummies. +</p> + +<p> +Still, with all her money, her places, her offers of marriage, and her +self-made occupations, Mildred Carr was essentially “a weary woman, sunk +deep in ease, and sated with her life.” Within that little frame of hers, +there beat a great active heart, ever urging her onwards towards an unknown +end. She would describe herself as an “ill- regulated woman,” and +the description was not without justice, for she did not possess that placid, +even mind which is so necessary to the comfort of English ladies, and which +enables many of them to bury a husband or a lover as composedly as they take +him. She would have given worlds to be able to fall in love with some one, to +fill up the daily emptiness of her existence with another’s joys and +griefs, but she <i>could</i> not. Men passed before her in endless procession, +all sorts and conditions of them, and for the most part were anxious to marry +her, but they might as well have been a string of wax dolls for aught she could +care about them. To her eyes, they were nothing more than a succession of +frock-coats and tall hats, full of shine and emptiness, signifying nothing. For +their opinion, too, and that of the society which they helped to form, she had +a most complete and wrong- headed contempt. She cared nothing for the ordinary +laws of social life, and was prepared to break through them on emergency, as a +wasp breaks through a spider’s web. Perhaps she guessed that a good deal +of breaking would be forgiven to the owner of such a lovely face, and more than +twenty thousand a year. With all this, she was extremely observant, and +possessed, unknown to herself, great powers of mind, and great, though dormant, +capacities for passion. In short, this little woman, with the baby face, +smiling and serene as the blue sky that hides the gathering hurricane, was +rather odder than the majority of her sex, which is perhaps saying a great +deal. +</p> + +<p> +One day, about a week before Arthur departed from the Abbey House, Agatha Terry +was sitting in the blue drawing-room in the house in Grosvenor Square, when +Mrs. Carr came in, almost at a run, slammed the door behind her, and plumped +herself down in a chair with a sigh of relief. +</p> + +<p> +“Agatha, give orders to pack up. We will go to Madeira by the next +boat.” +</p> + +<p> +“Goodness gracious, Mildred! across that dreadful bay again; and just +think how hot it will be, and the beginning of the season too.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Agatha, I’m going, and there’s an end of it, so it is +no use arguing. You can stay here, and give a series of balls and dinners, if +you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, dear; me give parties indeed, and you at Madeira! Why, +it’s just as though you asked Ruth to entertain the reapers without +Naomi. I’ll go and give the orders; but I do hope that it will be calm. +Why do you want to go now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll tell you. Lord Minster has been proposing to me again, and +announces his intention of going on doing so till I accept him. You know, he +has just got into the Cabinet, so he has celebrated the event by asking me to +marry him, for the third time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor fellow! Perhaps he is very fond of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a bit of it. He is fond of my good looks and my money. I will tell +you the substance of his speech this morning. He stood like this, with his +hands in his pockets, and said, ‘I am now a cabinet minister. It is a +good thing that a cabinet minister should have somebody presentable to sit at +the head of his table. You are presentable. I appreciate beauty, when I have +time to think about it. I observe that you are beautiful. I am not very +well-off for my position. You, on the other hand, are immensely rich. With your +money, I can, in time, become Prime Minister. It is, consequently, evidently to +my advantage that you should marry me, and I have sacrificed a very important +appointment in order to come and settle it.’” +</p> + +<p> +Agatha laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“And how did you answer him?” +</p> + +<p> +“In his own style. ‘Lord Minster,’ I said, ‘I am, for +the third time, honoured by your flattering proposal, but I have no wish to +ornament your table, no desire to expose my beauty to your perpetual +admiration, and no ambition to advance your political career. I do not love +you, and I had rather become the wife of a crossing-sweeper that I loved, than +that of a member of the government for whom I have <i>every</i> respect, but no +affection.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘As the wife of a crossing-sweeper, it is probable,’ he +answered, ‘that you would be miserable. As my wife, you would certainly +be admired and powerful, and consequently happy.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Lord Minster,’ I said, ‘you have studied human nature +but very superficially, if you have not learnt that it is better for a woman to +be miserable with the man she loves, than “admired, powerful, and +consequently happy,” with one who has no attraction for her.’ +</p> + +<p> +“‘Your remark is interesting,’ he replied; ‘but I think +that there is something paradoxical about it. I must be going now, as I have +only five minutes to get to Westminster; but I will think it over, and answer +it when we renew our conversation, which I propose to do very shortly,’ +and he was gone before I could get in another word.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should that make you go to Madeira?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because, my dear, if I don’t, so sure as I am a living woman, that +man will tire me out and marry me, and I dislike him, and don’t want to +marry him. I have a strong will, but his is of iron.” +</p> + +<p> +And so it came to pass that the names of Mrs. Carr, Miss Terry, and three +servants, appeared upon the passenger list of Messrs. Donald Currie & +Co.‘s royal mail steamship <i>Warwick Castle</i>, due to sail for Madeira +and the Cape ports on the 14th of June. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2> + +<p> +Arthur arrived in town in a melancholy condition. His was a temperament +peculiarly liable to suffer from attacks of depression, and he had, with some +excuse, a sufficiently severe one on him now. Do what he would he could not for +a single hour free his mind from the sick longing to see or hear from Angela, +that, in addition to the mental distress it occasioned him, amounted almost to +a physical pain. After two or three days of lounging about his club—for +he was in no mood for going out—he began to feel that this sort of thing +was intolerable, and that it was absolutely necessary for him to go somewhere +or do something. +</p> + +<p> +It so happened that, just after he had come to this decision, he overheard two +men, who were sitting at the next table to him in the club dining-room, talking +of the island of Madeira, and speaking of it as a charming place. He accepted +this as an omen, and determined that to Madeira he would go. And, indeed, the +place would suit him as well as any other to get through a portion of his year +of probation in, and, whilst affording a complete change of scene, would not be +too far from England. +</p> + +<p> +And so it came to pass that on the morrow Arthur found himself in the office of +Messrs. Donald Currie, for the purpose of booking his berth in the vessel that +was due to sail on the 14th. There he was informed by the very affable clerk, +who assisted him to choose his cabin, that the vessel was unusually empty, and +that, up to the present time, berths had been taken for only five ladies, and +two of them Jewesses. +</p> + +<p> +“However,” the clerk added, by way of consolation, “this +one,” pointing to Mrs. Carr’s name on the list, “is as good +as a cargo,” and he whistled expressively. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” asked Arthur, his curiosity slightly excited. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean—my word, here she comes.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment the swing doors of the office were pushed open, and there came +through them one of the sweetest, daintiest little women Arthur had ever seen. +She was no longer quite young, she might be eight and twenty or thirty, but, on +the other hand, maturity had but added to the charms of youth. She had big, +brown eyes that Arthur thought could probably look languishing, if they chose, +and that even in repose were full of expression, a face soft and blooming as a +peach, and round as a baby’s, surmounted by a quantity of nut-brown hair, +the very sweetest mouth, the lips rather full, and just showing a line of +pearl, and lastly, what looked rather odd on such an infantile countenance, a +firm, square, and very determined, if very diminutive chin. For the rest, it +was difficult to say which was the most perfect, her figure or her dress. +</p> + +<p> +All of which, of course, had little interest for Arthur, but what did rather +startle him was her voice, when she spoke. From such a woman one would +naturally have expected a voice of a corresponding nature, namely, one of the +soft and murmuring order. But hers, on the contrary, though sweet, was decided, +and clear as a bell, and with a peculiar ring in it that he would have +recognized amongst a thousand others. +</p> + +<p> +On her entrance, Arthur stepped on one side. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to say,” she said, with a slight bow of recognition to +the clerk; “that I have changed my mind about my berth, instead of the +starboard deck cabin, I should like to have the port. I think that it will be +cooler at this time of year, and also will you please make arrangements for +three horses.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am excessively sorry, Mrs. Carr,” the clerk answered; “but +the port cabin is engaged—in fact, this gentleman has just taken +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, in that case”—with a little blush—“there is +an end of the question.” +</p> + +<p> +“By no means,” interrupted Arthur. “It is a matter of perfect +indifference to me where I go. I beg that you will take it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, thank you. You are very good, but I could not think of robbing you +of your cabin.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must implore you to do so. Rather than there should be any difficulty, +I will go below.” And then, addressing the clerk, “Be so kind as to +change the cabin.” +</p> + +<p> +“I owe you many thanks for your courtesy,” said Mrs. Carr, with a +little curtsey. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur took off his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Then we will consider that settled. Good morning, or perhaps I should +say <i>au revoir</i>;” and, bowing again, he left the office. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that gentleman’s name?” Mrs. Carr asked, when he was +gone. +</p> + +<p> +“Here it is, madam, on the list. ‘Arthur Preston Heigham, passenger +to Madeira.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur Preston Heigham!” Mrs. Carr said to herself, as she made +her way down to her carriage in Fenchurch Street. “Arthur is pretty, and +Preston is pretty, but I don’t much like Heigham. At any rate, there is +no doubt about his being a gentleman. I wonder what he is going to Madeira for? +He has an interesting face. I think I am glad we are going to be +fellow-passengers.” +</p> + +<p> +The two days that remained to him in town, Arthur spent in making his +preparations for departure; getting money, buying, after the manner of young +Englishmen starting on a voyage to foreign parts, a large and fearfully sharp +hunting-knife, as though Madeira were the home of wild beasts, and laying in a +stock of various other articles of a useless description, such as impenetrable +sun-helmets and leather coats. +</p> + +<p> +The boat was to sail at noon on Friday, and on the Thursday evening he left +Paddington by the mail that reaches Dartmouth about midnight. On the pier, he +and one or two other fellow-passengers found a boat waiting to take them to the +great vessel, that, painted a dull grey, lay still and solemn in the harbour as +they were rowed up to her, very different from the active, living thing that +she was destined to become within the next twenty-four hours. The tide ebbing +past her iron sides, the fresh, strong smell of the sea, the tall masts +pointing skywards like gigantic fingers, the chime of the bell upon the bridge, +the sleepy steward, and the stuffy cabin, were all a pleasant variation from +the every-day monotony of existence, and contributed towards the conclusion +that life was still partially worth living, even when it could not be lived +with Angela. Indeed, so much are we the creatures of circumstance, and so +liable to be influenced by surroundings, that Arthur, who, a few hours before, +had been plunged into the depths of depression, turned into his narrow berth, +after a tremendous struggle with the sheets—which stewards arrange on a +principle incomprehensible to landlubbers, and probably only partially +understood by themselves—with considerable satisfaction and a pleasurable +sense of excitement. +</p> + +<p> +The next morning, or rather the earlier part of it, he devoted, when he was not +thinking about Angela, to arranging his goods and chattels in his small domain, +to examining the lovely scenery of Dartmouth harbour—the sight of which +is enough to make any outward-bound individual bitterly regret his +determination to quit his native land— and to inspecting the outward man +of his fellow-passengers with that icy stolidity which characterizes the +true-born Briton. But the great event of the morning was the arrival of the +mail-train, bringing the bags destined for various African ports, loose letters +for the passengers, and a motley contingent of the passengers themselves. +Amongst these latter, he had no difficulty in recognizing the two Jewesses, of +whom the clerk in the office had spoken, who were accompanied by individuals, +presumably their husbands, and very remarkable for the splendour of their +diamond studs and the dirtiness of their nails. The only other specimen of +saloon-passenger womankind that he could see was a pretty, black-eyed girl of +about eighteen, who was, as he afterwards discovered, going out under the +captain’s care to be a governess at the Cape, and who, to judge from the +intense melancholy of her countenance, did not particularly enjoy the prospect. +But, with the exception of some heavy baggage that was being worked up from a +cargo-boat by the donkey-engine, and a luxurious cane-chair on the deck that +bore her name, no signs were there of Mrs. Carr. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the purser sent round the head-steward, a gentleman whom Arthur +mistook for the first mate, so smart was his uniform, to collect the letters, +and it wrung him not a little to think that he alone could send none. The bell +sounded to warn all not sailing to hurry to their boats, but still there was +nothing to be seen of his acquaintance of the office; and, to speak the truth, +he was just a little disappointed, for what he had seen of her had piqued his +curiosity, and made him anxious to see more. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t wait any longer,” he heard the captain say; +“she must come on by the <i>Kinfauns</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +It was full twelve o’clock, and the last rope was being loosed from the +moorings. “Ting-ting,” went the engine-room bell. +“Thud-thud,” started the great screw that would not stop again for +so many restless hours. The huge vessel shuddered throughout her frame like an +awakening sleeper, and growing quick with life, forged an inch or two a-head. +Next, a quartermaster came with two men to hoist up the gangway, when suddenly +a boat shot alongside and hooked on, amongst the occupants of which Arthur had +no difficulty in recognizing Mrs. Carr, who sat laughing, like Pleasure, at the +helm. The other occupants of the boat, who were not laughing, he guessed to be +her servants and the lady who figured on the passenger-list as Miss Terry, a +stout, solemn-looking person in spectacles. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, then, Agatha,” called out Mrs. Carr from the stern-sheets, +“be quick and jump up.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mildred, I can’t go up there; I can’t, indeed. Why, +the thing’s moving.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you must go up, or else be pulled up with a rope. Here, I will show +the way,” and, moving down the boat, she sprang boldly, as it rose with +the swell, into the stalwart arms of the sailor who was waiting on the gangway +landing-stage, and thence ran up the steps to the deck. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, I am going to Madeira. I don’t know what you are going +to do; but you must make up your mind quick.” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t hold on much longer, mum,” said the boatman, +“she’s getting way on now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, mum; I won’t let you in,” said the man of the +ladder, seductively. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear, oh, dear, what shall I do?” groaned Miss Terry, wringing +the hand that was not employed in holding on. +</p> + +<p> +“John,” called Mrs. Carr to a servant who was behind Miss Terry, +and looking considerably alarmed, “don’t stand there like a fool; +put Miss Terry on to that ladder.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Carr was evidently accustomed to be obeyed, for, thus admonished, John +seized the struggling and shrieking Miss Terry, and bore her to the edge of the +boat, where she was caught by two sailors, and, amidst the cheers of excited +passengers, fairly dragged on to the deck. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Mrs. Carr,” said the chief officer, reproachfully, when Miss +Terry had been satisfactorily deposited on a bench, “you are late again; +you were late last voyage.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Mr. Thompson. I hate spending longer than is necessary +aboard ship, so, when the train got in, I took a boat and went for a row in the +harbour. I knew that you would not go without me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, we should have, Mrs. Carr; the skipper heard about it because +he waited for you before.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, here I am, and I promise that I won’t do it again.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Thompson laughed, and passed on. At this moment Mrs. Carr perceived Arthur, +and, bowing to him, they fell into conversation about the scenery through which +the boat was passing on her way to the open sea. Before very long, indeed, as +soon as the vessel began to rise and fall upon the swell, this talk was +interrupted by a voice from the seat where Miss Terry had been placed. +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred,” it said, “I do wish you would not come to sea; I +am beginning to feel ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“And no wonder, if you will insist upon coming up ladders head downwards. +Where’s John? He will help you to your cabin; the deck one, next to +mine.” +</p> + +<p> +But John had vanished with a parcel. +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, send some one quick, I beg of you,” remarked Miss Terry, +in the solemn tones of one who feels that a crisis is approaching. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t see anybody except a very dirty sailor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Permit me,” said Arthur, stepping to the rescue. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very kind; but she can’t walk. I know her ways; she has +got to the stage when she must be carried. Can you manage her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think so,” replied Arthur, “if you don’t mind +holding her legs, and provided that the vessel does not roll,” and, with +an effort, he hoisted Miss Terry baby-fashion into his arms, and staggered off +with her towards the indicated cabin, Mrs. Carr, as suggested, holding the +lower limbs of the prostrate lady. Presently she began to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“If you only knew how absurd we look,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t make me laugh,” answered Arthur, puffing; for Miss +Terry was by no means light, “or I shall drop her.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you do, young man,” ejaculated his apparently unconscious +burden with wonderful energy, “I will never forgive you.” +</p> + +<p> +A remark, the suddenness of which so startled him, that he very nearly did. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. Now lay her quite flat, please. She won’t get up again +till we drop anchor at Madeira.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I live so long,” murmured the invalid. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur now made his bow and departed, wondering how two women so dissimilar as +Mrs. Carr and Miss Terry came to be living together. As it is a piece of +curiosity that the reader may share, perhaps it had better be explained. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Terry was a middle-aged relative of Mrs. Carr’s late husband, who +had by a series of misfortunes been left quite destitute. Her distress having +come to the knowledge of Mildred Carr, she, with the kind- hearted promptitude +that distinguished her, at once came to her aid, paid her debts, and brought +her to her own house to stay, where she had remained ever since under the title +of companion. These two women, living thus together, had nothing whatsoever in +common, save that Miss Terry took some reflected interest in beetles. As for +travelling, having been brought up and lived in the same house of the same +county town until she reached the age of forty-five, it was, as may be +imagined, altogether obnoxious to her. Indeed, it is more than doubtful if she +retained any clear impression whatsoever of the places she visited. “A +set of foreign holes!” as she would call them, contemptuously. Miss Terry +was, in short, neither clever nor strong minded, but so long as she could be in +the company of her beloved Mildred, whom she regarded with mingled reverence +and affection, she was perfectly happy. Oddly enough, this affection was +reciprocated, and there probably was nobody in the world for whom Mrs. Carr +cared so much as her cousin by marriage, Agatha Terry. And yet it would be +impossible to imagine two women more dissimilar. +</p> + +<p> +Not long after they had left Dartmouth, the afternoon set in dull, and towards +evening the sea freshened sufficiently to send most of the passengers below, +leaving those who remained to be finally dispersed by the penetrating drizzle +that is generally to be met with off the English coast. Arthur, left alone on +the heaving deck, surveyed the scene, and thought it very desolate. Around was +a grey waste of tossing waters, illumined here and there by the setting rays of +an angry sun, above, a wild and windy sky, with not even a sea-gull in all its +space, and in the far distance a white and fading line, which was the shore of +England. +</p> + +<p> +Faint it grew, and fainter yet, and, as it disappeared, he thought of Angela, +and a yearning sorrow fell upon him. When, he wondered sadly, should he again +look into her eyes, and hold that proud beauty in his arms; what fate awaited +them in the future that stretched before them, dim as the darkening ocean, and +more uncertain. Alas! he could not tell, he only felt that it was very bitter +to be parted thus from her to whom had been given his whole heart’s love, +to know that every fleeting moment widened a breach already far too wide, and +not to know if it would again be narrowed, or if this farewell would be the +last. Then he thought, if it should be the last, if she should die or desert +him, what would his life be worth to him? A consciousness within him answered, +“nothing.” And, in a degree, his conclusion was right; for, +although it is, fortunately, not often in the power of any single passion to +render life altogether worthless; it is certain that, when it strikes in youth, +there is no sickness so sore as that of the heart; no sorrow more keen, and no +evil more lasting than those connected with its disappointments and its griefs. +For other sorrows, life has salves and consolations, but a noble and enduring +passion is not all of this world, and to cure its sting we must look to +something beyond this world’s quackeries. Other griefs can find sympathy +and expression, and become absorbed little by little in the variety of +love’s issues. But love, as it is, and should be understood—not the +faint ghost that arrays itself in stolen robes, and says, “I am +love,” but love the strong and the immortal, the passkey to the happy +skies, the angel cipher we read, but cannot understand—such love as this, +and there is none other true, can find no full solace here, not even in its +earthly satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +For still it beats against its mortal bars and rends the heart that holds it; +still strives like a meteor flaming to its central star, or a new loosed spirit +seeking the presence of its God, to pass hence with that kindred soul to the +inner heaven whence it came, there to be wholly mingled with its other life and +clothed with a divine identity: —there to satisfy the aspirations that +now vaguely throb within their fleshly walls, with the splendour and the peace +and the full measure of the eternal joys it knows await its coming. +</p> + +<p> +And is it not a first-fruit of this knowledge, that the thoughts of those who +are plunged into the fires of a pure devotion fly upwards as surely as the +sparks? Nothing but the dross, the grosser earthly part is purged away by their +ever-chastening sorrow, which is, in truth, a discipline for finer souls. For +did there ever yet live the man or woman who, loving truly, has suffered, and +the fires burnt out, has not risen Phoenix-like from their ashes, purer and +better, and holding in the heart a bright, undying hope? Never; for these have +walked bare-footed upon the holy ground, it is the flames from the Altar that +have purged them and left their own light within! And surely this holds also +good of those who have loved and lost, of those who have been scorned or +betrayed; of the suffering army that cry aloud of the empty bitterness of life +and dare not hope beyond. They do not understand that having once loved truly +it is not possible that they should altogether lose: that there is to their +pain and the dry-rot of their hopes, as to everything else in Nature, an end +object. Shall the soul be immortal, and its best essence but a thing of air? +Shall the one thought by day and the one dream by night, the ethereal star +which guides us across life’s mirage, and which will still shine serene +at the moment of our fall from the precipice of Time: shall this alone, amidst +all that makes us what we are, be chosen out to see corruption, to be cast off +and forgotten in the grave? Never! There, by the workings of a Providence we +cannot understand, that mighty germ awaits fruition. There, too, shall we know +the wherefore of our sorrow at which, sad-eyed, we now so often wonder: there +shall we kiss the rod that smote us, and learn the glorious uses and pluck the +glowing fruits of an affliction, that on earth filled us with such sick +longing, and such an aching pain. +</p> + +<p> +Let the long-suffering reader forgive these pages of speculative writing, for +the subject is a tempting one, and full of interest for us mortals. Indeed, it +may chance that, if he or she is more than five-and-twenty, these lines may +even have been read without impatience, for there are many who have the memory +of a lost Angela hidden away somewhere in the records of their past, and who +are fain, in the breathing spaces of their lives, to dream that they will find +her wandering in that wide Eternity where “all human barriers fall, all +human relations end, and love ceases to be a crime.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2> + +<p> +The morning after the vessel left Dartmouth brought with it lovely weather, +brisk and clear, with a fresh breeze that just topped the glittering swell with +white. There was, however, a considerable roll on the ship, and those poor +wretches, who for their sins are given to sea-sickness, were not yet happy. +Presently Arthur observed the pretty black-eyed girl—poor thing, she did +not look very pretty now—creep on to the deck and attempt to walk about, +an effort which promptly resulted in a fall into the scuppers. He picked her +up, and asked if she would not like to sit down, but she faintly declined, +saying that she did not mind falling so long as she could walk a +little—she did not feel so sick when she walked. Under these +circumstances he could hardly do less than help her, which he did in the only +way at all practicable with one so weak, namely, by walking her about on his +arm. +</p> + +<p> +In the midst of his interesting peregrinations he observed Mrs. Carr gazing out +of her deck cabin window, looking, he thought, pale, but sweetly pretty, and +rather cross. When that lady saw that she was observed, she pulled the curtain +with a jerk and vanished. Shortly after this Arthur’s companion vanished +too, circumstances over which she had no control compelling her, and Arthur +himself sat down rather relieved. +</p> + +<p> +But he was destined that day to play knight-errant to ladies in distress. +Presently Mrs. Carr’s cabin-door opened, and that lady herself emerged +therefrom, holding on to the side-rail. He had just begun to observe how +charmingly she was dressed, when some qualm seized her, and she returned to +re-enter the cabin. But the door had swung-to with the roll of the vessel, and +she could not open it. Impelled by an agony of doubt, she flew to the side, +and, to his horror, sprang with a single bound on to the broad rail that +surmounted the bulwark netting, and remained seated there, holding only to a +little rope that hung down from the awning-chain. The ship, which was at the +moment rolling pretty heavily, had just reached the full angle of her windward +roll, and was preparing for a heavy swing to leeward. Arthur, seeing that Mrs. +Carr would in a few seconds certainly be flung out to sea, rushed promptly +forward and lifted her from the rail. It was none too soon, for next moment +down the great ship went with a lurch into a trough of the sea, hurling him, +with her in his arms, up against the bulwarks, and, to say truth, hurting him +considerably. But, if he expected any thanks for this exploit, he was destined +to be disappointed, for no sooner had he set his lovely burden down, than she +made use of her freedom to stamp upon the deck. +</p> + +<p> +“How could you be so foolish?” said he. “In another moment +you would have been flung out to sea!” +</p> + +<p> +“And pray, Mr. Heigham,” she answered, in a cutting and sarcastic +voice, “is that my business or your own? Surely it would have been time +enough for you to take a liberty when I asked you to jump over after me.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur drew himself up to his full height and looked dignified—he could +look dignified when he liked. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not quite understand you, Mrs. Carr,” he said, with a little +bow. “What I did, I did to save you from going overboard. Next time that +such a little adventure comes in my way, I hope, for my own sake, that it may +concern a lady possessed of less rudeness and more gratitude.” +</p> + +<p> +And then, glaring defiance at each other, they separated; she marching off with +all the dignity of an offended queen to the “sweet seclusion that a cabin +grants,” whilst he withdrew moodily to a bench, comforted, however, not a +little by the thought that he had given Mrs. Carr a Roland for her Oliver. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Carr’s bound on to the bulwarks had been the last effort of that +prince of demons, sea-sickness, rending her ere he left. When the occasion for +remaining there had thus passed away, she soon tired of her cabin and of +listening to the inarticulate moans of her beloved Agatha, who was a most +faithful subject of the fiend, one who would never desert his manner so long as +he could roll the tiniest wave, and, sallying forth, took up her position in +the little society of the ship. +</p> + +<p> +But between Arthur and herself there was no attempt at reconciliation. Each +felt their wrongs to be as eternal as the rocks. At luncheon they looked +unutterable things from different sides of the table; going in to dinner, she +cut him with the sweetest grace, and on the following morning they naturally +removed to situations as remote from each other as the cubic area of a mail +steamer would allow. +</p> + +<p> +“Pretty, very much so, but ill-mannered; not quite a lady, I should +say,” reflected Arthur to himself, with a superior smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I detest him,” said Mrs. Carr to herself, “at least, I think +I do; but how neatly he put me down! There is no doubt about his being a +gentleman, though insufferably conceited.” +</p> + +<p> +These uncharitable thoughts rankled in their respective minds about 12 A.M. +What then was Arthur’s disgust, on descending a little late to luncheon +that day, to be informed by the resplendent chief-steward— who, for some +undiscovered reason, always reminded him of Pharaoh’s butler—that +the captain had altered the places at table, and that this alteration involved +his being placed next to none other than Mrs. Carr. Everybody was already +seated, and it was too late to protest, at any rate for that meal; so he had to +choose between submission and going without his luncheon. Being extremely +hungry, he decided for the first alternative, and reluctantly brought himself +to a halt next his avowed enemy. +</p> + +<p> +But surprises, like sorrows, come in battalions, a fact that he very distinctly +realized when, having helped himself to some chicken, he heard a clear voice at +his side address him by name. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham,” said the voice, “I have not yet thanked you +for your kindness to Miss Terry. I am commissioned to assure you that she is +very grateful, since she is prevented by circumstances from doing so +herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am much gratified,” he replied, stiffly; “but really I did +nothing to deserve thanks, and if I had,” he added, with a touch of +sarcasm, “I should not have expected any.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! what a cynic you must be,” she answered with a rippling laugh, +“as though women, helpless as they are, were not always thankful for the +tiniest attention. Did not the pretty girl with the black eyes thank you for +your attentions yesterday, for instance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Did the lady with the brown eyes thank me for my attentions—my +very necessary attentions—yesterday, for instance?” he answered, +somewhat mollified, for the laugh and the voice would have thawed a human +icicle, and, with all his faults, Arthur was not an icicle. +</p> + +<p> +“No, she did not; she deferred doing so in order that she might do it +better. It was very kind of you to help me, and I daresay that you saved my +life, and I—I beg your pardon for being so cross, but being sea-sick +always makes me cross, even to those who are kindest to me. Do you forgive me? +Please forgive me; I really am quite unhappy when I think of my +behaviour.” And Mrs. Carr shot a glance at him that would have cleared +the North-West Passage for a man-of-war. +</p> + +<p> +“Please don’t apologise,” he said, humbly. “I really +have nothing to forgive. I am aware that I took a liberty, as you put it, but I +thought that I was justified by the circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not generous of you, Mr. Heigham, to throw my words into my teeth. +I had forgotten all about them. But I will set your want of feeling against my +want of gratitude, and we kiss and be friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can assure you, Mrs. Carr, that there is nothing in the world I should +like better. When shall the ceremony come off?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now you are laughing at me, and actually interpreting what I say +literally, as though the English language were not full of figures of speech. +By that phrase,” and she blushed a little—that is, her cheek took a +deeper shade of coral—“I meant that we would not cut each other +after lunch.” +</p> + +<p> +“You bring me from the seventh heaven of expectation into a very prosaic +world; but I accept your terms, whatever they are. I am conquered.” +</p> + +<p> +“For exactly half an hour. But let us talk sense. Are you going to stop +at Madeira?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“For how long?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; till I get tired of it, I suppose. Is it nice, +Madeira?” +</p> + +<p> +“Charming. I live there half the year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, then I can well believe that it is charming.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham, you are paying compliments. I thought that you looked above +that sort of thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the presence of misfortune and of beauty”—here he +bowed—“all men are reduced to the same level. Talk to me from +behind a curtain, or let me turn my back upon you, and you may expect to hear +work-a-day prose—but face to face, I fear that you must put up with +compliment.” +</p> + +<p> +“A neat way of saying that you have had enough of me. Your compliments +are two-edged. Good-bye for the present.” And she rose, leaving Arthur +—well, rather amused. +</p> + +<p> +After this they saw a good deal of each other—that is to say, they +conversed together for at least thirty minutes out of every sixty during an +average day of fourteen hours, and in the course of these conversations she +learned nearly everything about him, except his engagement to Angela, and she +shrewdly guessed at that, or, rather, at some kindred circumstance in his +career. Arthur, on the other hand, learned quite everything about her, for her +life was open as the day, and would have borne repeating in the <i>Times</i> +newspaper. But nevertheless he found it extremely interesting. +</p> + +<p> +“You must be a busy woman,” he said one morning, when he had been +listening to one of her rattling accounts of her travels and gaieties, +sprinkled over, as it was, with the shrewd remarks, and illumined by the keen +insight into character that made her talk so charming. +</p> + +<p> +“Busy, no; one of the idlest in the world, and a very worthless one to +boot,” she answered, with a little sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, why don’t you change your life? it is in your own hands, if +ever anybody’s was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think so? I doubt if anybody’s life is in their own hands. +We follow an appointed course; if we did not, it would be impossible to +understand why so many sensible, clever people make such a complete mess of +their existence. They can’t do it from choice.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, you have not made a mess of yours, and your appointed +course seems a very pleasant one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and the sea beneath us is very smooth, but it has been rough +before, and will be rough again—there is no stability in the sea. As to +making a mess of my life, who knows what I may not accomplish in that way? +Prosperity cannot shine down fear of the future, it only throws it into darker +relief. Myself I am afraid of the future—it is unknown, and to me what is +unknown is not magnificent, but terrible. The present is enough for me. I do +not like speculation, and I never loved the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +And, as they talked, Madeira, in all its summer glory, loomed up out of the +ocean, for they had passed the “Desertas” and “Porto +Santo” by night, and for a while they were lost in the contemplation of +one of the most lovely and verdant scenes that the world can show. Before they +had well examined it, however, the vessel had dropped her anchor, and was +surrounded by boats full of custom-house officials, boats full of diving boys, +of vegetables, of wicker chairs and tables, of parrots, fruit, and “other +articles too numerous to mention,” as they say in the auctioneer’s +catalogues, and they knew that it was time to go ashore. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it has been a pleasant voyage,” said Mrs. Carr. “I am +glad you are not going on.” +</p> + +<p> +“So am I.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will come and see me to-morrow, will you not? Look, there is my +house,” and she pointed to a large, white house opposite Leeuw Rock, that +had a background of glossy foliage, and commanded a view of the sea. “If +you come, I will show you my beetles. And, if you care to come next day, I will +show you my mummies.” +</p> + +<p> +“And, if I come the next, what will you show me?” +</p> + +<p> +“So often as you may come,” she said, with a little tremor in her +voice, “I shall find something to show you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they shook hands and took their respective ways, she—together with +the unfortunate Miss Terry, who looked like a resuscitated corpse —on to +the steam-launch that was waiting for her, and he in the boat belonging to +Miles’ Hotel. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2> + +<p> +A minute or two after the boat in which Arthur was being piloted to the shore, +under the guidance of the manager of Miles’ Hotel, had left the side of +the vessel, Mrs. Carr’s steam-launch shot up alongside of them, its +brass-work gleaming in the sunlight like polished gold. On the deck, near the +little wheel, stood Mrs. Carr herself, and by her side, her martial cloak +around her, lay Miss Terry, still as any log. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham,” said Mrs. Carr, in a voice that sounded across the +water like a silver bell, “I forgot that you will not be able to find +your way to my place by yourself to-morrow, so I will send down a bullock-car +to fetch you; you have to travel about with bullocks here, you know. +Good-bye,” and, before he could answer, the launch’s head was +round, and she was tearing through the swell at the rate of fourteen knots. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s her private launch,” said the manager of the hotel to +Arthur, “it is the quickest in the island, and she always goes at full +steam. She must have come some way round to tell you that, too. There’s +her place, over there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Carr comes here every year, does she not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, every year; but she is very early this year; our season does +not begin yet, you know. She is a great blessing to the place, she gives so +much away to the poor peasants. At first she used to come with old Mr. Carr, +and a wonderful nurse they say she made to the old gentleman till he +died.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does she entertain much?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not as a rule, but sometimes she gives great balls, splendid affairs, +and a series of dinner-parties that are the talk of the island. She hardly ever +goes out anywhere, which makes the ladies in the place angry, but, I believe, +that they all go to her balls and dinners. Mostly, she spends her time up in +the hills, collecting butterflies and beetles. She has got the most wonderful +collection of Egyptian curiosities up at the house there, too, though why she +keeps them here instead of in England, I am sure I don’t know. Her +husband began the collection when he was a young man, and collected all his +life, and she has gone on with it since.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder that she has not married again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it can’t be for want of asking, if half of what they say is +true; for, according to that, every single gentleman under fifty who has been +at Madeira during the last five years has had a try at her, but she +wouldn’t look at one of them. But of course that is gossip— and +here we are at the landing-place. Sit steady, sir; those fellows will pull the +boat up.” +</p> + +<p> +Had it not been for the pre-occupied and uncomfortable state of his mind, that +took the flavour out of all that he did, and persistently thrust a skeleton +amidst the flowers of every landscape, Arthur should by rights have enjoyed +himself very much at Madeira. +</p> + +<p> +To live in one of the lofty rooms of “Miles’ Hotel,” +protected by thick walls and cool, green shutters, to feel that you are +enjoying all the advantages of a warm climate without its drawbacks, and that, +too, however much people in England may be shivering—which they mostly do +all the year round—is in itself a luxury. And so it is, if the day is +hot, to dine chiefly off fish and fruit, and such fruit! and then to exchange +the dining-room for the cool portico, with the sea-breeze sweeping through it, +and, pipe in hand, to sink into a slumber that even the diabolical shrieks of +the parrots, tied by the leg in a line below, are powerless to disturb. Or, if +you be energetic —I speak of Madeira energy—you may stroll down the +little terraced walk, under the shade of your landlord’s vines, and +contemplate the growing mass of greenery that in this heavenly island makes a +garden. You can do more than this even; for, having penetrated through the +brilliant flower-beds, and recruited exhausted nature under a fig-tree, you can +engage, in true English fashion, in a game of lawn- tennis, which done, you +will again seek the shade of the creeping vines or spreading bananas, and in a +springy hammock take your well- earned repose. +</p> + +<p> +All these things are the quintessence of luxury, so much so that he who has +once enjoyed them will long to turn lotos-eater, forget the painful and +laborious past, and live and die at “Miles’ Hotel.” Oh, +Madeira! gem of the ocean, land of pine-clad mountains that foolish men love to +climb, valleys where wise ones much prefer to rest, and of smells that both +alike abhor; Madeira of the sunny sky and azure sea, land flowing with milk and +honey, and overflowing with population, if only you belonged to the country on +which you depend for a livelihood, what a perfect place you would be, and how +poetical one could grow about you! a consummation which, fortunately for my +readers, the recollection of the open drains, the ill-favoured priests, and +Portuguese officials effectually prevents. +</p> + +<p> +On the following morning, at twelve punctually, Arthur was informed that the +conveyance had arrived to fetch him. He went down, and was quite appalled at +its magnificence. It was sledge-like in form, built to hold four, and mounted +on wooden runners that glided over the round pebbles with which the Madeira +streets are paved, with scarcely a sound, and as smoothly as though they ran on +ice. The chariot, as Arthur always called it afterwards, was built of beautiful +woods, and lined and curtained throughout with satin, whilst the motive power +was supplied by two splendidly harnessed white oxen. Two native servants, +handsome young fellows, dressed in a kind of white uniform, accompanied the +sledge, and saluted Arthur on his appearance with much reverence. +</p> + +<p> +It took him, however, some time before he could make up his mind to embark in a +conveyance that reminded him of the description of Cleopatra’s galley, +and smelt more sweet; but finally he got in, and off he started, feeling that +he was the observed of all observers, and followed by at least a score of +beggars, each afflicted with some peculiar and dreadful deformity or disease. +And thus, in triumphal guise, they slid down the quaint and narrow streets, +squeezed in for the sake of shade between a double line of tall, +green-shuttered houses; over the bridges that span the vast open drains; past +the ochre-coloured cathedral; down the promenade edged with great +magnolia-trees, that made the air heavy with their perfume, and where twice a +week the band plays, and the Portuguese officials march up and down in all the +pomp and panoply of office; onward through the dip, where the town slopes +downwards to the sea; then up again through more streets, and past a stretch of +dead wall, after which the chariot wheels through some iron gates, and he is in +fairyland. On each side of the carriage-way there spreads a garden calculated +to make English horticulturists gnash their teeth with envy, through the bowers +of which he could catch peeps of green turf and of the blue sea beyond. +</p> + +<p> +Here the cabbage palm shot its smooth and lofty trunk high into the air, there +the bamboo waved its leafy ostrich plumes, and all about and around the soil +was spread like an Indian shawl, with many a gorgeous flower and many a +splendid fruit. Arthur thought of the garden of Eden and the Isles of the +Blest, and whilst his eyes, accustomed to nothing better than our poor English +roses, were still fixed upon the blazing masses of pomegranate flower, and his +senses were filled with the sweet scent of orange and magnolia blooms, the oxen +halted before the portico of a stately building, white-walled and +green-shuttered like all Madeira houses. +</p> + +<p> +Then the slaves of the chariot assisted him to descend, whilst other slaves of +the door bowed him up the steps, and he stood in a great cool hall, dazzling +dark after the brilliancy of the sunlight. And here no slave awaited him, but +the princess of this fair domain, none other than Mildred Carr herself, clad +all in summer white, and with a smile of welcome in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I am so glad that you have come. How do you like Madeira? Do you find it +very hot?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not seen much of it yet; but this place is lovely, it is like +fairyland, and, I believe, that you,” he added, with a bow, “are +the fairy queen.” +</p> + +<p> +“Compliments again, Mr. Heigham. Well, I was the sleeping beauty last +time, so one may as well be a queen for a change. I wonder what you will call +me next?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see: shall we say—an angel?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham, stop talking nonsense, and come into the +drawing-room.” +</p> + +<p> +He followed her, laughing, into an apartment that, from its noble proportions +and beauty, might fairly be called magnificent. Its ceiling was panelled with +worked timber, and its floor beautifully inlaid with woods of various hue, +whilst the walls were thickly covered with pictures, chiefly sea-pieces, and +all by good masters. He had, however, but little time to look about him, for a +door opened at the further end of the room, and admitted the portly person of +Miss Terry, arrayed in a gigantic sun hat and a pair of green spectacles. She +seemed very hot, and held in her hand a piece of brown paper, inside of which +something was violently scratching. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve caught him at last,” she said, “though he did +avoid me all last year. I’ve caught him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious! caught what?” asked Arthur, with great interest. +</p> + +<p> +“What! why him that Mildred wanted,” she replied, regardless of +grammar in her excitement. “Just look at him, he’s +beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus admonished, Arthur carefully undid the brown paper, and next moment +started back with an exclamation, and began to dance about with an enormous red +beetle grinding its jaws into his finger. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, keep still, do, pray,” called Miss Terry, in alarm, +“don’t shake him off on any account, or we shall lose him for the +want of a little patience, as I did when he bit my finger last year. If +you’ll keep him quite still, he won’t leave go, and I’ll ring +for John to bring the chloroform bottle.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur, feeling that the interests of science were matters of a higher +importance than the well-being of his finger, obeyed her injunction to the +letter, hanging his arm (and the beetle) over the back of a chair and looking +the picture of silent misery. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite still, if you please, Mr. Heigham, quite still; is not the +animal’s tenacity interesting?” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt to you, but I hope your pet beetle is not poisonous, for he is +gnashing his pincers together inside my finger.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, we will treat you with caustic presently. Mildred, +don’t laugh so much, but come and look at him; he’s lovely. John, +please be quick with that chloroform bottle.” +</p> + +<p> +“If this sort of thing happens often, I don’t think that I should +collect beetles from choice, at least not large ones,” groaned Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear,” laughed Mrs. Carr, “I never saw anything so +absurd. I don’t know which looks most savage, you or the beetle.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t make all that noise, Mildred, you will frighten him, and if +once he flies we shall never catch him in this big room.” +</p> + +<p> +Here, fortunately for Arthur, the servant arrived with the required bottle, +into which the ferocious insect was triumphantly stoppered by Miss Terry. +</p> + +<p> +“I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Heigham, you are a true +collector.” +</p> + +<p> +“For the first and last time,” mumbled Arthur, who was sucking his +finger. +</p> + +<p> +“I am infinitely obliged to you, too, Mr. Heigham,” said Mrs. Carr, +as soon as she had recovered from her fit of laughing; “the beetle is +really very rare; it is not even in the British Museum. But come, let us go in +to luncheon.” +</p> + +<p> +After that meal was over, Mrs. Carr asked her guest which he would like to see, +her collection of beetles or of mummies. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mrs. Carr, I have had enough of beetles for one day, so I +vote for the mummies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well. Will you come, Agatha?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mildred, you know very well that I won’t come. Just think, +Mr. Heigham: I only saw the nasty things once, and then they gave me the creeps +every night for a fortnight. As though those horrid Egyptian +‘fellahs’ weren’t ugly enough when they were alive without +going and making great skin and bone dolls of them—pah!” +</p> + +<p> +“Agatha persists in believing that my mummies are the bodies of people +like she saw in Egypt last year.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so they are, Mildred. That last one you got is just like the boy who +used to drive my donkey at Cairo—the one that died, you know—I +believe they just stuffed him, and said that he was an ancient king. Ancient +king, indeed!” And Miss Terry departed, in search for more beetles. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Heigham, you must follow me. The museum is not in the house. +Wait, I will get a hat.” +</p> + +<p> +In a minute she returned, and led the way across a strip of garden to a +detached building, with a broad verandah, facing the sea. Scarcely ten feet +from this verandah, and on the edge of the sheer precipice, was built a low +wall, leaning over which Arthur could hear the wavelets lapping against the +hollow rock two hundred feet beneath him. Here they stopped for a moment to +look at the vast expanse of ocean, glittering in the sunlight like a sea of +molten sapphires and heaving as gently as an infant’s bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very lovely; the sea moves just enough to show that it is only +asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but I like it best when it is awake, when it blows a +hurricane— it is magnificent. The whole cliff shakes with the shock of +the waves, and sometimes the spray drives over in sheets. That is when I like +to sit here; it exhilarates me, and makes me feel as though I belonged to the +storm, and was strong with its strength. Come, let us go in.” +</p> + +<p> +The entrance to the verandah was from the end that faced the house, and to gain +it they passed under the boughs of a large magnolia-tree. Going through glass +doors that opened outwards into the verandah, Mrs. Carr entered a room +luxuriously furnished as a boudoir. This had apparently no other exit, and +Arthur was beginning to wonder where the museum could be, when she took a tiny +bramah key from her watch-chain, and with it opened a door that was papered and +painted to match the wall exactly. He followed her, and found himself in a +stone passage, dimly lighted from above, and sloping downwards, that led to a +doorway graven in the rock, on the model of those to be seen at the entrance of +Egyptian temples. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Mr. Heigham,” she said, flinging open another door, and +stepping forward, “you are about to enter ‘The Hall of the +Dead.’” +</p> + +<p> +He went in, and a strange sight met his gaze. They were standing in the centre +of one side of a vast cave, that ran right and left at right angles to the +passage. The light poured into it in great rays from skylights in the roof, and +by it he could see that it was hollowed out of the virgin rock, and measured +some sixty feet or more in length, by about forty wide, and thirty high. Down +the length of each side of the great chamber ran a line of six polished +sphinxes, which had been hewn out of the surrounding granite, on the model of +those at Carnac, whilst the walls were elaborately painted after the fashion of +an Egyptian sepulchre. Here Osiris held his dread tribunal on the spirit of the +departed; here the warrior sped onward in his charging chariot; here the harper +swept his sounding chords; and here, again, crowned with lotus flowers, those +whose corpses lay around held their joyous festivals. +</p> + +<p> +In the respective centres of each end of the stone chamber a colossus towered +in its silent and unearthly grandeur. That to the right was a statue of Osiris, +judge of the souls of the dead, seated on his judgment-seat, and holding in his +hand the source and the bent-headed sceptre. Facing him at the other end of the +hall was the effigy of the mighty Ramses, his broad brow encircled by that +kingly symbol which few in the world’s history have worn so proudly, and +his noble features impressing those who gaze upon them from age to age with a +sense of scornful power and melancholy calm, such as does not belong to the +countenance of the men of their own time. And all around, under this solemn +guardianship, each upon a polished slab of marble, and enclosed in a case of +thick glass, lay the corpses of the Egyptian dead, swathed in numberless +wrappings, as in their day the true religion that they held was swathed in +symbols and in mummeries. +</p> + +<p> +Here were to be found the high-priest of the mysteries of Isis, the astronomer +whose lore could read the prophecies that are written in the stars, the dark +magician, the renowned warrior, the noble, the musician with his cymbals by his +side, the fair maiden who had—so said her cedar coffin-boards—died +of love and sorrow, and the royal babe, all sleeping the same sleep, and +waiting the same awakening. This princess must have been well known to Joseph, +that may have been her who rescued Moses from the waters, whilst the babe +belongs to a dynasty of which the history was already merging into tradition +when the great pyramid reared its head on Egypt’s fertile plains. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur stood, awed at the wonderful sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Never before,” said he, in that whisper which we involuntarily use +in the presence of the dead, “did I realize my own insignificance.” +</p> + +<p> +The thought was abruptly put, but the words represented well what was passing +in his mind, what must pass in the mind of any man of culture and sensibility +when he gazes on such a sight. For in such presences the human mite of to-day, +fluttering in the sun and walking on the earth that these have known and walked +four thousand years ago, must indeed learn how infinitely small is the place +that he occupies in the tale of things created; and yet, if to his culture and +sensibility he adds religion, a word of living hope hovers on those dumb lips. +For where are the spirits of those that lie before him in their eternal +silence! Answer, withered lips, and tell us what judgment has Osiris given, and +what has Thoth written in his awful book? Four thousand years! Old human husk, +if thy dead carcass can last so long, what limit is there to the life of the +soul it held? +</p> + +<p> +“Did you collect all these?” asked Arthur, when he had made a +superficial examination of the almost countless treasures of the museum. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no; Mr. Carr spent half his long life, and more money than I can +tell you, in getting this collection together. It was the passion of his life, +and he had this cave hollowed at enormous cost, because he thought that the air +here would be less likely to injure them than the English fogs. I have added to +it, however. I got those papyri and that beautiful bust of Berenice, the one in +black marble. Did you ever see such hair?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur thought to himself that he had at that moment some not far from his +heart that must be quite as beautiful, but he did not say so. +</p> + +<p> +“Look, there are some curious things;” and she opened an air-tight +case that contained some discoloured grains and a few lumps of shrivelled +substance. +</p> + +<p> +“What are they?” +</p> + +<p> +“This is wheat taken from the inside of a mummy, and those are supposed +to be hyacinth bulbs. They came from the mummy-case of that baby prince, and I +have been told that they would still grow if planted.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can scarcely believe that: the principle of life must be +extinct.” +</p> + +<p> +“Wise people say, you know, that the principle of life can never become +extinct in anything that has once lived, though it may change its form; but I +do not pretend to understand these things. However, we will settle the +question, for we will plant one, and, if it grows, I will give the flower to +you. Choose one.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur took the biggest lump from the case, and examined it curiously. +</p> + +<p> +“I have not much faith in your hyacinth; I am sure that it is +dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! but many things that seem more dead than that have the strangest way +of suddenly breaking into life,” she said, with a little sigh. +“Give it to me; I will have it planted;” and then, with a quick +glance upward, “I wonder if you will be here to see it bloom.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think that either of us will see it bloom in this +world,” he answered, laughing, and took his leave. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2> + +<p> +Had Arthur been a little less wrapped up in thoughts of Angela, and a little +more alive to the fact that, being engaged or even married to one woman, does +not necessarily prevent complications arising with another, it might have +occurred to him to doubt the prudence of the course of life that he was +pursuing at Madeira. And, as it is, it is impossible to acquit him of showing a +want of knowledge of the world amounting almost to folly, for he should have +known upon general principles that, for a man in his position, a grizzly bear +would have been a safer daily companion than a young and lovely widow, and the +North Pole a more suitable place of residence than Madeira. But he simply did +not think about the matter, and, as thin ice has a treacherous way of not +cracking till it suddenly breaks, so outward appearances gave him no indication +of his danger. +</p> + +<p> +And yet the facts were full of evil promise, for, as time went on, Mildred Carr +fell headlong in love with him. There was no particular reason why she should +have done so. She might have had scores of men, handsomer, cleverer, more +distinguished, for the asking, or, rather, for the waiting to be asked. Beyond +a certain ability of mind, a taking manner, and a sympathetic, thoughtful face, +with that tinge of melancholy upon it which women sometimes find dangerously +interesting, there was nothing so remarkable about Arthur that a woman +possessing her manifold attractions and opportunities, should, unsought and +without inquiry, lavish her affection upon him. There is only one satisfactory +explanation of the phenomenon, which, indeed, is a very common one, and that +is, that he was her fate, the one man whom she was to love in the world, for no +woman worth the name ever <i>loves</i> two, however many she may happen to +marry. For this curious difference would appear to exist between the sexes. The +man can attach himself, though in varying degree, to several women in the +course of a lifetime, whilst the woman, the true, pure-hearted woman, cannot so +adapt her best affection. Once given, like the law of the Medes and Persians, +it altereth not. +</p> + +<p> +Mildred felt, when her eyes first met Arthur’s in Donald Currie’s +office, that this man was for her different from all other men, though she did +not put the thought in words even to herself. And from that hour till she +embarked on board the boat he was continually in her mind, a fact which so +irritated her that she nearly missed the steamer on purpose, only changing her +mind at the last moment. And then, when she had helped him to carry Miss Terry +to her cabin, their hands had accidentally met, and the contact had sent a +thrill through her frame such as she had never felt before. The next +development that she could trace was her jealousy of the black-eyed girl whom +she saw him helping about the deck, and her consequent rudeness. +</p> + +<p> +Up to her present age, Mildred Carr had never known a single touch of love: she +had not even felt particularly interested in her numerous admirers, but now +this marble Galatea had by some freak of fate found a woman’s heart, +awkwardly enough, without the semblance of a supplication on the part of him +whom she destined to play Pygmalion. And, when she examined herself by the +light of the flame thus newly kindled, she shrank back dismayed, like one who +peeps over the crater of a volcano commencing its fiery work. She had believed +her heart to be callous to all affection of this nature, it had seemed as dead +as the mummied hyacinth; and now it was a living, suffering thing, and all +alight with love. She had tasted of a new wine, and it burnt her, and was +bitter sweet, and yet she longed for more. And thus, by slow and sad degrees, +she learnt that her life, which had for thirty years flowed on its quiet way +unshadowed by love’s wing, must henceforth own his dominion, and be a +slave to his sorrows and caprices. No wonder that she grew afraid! +</p> + +<p> +But Mildred was a woman of keen insight into character, and it did not require +that her powers of observation should be sharpened by the condition of her +affections, to show her that, however deeply she might be in love with Arthur +Heigham, he was not one little bit in love with her. Knowing the almost +irresistible strength of her own beauty and attractions, she quickly came to +the conclusion—and it was one that sent a cold chill through +her—that there must be some other woman blocking the path to his heart. +For some reason or other, Arthur had never spoken to her of Angela, either +because a man very rarely volunteers information to a woman concerning his +existing relationship with another of her sex, knowing that to do so would be +to depreciate his value in her eyes, or from an instinctive knowledge that the +subject would not be an agreeable one, or perhaps because the whole matter was +too sacred to him. But she, on her part, was determined to probe his secret to +the bottom. So one sleepy afternoon, when they were sitting on the museum +verandah, about six weeks after the date of their arrival in the island, she +took her opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +Mildred was sitting, or rather half lying, in a cane-work chair, gazing out +over the peaceful sea, and Arthur, looking at her, thought what a lovely woman +she was, and wondered what it was that had made her face and eyes so much +softer and more attractive of late. Miss Terry was also there, complaining of +the heat, but presently she moved off after an imaginary beetle, and they were +alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, by-the-by, Mr. Heigham,” Mildred said, presently, “I was +going to ask you a question, if only I can remember what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Try to remember what it is about. ‘Shoes, sealing-wax, cabbages, +or kings.’ Does it come under any of those heads?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I remember now. If you had added ‘queens,’ you would not +have been far out. What I wanted to ask you——” and she turned +her large, brown eyes full upon him, and yawned slightly. “Dear me, +Agatha is right; it <i>is</i> hot!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am waiting to give you any information in my power.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! to be sure, the question. Well, it is a very simple one. Who are you +engaged to?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur nearly sprang off his chair with astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“What makes you think that I am engaged?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +She broke into a merry peal of laughter. Ah! if he could have known what that +laugh cost her. +</p> + +<p> +“What makes me think that you are engaged!” she answered, in a tone +of raillery. “Why, of course you would have been at my feet long ago, if +it had not been so. Come, don’t be reticent. I shall not laugh at you. +What is she like?” (Generally a woman’s first question about a +rival.) “Is she as good-looking—well, as I am, say—for, +though you may not think it, I have been thought good-looking.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is quite different from you; she is very tall and fair, like an +angel in a picture, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! then there is a ‘she,’ and a ‘she like an +angel.’ Very different <i>indeed</i> from me, I should think. How nicely +I caught you out;” and she laughed again. +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you want to catch me out?” said Arthur, on whose ear Mrs. +Carr’s tone jarred; he could not tell why. +</p> + +<p> +“Feminine curiosity, and a natural anxiety to fathom the reasons of your +sighs, that is all. But never mind, Mr. Heigham, you and I shall not quarrel +because you are engaged to be married. You shall tell me the story when you +like, for I am sure there is a story—no, not this afternoon; the sun has +given me a headache, and I am going to sleep it off. Other people’s +love-stories are very interesting to me, the more so because I have reached the +respectable age of thirty without being the subject of one myself;” and +again she laughed, this time at her own falsehood. But, when he had gone, there +was no laughter in her eyes, nothing but tears, bitter, burning tears. +</p> + +<p> +“Agatha,” said Mildred that evening, “I am sick of this +place. I want to go to the Isle of Wight. It must be quite nice there now. We +will go by the next Currie boat.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mildred,” replied Miss Terry, aghast, “if you were +going back so soon, why did you not leave me behind you? And just as we were +getting so nicely settled here too, and I shall be so sorry to say good-bye to +that young Heigham, he is such a nice young man! Why don’t you marry him? +I really thought you liked him. But, perhaps he is coming to the Isle of Wight +too. Oh, that dreadful bay!” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred winced at Miss Terry’s allusions to Arthur, of whom that lady had +grown extremely fond. +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry, dear,” she said, hastily; “but I am bored +to death, and it is such a bad insect year: so really you must begin to pack +up.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Terry began to pack accordingly, but, when next she alluded to the subject +of their departure, Mildred affected surprise, and asked her what she meant. +The astonished Agatha referred her to her own words, and was met by a laughing +disclaimer. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, you surely did not think that I was in earnest, did you? I was only +a little cross.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, really, Mildred, you’ve got so strange lately that I never +know when you are in earnest and when you are not, though, for my part, I am +very glad to stay in peace and quiet.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange, grown strange, have I!” said Mrs. Carr, looking dreamily +out of a window that commanded the carriage-drive, with her hands crossed +behind her. “Yes, I think that you are right. I think that I have lost +the old Mildred somewhere or other, and picked up a new one whom I don’t +understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, indeed,” remarked Miss Terry, in the most matter-of-fact way, +without having the faintest idea of what her friend was driving at. +</p> + +<p> +“How it rains! I suppose that he won’t come to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“He! Who’s he?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, how stupid you are! Mr. Heigham, of course!” +</p> + +<p> +“So you always mean him, when you say ‘he!’” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course I do, if it isn’t ungrammatical. It is miserable +this afternoon. I feel wretched. Why, actually, here he comes!” and she +tore off like a school-girl into the hall, to meet him. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, indeed,” again remarked Miss Terry, solemnly, to the empty +walls. “I am not such a fool as I look. I suppose that Mr. Heigham +wouldn’t come to the Isle of Wight.” +</p> + +<p> +It is perhaps needless to say that Mrs. Carr had never been more in earnest in +her life than when she announced her intention of departing to the Isle of +Wight. The discovery that her suspicions about Arthur had but too sure a +foundation had been a crushing blow to her hopes, and she had formed a wise +resolution to see no more of him. Happy would it have been for her, if she +could have found the moral courage to act up to it, and go away, a wiser, if a +sadder, woman. But this was not to be. The more she contemplated it, the more +did her passion —which was now both wild and deep—take hold upon +her heart, eating into it like acid into steel, and graving one name there in +ineffaceable letters. She could not bear the thought of parting from him, and +felt, or thought she felt, that her happiness was already too deeply pledged to +allow her to throw up the cards without an effort. +</p> + +<p> +Fortune favours the brave. Perhaps, after all, it would declare itself for her. +She was modest in her aspirations. She did not expect that he would ever give +her the love he bore this other woman; she only asked to live in the sunlight +of his presence, and would be glad to take him at his own price, or indeed at +any price. Man, she knew, is by nature as unstable as water, and will mostly +melt beneath the eyes of more women than one, as readily as ice before a fire +when the sun has hid his face. Yes, she would play the game out: she would not +throw away her life’s happiness without an effort. After all, matters +might have been worse: he might have been actually married. +</p> + +<p> +But she knew that her hand was a difficult one to lead from, though she also +knew that she held the great trumps—unusual beauty, practically unlimited +wealth, and considerable fascination of manner. Her part must be to attract +without repelling, charm without alarming, fascinate by slow degrees, till at +length he was involved in a net from which there was no escape, and, above all, +never to allow him to suspect her motives till the ripe moment came. It was a +hard task for a proud woman to set herself, and, in a manner, she was proud; +but, alas, with the best of us, when love comes in at the door, pride, reason, +and sometimes honour, fly out the window. +</p> + +<p> +And so Miss Terry heard no more talk of the Isle of Wight. +</p> + +<p> +Thenceforward, under the frank and open guise of friendship, Mildred contrived +to keep Arthur continually at her side. She did more. She drew from him all the +history of his engagement to Angela, and listened, with words of sympathy on +her lips, and wrath and bitter jealousy in her heart, to his enraptured +descriptions of her rival’s beauty and perfections. So benighted was he, +indeed, that once he went so far as to suggest that he should, when he and +Angela were married, come to Madeira to spend their honeymoon, and dilated on +the pleasant trips which they three might take together. +</p> + +<p> +“Truly,” thought Mildred to herself, “that would be +delightful.” Once, too, he even showed her a tress of Angela’s +hair, and, strange to say, she found that there still lingered in her bosom a +sufficient measure of vulgar first principles to cause her to long to snatch it +from him and throw it into the sea. But, as it was, she smiled faintly, and +admired openly, and then went to the glass to look at her own nut- brown +tresses. Never had she been so dissatisfied with them, and yet her hair was +considered lovely, and an aesthetic hair-dresser had once called it a +“poem.” +</p> + +<p> +“Blind fool,” she muttered, stamping her little foot upon the +floor, “why does he torture me so?” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred forgot that all love is blind, and that none was ever blinder or more +headstrong than her own. +</p> + +<p> +And so this second Calypso of a lovely isle set herself almost as unblushingly +as her prototype to get our very unheroic Ulysses into her toils. And Penelope, +poor Penelope, she sat at home and span, and defied her would-be lovers. +</p> + +<p> +But as yet Ulysses—I mean Arthur—was conscious of none of those +things. He was by nature an easy-going young gentleman, who took matters as he +found them, and asked no questions. And he found them very pleasant at Madeira, +or, rather, at the Quinta Carr, for he did everything except sleep there. +Within its precincts he was everywhere surrounded with that atmosphere of +subtle and refined flattery, flattery addressed chiefly to the intellect, that +is one of the most effective weapons of a clever woman. Soon the drawing-room +tables were loaded with his favourite books, and no songs but such as he +approved were ordered from London. +</p> + +<p> +He discovered one evening, for instance, that Mildred looked best at night in +black and silver, and next morning Mr. Worth received a telegram requesting him +to forward without delay a large consignment of dresses in which those colours +predominated. +</p> + +<p> +On another occasion he casually threw out a suggestion about the erection of a +terrace in the garden, and shortly afterwards was surprised to find a small +army of Portuguese labourers engaged upon the work. He had made this suggestion +in total ignorance of the science of garden engineering, and its execution +necessitated the removal of vast quantities of soil and the blasting of many +tons of rock. The contractor employed by Mrs. Carr pointed out how the terrace +could be made equally well at a fifth of the expense, but it did not happen to +take exactly the direction that Arthur had indicated, so she would have none of +it. His word was law, and, because he had spoken, the whole place was for a +month overrun with dirty labourers, whilst, to the great detriment of Miss +Terry’s remaining nerves, and even to the slight discomfort of His Royal +Highness himself, the air resounded all day long with the terrific bangs of the +blasting powder. +</p> + +<p> +But, so long as he was pleased with the progress of the improvement, Mildred +felt no discomfort, nor would she allow any one else to express any. It even +aggravated her to see Miss Terry put her hands to her head and jump, whenever a +particularly large piece of ordnance was discharged, and she would vow that it +must be affectation, because she never even noticed it. +</p> + +<p> +In short, Mildred Carr possessed to an extraordinary degree that faculty for +blind, unreasoning adoration which is so characteristic of the sex, an +adoration that is at once magnificent in the entirety of its own +self-sacrifice, and extremely selfish. When she thought that she could please +Arthur, the state of Agatha’s nerves became a matter of supreme +indifference to her, and in the same way, had she been an absolute monarch, she +would have spent the lives of thousands, and shaken empires till thrones came +tumbling down like apples in the wind, if she had believed that she could +thereby advance herself in his affections. +</p> + +<p> +But, as it never occurred to Arthur that Mrs. Carr might be in love with him, +he saw nothing abnormal about all this. Not that he was conceited, for nobody +was ever less so, but it is wonderful what an amount of flattery and attention +men will accept from women as their simple right. If the other sex possesses +the faculty of admiration, we in compensation are perfectly endowed with that +of receiving it with careless ease, and when we fall in with some goddess who +is foolish enough to worship <i>us</i>, and to whom <i>we</i> should be on our +knees, we merely label her “sympathetic,” and say that she +“understands us.” +</p> + +<p> +From all of which wise reflections the reader will gather that our friend +Arthur was not a hundred miles off an awkward situation. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2> + +<p> +One day, some three weeks after Arthur had gone, Angela strolled down the +tunnel walk, now, in the height of summer, almost dark with the shade of the +lime-trees, and settled herself on one of the stone seats under +Caresfoot’s staff. +</p> + +<p> +She had a book in hand, but it soon became clear that she had come to this +secluded spot to think rather than read, for it fell unopened from her hand, +and her grey eyes were full of a far-off look as they gazed across the lake +glittering in the sunlight, away towards the hazy purple outline of the distant +hills. Her face was quite calm, but it was not that of a happy person; indeed, +it gave a distinct idea of mental suffering. All grief, however acute, is +subject to fixed gradations, and Angela was yet in the second stage. First +there is the acute stage, when the heart aches with a physical pain, and the +mind, filled with a wild yearning or tortured by an unceasing anxiety, well- +nigh gives beneath the abnormal strain. This does not last long, or it would +kill or drive us to the mad-house. Then comes that long epoch of dull misery, +enduring till at last kindly nature in pity rubs off the rough extremes of our +calamity, and by slow but sure degrees softens agony into sorrow. +</p> + +<p> +This was what she was now passing through, and—as all highly organized +natures like her own are, especially in youth, very sensitive to those more +exquisite vibrations of pain and happiness that leave minds of a coarser fibre +comparatively unmoved—it may be taken for granted that she was suffering +sufficiently acutely. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps she had never quite realized how necessary Arthur had become to her, +how deep his love had sent its fibres into her heart and inner self, until he +was violently wrenched away from her and she lost all sight and knowledge of +him in the darkness of the outside world. Still she had made no show of her +sorrow; but once, when Pigott told her some pathetic story of the death of a +little child in the village, she burst into a paroxysm of weeping. The pity for +another’s pain had loosed the flood-gates of her own, but it was a +performance that she did not repeat. +</p> + +<p> +But Angela had her anxieties as well as her griefs, and it was over these +former that she was thinking as she sat on the great stone under the oak. Love +is a wonderful quickener of the perceptions, and, ignorant as she was of all +the world’s ways, the more she thought over the terms imposed by her +father upon her engagement, the more distrustful did she grow. Lady Bellamy, +too, had been to see her twice, and on each occasion had inspired her with a +lively sense of fear and repugnance. During the first of these visits she had +shown a perfect acquaintance with the circumstances of her engagement, her +“flirtation with Mr. Heigham,” as she was pleased to call it. +During the second call, too, she had been full of strange remarks about her +cousin George, talking mysteriously of “a change” that had come +over him since his illness, and of his being under a “new +influence.” Nor was this all; for, on the very next day when she was out +walking with Pigott in the village, she had met George himself, and he had +insisted upon entering into a long rambling conversation with her, and on +looking at her in a way that made her feel perfectly sick. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Aleck,” she said, aloud, to the dog that was sitting by her +side with his head upon her knee, for he was now her constant companion, +“I wonder where your master is, your master and mine, Aleck. Would to God +that he were back here to protect me, for I am growing afraid, I don’t +know of what, Aleck, and there are eleven long silent months to wait.” At +this moment the dog raised his head, listened, and sprang round with an angry +“woof.” Angela rose up with a flash of hope in her eyes, turned, +and faced George Caresfoot. +</p> + +<p> +He was still pale and shrivelled from the effects of his illness, but otherwise +little changed, except that the light-blue eyes glittered with a fierce +determination, and that the features had attained that fixity and strength +which sometimes come to those who are bent heart and soul upon an enterprise, +be it good or evil. +</p> + +<p> +“So I have found you out at last, Cousin Angela. What, are you not going +to shake hands with me?” +</p> + +<p> +Angela touched his fingers with her own. +</p> + +<p> +“My father is not here,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, my dear cousin, but I did not come to see your father, of +whom I have seen plenty in the course of my life, and shall doubtless see more; +I came to see you, of whom I can never see enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand you,” said Angela, defiantly, folding her +arms across her bosom and looking him full in the face with fearless eyes, for +her instinct warned her that she was in danger, and also that, whatever she +might feel, she must not show that she was afraid. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall hope to make you do so before long,” he replied, with a +meaning glance; “but you are not very polite, you know, you do not offer +me a seat.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon, I did not know that you wanted to sit down. I can +only offer you a choice of those stones.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then call that brute away, and I will sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +“The dog is not a brute, as you mean it. But I should not speak of him +like that, if I were you. He is sensible as a human being, and might resent +it.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela knew that George was a coward about dogs; and at that moment, as though +to confirm her words, Aleck growled slightly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, indeed; well, he is certainly a handsome dog;” and he sat down +suspiciously. “Won’t you come and sit down?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. I prefer to stand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what you look like, standing there with your arms crossed? +You look like an angry goddess.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean that seriously, I don’t understand you. If it is a +compliment, I don’t like compliments.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are not very friendly,” said George, whose temper was fast +getting the better of him. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry. I do not wish to be unfriendly.” +</p> + +<p> +“So I hear that my ward has been staying here whilst I was ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he was staying here.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am also told that there was some boy-and-girl love affair between +you. I suppose that he indulged in a flirtation to wile away the time.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela turned upon him, too angry to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you need not look at me like that. You surely never expect to see +him again, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“If we both live, I shall certainly see him again; indeed, I shall, in +any case.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will never see him again.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he was only flirting and playing the fool with you. He is a +notorious flirt, and, to my certain knowledge, has been engaged to two women +before.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not believe that that is true, or, if it is true, it is not all the +truth; but, true or untrue, I am not going to discuss Mr. Heigham with you, or +allow myself to be influenced by stories told behind his back.” +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” said George, rising, and seizing her hand. +</p> + +<p> +She turned quite pale, and a shudder passed over her frame. +</p> + +<p> +“Leave my hand alone, and never dare to touch me again. This is the +second time that you have tried to insult me.” +</p> + +<p> +“So!” answered George, furious with outraged pride and baffled +passion, “you set up your will against mine, do you? Very well, you shall +see. I will crush you to powder. Insult you, indeed! How often did that young +blackguard insult you? I warrant he did more than take your hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“If,” answered Angela, “you mean Mr. Heigham, I shall leave +you to consider whether that term is not more applicable to the person who does +his best to outrage an unprotected woman, and take advantage of the absent, +than to the gentleman against whom you have used it;” and, darting on him +one glance of supreme contempt, she swept away like an angry queen. +</p> + +<p> +Left to his meditations, George shook his fist towards where she had vanished. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, my fine lady, very well,” he said, aloud. “You +treat me as so much dirt, do you? You shall smart for this, so sure as my name +is George Caresfoot. Only wait till you are in my power, and you shall learn +that I was never yet defied with impunity. Oh, and you shall learn many other +things also.” +</p> + +<p> +From that time forward, Angela was, for a period of two months or more, +subjected to an organized persecution as harassing as it was cruel. George +waylaid her everywhere, and twice actually succeeded in entering into +conversation with her, but on both occasions she managed to escape from him +before he could proceed any further. So persistently did he hunt her, that at +last the wretched girl was driven to hide herself away in odd corners of the +house and woods, in order to keep out of his way. Then he took to writing her +letters, and sending handsome presents, all of which she returned. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Angela! It was hard both to lose her lover, and to suffer daily from the +persecutions of her hateful cousin, which were now pushed forward so openly and +with such pertinacity as to fill her with vague alarm. What made her position +worse was, that she had no one in whom to confide, for Mr. Fraser had not yet +returned. Pigott indeed knew more or less what was going on, but she could do +nothing, except bewail Arthur’s absence, and tell her “not to +mind.” There remained her father, but with him she had never been on +sufficiently intimate terms for confidence. Indeed, as time went on, the +suspicion gathered strength in her mind that he was privy to George’s +advances, and that those advances had something to do with the harsh terms +imposed upon Arthur and herself. But at last matters grew so bad that, having +no other refuge, she determined to appeal to him for protection. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” she said, boldly, one day to Philip, as he was sitting +writing in his study, “my cousin George is persecuting me every day. I +have borne it as long as I can, but I can bear it no longer. I have come to ask +you to protect me from him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Angela, I should have thought that you were perfectly capable of +protecting yourself. What is he persecuting you about? What does he +want?” +</p> + +<p> +“To marry me, I suppose,” answered Angela, blushing to her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that is a very complimentary wish on his part, and I can tell you +what it is, Angela, if only you could get that young Heigham out of your head, +you might do a deal worse.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite useless to talk to me like that,” she answered, +coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that is your affair; but it is very ridiculous of you to come and +ask me to protect you. The woman must, indeed, be a fool who cannot protect +herself.” +</p> + +<p> +And so the interview ended. +</p> + +<p> +Next day Lady Bellamy called again. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear child,” she said to Angela, “you are not looking +well; this business worries you, no doubt; it is the old struggle between duty +and inclination, that we have most of us gone through. Well, there is one +consolation, nobody who ever did his or her duty, regardless of inclination, +ever regretted it in the end.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, Lady Bellamy, when you talk about my duty?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean the plain duty that lies before you of marrying your cousin +George, and of throwing up this young Heigham.” +</p> + +<p> +“I recognize no such duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Angela, do look at the matter from a sensible point of view, +think what a good thing it would be for your father, and remember, too, that it +would re-unite all the property. If ever a girl had a clear duty to perform, +you have.” +</p> + +<p> +“Since you insist so much upon my ‘duty,’ I must say that it +seems to me that an honest girl in my position has three duties to consider, +and not one, as you say, Lady Bellamy. First, there is her duty to the man she +loves, for her the greatest duty of any in the world; next her duty to herself, +for her happiness and self-respect are involved in her decision; and, lastly, +her duty to her family. I put the family last, because, after all, it is she +who gets married, not her family.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy smiled a little. +</p> + +<p> +“You argue well; but there is one thing that you overlook, though I am +sorry to have to pain you by saying it; young Mr. Heigham is no better than he +should be. I have made inquiries about him, and think that I ought to tell you +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that his life, young as he is, has not been so creditable as it +might have been. He has been the hero of one or two little affairs. I can tell +you about them if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Bellamy, your stories are either true or untrue. If true, I should +take no notice of them, because they must have happened before he loved me; if +untrue, they would be a mere waste of breath, so I think that we may dispense +with the stories—they would influence me no more than the hum of next +summer’s gnats.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy smiled again. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a curious woman,” she said; “but, supposing that +there were to be a repetition of these little stories <i>after</i> he loved +you, what would you say then?” +</p> + +<p> +Angela looked troubled, and thought awhile. +</p> + +<p> +“He could never go far from me,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that I hold the strings of his heart in my hands, and I have only +to lift them to draw him back to me—so. No other woman, no living force, +can keep him from me, if I choose to bid him come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Supposing that to be so, how about the self-respect you spoke of just +now? Could you bear to take your lover back from the hands of another +woman?” +</p> + +<p> +“That would entirely depend upon the circumstances, and upon what was +just to the other woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“You would not then throw him up without question?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Bellamy, I may be very ignorant and simple, but I am neither mad +nor a fool. What do you suppose that my life would be worth to me if I threw +Arthur up? If I remained single it would be an aching void, as it is now, and +if I married any other man whilst he still lived, it would become a daily and +shameful humiliation such as I had rather die than endure.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy glanced up from under her heavy-lidded eyes; a thought had +evidently struck her, but she did not express it. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I am to tell your cousin George that you will have absolutely +nothing to do with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and beg him to cease persecuting me; it is quite useless; if there +were no Arthur and no other man in the world, I would not marry him. I detest +him—I cannot tell you how I detest him.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is amusing to hear you talk so, and to think that you will certainly +be Mrs. George Caresfoot within nine months.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” answered Angela, passionately stamping her foot upon the +floor. “What makes you say such horrible things?” +</p> + +<p> +“I reflect,” answered Lady Bellamy, with an ominous smile, +“that George Caresfoot has made up his mind to marry you, and that I have +made up mine to help him to do so, and that your will, strong as it certainly +is, is, as compared with our united wills, what a straw is to a gale. The straw +cannot travel against the wind, it <i>must</i> go with it, and you <i>must</i> +marry George Caresfoot. You will as certainly come to the altar-rails with him +as you will to your death-bed. It is written in your face. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +For the first time Angela’s courage really gave way as she heard these +dreadful words. She remembered how she herself had called Lady Bellamy an +embodiment of the “Spirit of Power,” and now she felt that the +comparison was just. The woman was power incarnate, and her words, which from +anybody else she would have laughed at, sent a cold chill through her. +</p> + +<p> +“She is a fine creature both in mind and body,” reflected Lady +Bellamy, as she stepped into her carriage. “Really, though I try to hate +her, I can find it in my heart to be sorry for her. Indeed, I am not sure that +I do not like her; certainly I respect her. But she has come in my path and +must be crushed—my own safety demands it. At least, she is worth +crushing, and the game is fair, for perhaps she will crush me. I should not be +surprised; there is a judgment in those grey eyes of hers—Qui vivra +verra. Home, William.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2> + +<p> +Angela’s appeal for protection set Philip thinking. +</p> + +<p> +As the reader is aware, his sole motive in consenting to become, as it were, a +sleeping partner in the shameful plot, of which his innocent daughter was the +object, was to obtain possession of his lost inheritance, and it now occurred +to him that even should that plot succeed, which he very greatly doubted, +nothing had as yet been settled as to the terms upon which it was to be +reconveyed to him. The whole affair was excessively repugnant to him: indeed, +he regarded the prospect of its success with little less than terror, only his +greed over-mastered his fear. +</p> + +<p> +But on one point he was very clear: it should not succeed except upon the very +best of terms for himself, his daughter should not be sacrificed unless the +price paid for the victim was positively princely, such guilt was not to be +incurred for a bagatelle. If George married Angela, the Isleworth estates must +pass back into his hands for a very low sum indeed. But would his cousin be +willing to accept such a sum? That was the rub, and that, too, was what must be +made clear without any further delay. He had no wish to see Angela put to +needless suffering, suffering which would not bring an equivalent with it, and +which might, on the contrary, entail consequences upon himself that he +shuddered to think of. +</p> + +<p> +Curiously enough, however, he had of late been signally free from his +superstitious fears; indeed, since the night when he had so astonished Arthur +by his outbreak about the shadows on the wall, no fit had come to trouble him, +and he was beginning to look upon the whole thing as an evil dream, a nightmare +that he had at last lived down. But still the nightmare might return, and he +was not going to run the risk unless he was very well paid for it. And so he +determined to offer a price so low for the property that no man in his senses +would accept it, and then wrote a note to George asking him to come over on the +following evening after dinner, as he wished to speak to him on a matter of +business. +</p> + +<p> +“There,” he said to himself, “that will make an end of the +affair, and I will get young Heigham back and they can be married. George can +never take what I mean to offer; if he should, the Egyptian will be spoiled +indeed, and the game will be worth the candle. Not that I have any +responsibility about it, however; I shall put no pressure on Angela, she must +choose for herself.” And Philip went to bed, quite feeling as though he +had done a virtuous action. +</p> + +<p> +George came punctually enough on the following evening, which was that of the +day of Lady Bellamy’s conversation with Angela, a conversation which had +so upset the latter that she had already gone to her room, not knowing anything +of her cousin’s proposed visit. +</p> + +<p> +The night was one of those dreadfully oppressive ones that sometimes visit us +in the course of an English summer. The day had been hot and sultry, and with +the fall of the evening the little breeze that stirred in the thunder-laden air +had died away, leaving the temperature at much the same point that is to be +expected in a tropical valley, and rendering the heat of the house almost +unbearable. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, George?” said Philip. “Hot, isn’t +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, there will be a tempest soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not before midnight, I think. Shall we go and walk down by the lake, it +will be cooler there, and we shall be quite undisturbed? Walls have ears +sometimes, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; but where is Angela?” +</p> + +<p> +“I met her on the stairs just now, and she said that she was going to +bed—got a headache, I believe. Shall we start?” +</p> + +<p> +So soon as they were well away from the house, Philip broke the ice. +</p> + +<p> +“Some months back, I had a conversation with Lady Bellamy on the subject +of a proposal that you made to me through her for Angela’s hand. It is +about that I wish to speak to you now. First, I must ask if you still wish to +go on with the business?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, I wish it more than ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as I intimated to Lady Bellamy, I do not at all approve of your +suit. Angela is already, subject to my consent, very suitably engaged to your +late ward, a young fellow whom, whatever you may think about him, I like very +much; and I can assure you that it will require the very strongest inducements +to make me even allow such a thing. In any case, I will have nothing to do with +influencing Angela; she is a perfectly free agent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which means, I suppose, that you intend to screw down the price?” +</p> + +<p> +“In wanting to marry Angela,” went on Philip, “you must +remember that you fly high. She is a very lovely woman, and, what is more, will +some day or other be exceedingly well off, whilst you—you must excuse me +for being candid, but this is a mere matter of business, and I am only talking +of you in the light of a possible son-in-law—you are a middle-aged man, +not prepossessing in appearance, broken in health, and, however well you may +have kept up your reputation in these parts, as you and I well know, without a +single shred of character left; altogether not a man to whom a father would +marry his daughter of his own free will, or one with whom a young girl is +likely to find happiness.” +</p> + +<p> +“You draw a flattering picture of me, I must say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, only a true one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if I am all you say, how is it that you are prepared to allow your +daughter to marry me at all?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will tell you; because the rights of property should take precedence +of the interests of a single individual. Because my father and you between you +cozened me out of my lawful own, and this is the only way that I see of coming +by it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter? in any case after your death the land will come +back to Angela and her children.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, George, it will not; if ever the Isleworth estates come into my +hands, they shall not pass again to any child of yours.” +</p> + +<p> +“What would you do with them, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Marry, and get children of my own.” +</p> + +<p> +George whistled. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I must say that your intentions are amiable, but you have not got +the estates yet, my dear cousin.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, and never shall have, most likely; but let us come to the point. +Although I do not approve of your advances, I am willing to waive my objections +and accept you as a son-in-law, if you can win Angela’s consent, provided +that before the marriage you consent to give me clear transfer, at a price, of +all the Isleworth estates, with the exception of the mansion and the +pleasure-grounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good; but now about the price. That is the real point.” +</p> + +<p> +They had taken a path that ran down through the shrubberies to the side of the +lake, and then turned up towards Caresfoot’s Staff. Before answering +George’s remark, Philip proposed that they should sit down, and, suiting +the action to the word, placed himself upon the trunk of a fallen tree that lay +by the water’s edge, just outside the spread of the branches of the great +oak, and commanding a view of the area beneath them. +</p> + +<p> +“The moon will come out again presently,” he said, when George had +followed his example. “She has got behind that thunder-cloud. Ah!” +as a bright flash of lightning passed from heaven to earth, “I thought +that we should get a storm; it will be here in half an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +All this Philip said to gain time; he had not quite made up his mind what price +to offer. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind the lightning. What do you offer for the property, inclusive +of timber, and with all improvements—just as it stands, in short.” +</p> + +<p> +“One hundred thousand pounds cash,” said Philip, deliberately. +</p> + +<p> +George sprang from his seat, and sat down again before he answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that I am drunk, or a fool, that you come to me with such a +ridiculous offer? Why, the probate valuation was two hundred thousand, and that +was very low.” +</p> + +<p> +“I offer one hundred thousand, and am willing to settle thirty thousand +absolutely on the girl should she marry you, and twenty thousand more on my +death. That is my offer—take it, or leave it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Talk sense, man; your terms are preposterous.” +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you that, preposterous or not, I will not go beyond them. If you +don’t like them, well and good, leave them alone, and I’ll put +myself in communication with young Heigham to-morrow, and tell him that he can +come and marry the girl as soon as he likes. For my part, I am very glad to +have the business settled.” +</p> + +<p> +“You ask me to sacrifice half my property,” groaned George. +</p> + +<p> +“My property, you mean, that you stole. But I don’t ask you to do +anything one way or the other. I am to understand that you refuse my +offer?” +</p> + +<p> +“Give me a minute to think,” and George hid his face in his hand, +and Philip, looking at him with hatred gleaming in his dark eyes, muttered +between his teeth, +</p> + +<p> +“I believe that my turn has come at last.” +</p> + +<p> +When some thirty seconds had passed in silence, the attention of the pair was +attracted by the cracking of dead leaves that sounded quite startling in the +intense stillness of the night, and next second a tall figure in white glided +up to the water’s edge, and stood still within half a dozen paces of +them. +</p> + +<p> +Involuntarily Philip gripped his cousin’s arm, but neither of them moved. +The sky had rapidly clouded up, and the faint light that struggled from the +moon only served to show that the figure appeared to be lifting its arms. In +another second that was gone too, and the place was totally dark. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait till the moon comes out, and we shall see what it is,” +whispered George, and, as he spoke, there came from the direction of the figure +a rustling sound as of falling garments. +</p> + +<p> +“What can it be?” whispered Philip. +</p> + +<p> +They were not left long in doubt, for at that instant a vivid flash from the +thunder-cloud turned the darkness into the most brilliant day, and revealed a +woman standing up to her knees in the water, with her arms lifted, knotting her +long hair. It was Angela. For one moment the fierce light shone upon the +stately form that gleamed whiter than ivory—white as snow against the +dense background of the brushwood, and, as it passed, they heard her sink into +the water softly as a swan, and strike out with steady strokes towards the +centre of the lake. +</p> + +<p> +“It is only Angela,” said Philip, when the sound of the strokes +grew faint. “Phew! what a state she gave me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she safe?” asked George, in a husky voice. “Hadn’t +I better get a boat?” +</p> + +<p> +“She needs no help from you, she is quite capable of looking after +herself, especially in the water, I can tell you,” Philip answered, +sharply. +</p> + +<p> +Nothing more was said till they reached the house, when, on entering the +lighted study, Philip noticed that his cousin’s face was flushed, and his +hands shaking like aspen leaves. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, what is the matter with you, man?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing—nothing. I am only rather cold. Give me some +brandy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cold on such a night as this? That’s curious,” said Philip, +as he got the spirit from a cupboard. +</p> + +<p> +George drank about a wine-glassful neat, and seemed to recover himself. +</p> + +<p> +“I accept your offer for the land, Philip,” he said, presently. +</p> + +<p> +His cousin looked at him curiously, and a brilliant idea struck him. +</p> + +<p> +“You agree, then, to take <i>fifty</i> thousand pounds for the Isleworth +estates in the event of your marrying my daughter, the sale to be completed +before the marriage takes place?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fifty thousand! No, a hundred thousand—you said a hundred thousand +just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must have misunderstood me, or I must have made a mistake; what I +meant is <i>fifty thousand</i>, and you to put a thousand down as earnest +money—to be forfeited whether the affair comes off or not.” +</p> + +<p> +George ground his teeth and clutched at his red hair, proceedings that his +cousin watched with a great deal of quiet enjoyment. When at length he spoke, +it was in a low, hoarse voice; quite unlike his usual hard tones: +</p> + +<p> +“Damn you!” he said, “you have me at your mercy. Take the +land for the money, if you like, though it will nearly ruin me. That woman has +turned my head; I <i>must</i> marry her, or I shall go mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good; that is your affair. Remember that I have no responsibility +in the matter, and that I am not going to put any pressure on Angela. If you +want to marry her, you must win her within the next eight months. Then that is +settled. I suppose that you will pay in the thousand to-morrow. The storm is +coming up fast, so I won’t keep you. Good night,” and they +separated, George to drive home—with fever in his heart, and the +thunderstorm, of which he heard nothing, rattling round him—and Philip to +make his way to bed, with the dream of his life advanced a step nearer +realization. +</p> + +<p> +“That was a lucky swim of Angela’s to-night,” he thought. +“Fifty thousand pounds for the estate. He is right; he must be going mad. +But will he get her to marry him, I wonder. If he does, I shall cry quits with +him, indeed.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2> + +<p> +George had spoken no falsehood when he said that he felt as though he must +marry Angela or go mad. Indeed, it is a striking proof of how necessary he +thought that step to be to his happiness, that he had been willing to consent +to his cousin’s Shylock-like terms about the sale of the property, +although they would in their result degrade him from his position as a large +landed proprietor, and make a comparatively poor man of him. The danger or +suffering that could induce a Caresfoot to half ruin himself with his eyes open +had need to be of an extraordinarily pressing nature. +</p> + +<p> +Love’s empire is this globe and all mankind; the most refined and the +most degraded, the cleverest and the most stupid, are all liable to become his +faithful subjects. He can alike command the devotion of an archbishop and a +South-Sea Islander, of the most immaculate maiden lady (whatever her age) and +of the savage Zulu girl. From the pole to the equator, and from the equator to +the further pole, there is no monarch like Love. Where he sets his foot, the +rocks bloom with flowers, or the garden becomes a wilderness, according to his +good- will and pleasure, and at his whisper all other allegiances melt away +like ropes of mud. He is the real arbiter of the destinies of the world. +</p> + +<p> +But to each nature of all the millions beneath his sway, Love comes in a +fitting guise, to some as an angel messenger, telling of sympathy and peace, +and a strange new hope; to others draped in sad robes indeed, but still divine. +Thus when he visits such a one as George Caresfoot, it is as a potent fiend, +whose mission is to enter through man’s lower nature, to torture and +destroy; to scorch the heart with fearful heats, and then to crush it, and +leave its owner’s bosom choked with bitter dust. +</p> + +<p> +And, so far as George is concerned, there is no doubt but what the work was +done right well, for under the influence of what is, with doubtful propriety, +known as the “tender passion,” that estimable character was rapidly +drifting within a measurable distance of a lunatic asylum. The checks and +repulses that he had met with, instead of cooling his ardour, had only the +effect of inflaming it to an extraordinary degree. Angela’s scornful +dislike, as water thrown upon burning oil, did but diffuse the flames of his +passion throughout the whole system of his mind, till he grew wild with its +heat and violence. Her glorious beauty daily took a still stronger hold upon +his imagination, till it scorched into his very soul. For whole nights he could +not sleep, for whole days he would scarcely eat or do anything but walk, walk, +walk, and try to devise means to win her to his side. The irritation of the +mind produced its natural effects upon his conduct, and he would burst into +fits of the most causeless fury. In one of these he dismissed every servant in +the house, and so evil was his reputation among that class, that he had great +difficulty in obtaining others to take their place. In another he hurled a +heavy pot containing an azalea-bush at the head of one of the gardeners, and +had to compromise an action for assault. In short, the lunatic asylum loomed +very near indeed. +</p> + +<p> +For a week or so after the memorable night of his interview with Philip, an +interview that he, at least, would never forget, George was quite unable, try +as he would, to get a single word with Angela. +</p> + +<p> +At last, one day, when he was driving, by a seldom-used road, past the fields +near the Abbey House on his way from Roxham, chance gave him the opportunity +that he had for so long sought without success. For, far up a by-lane that led +to a turnip-field, his eye caught sight of the flutter of a grey dress +vanishing round a corner, something in the make of which suggested to him that +Angela was its wearer. Giving the reins to the servant, and bidding him drive +on home, he got out of the dog-cart and hurried up the grassy track, and on +turning the corner came suddenly upon the object of his search. She was +standing on the bank of the hedge-row, and struggling with a bough of +honeysuckle from which she wished to pluck its last remaining autumn bloom. So +engaged was she that she did not hear his step, and it was not until his hard +voice grated on her ear, that she knew that she was trapped. +</p> + +<p> +“Caught at last. You have given me a pretty hunt, Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +The violent start she gave effectually carried out her purpose as regards the +honeysuckle, which snapped in two under the strain of her backward jerk, and +she turned round upon him panting with fear and exertion, the flowery bough +grasped within her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I, then, a wild creature, that you should hunt me so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you are the loveliest and the wildest of creatures, and, now I have +caught you, you must listen to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not listen to you; you have nothing to say to me that can +interest me. I will not listen to you.” +</p> + +<p> +George laughed a little—a threatening, nervous laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“I am accustomed to have my own way, Angela, and I am not going to give +it up now. You must and you shall listen. I have got my opportunity at last, +and I mean to use it. I am sorry to have to speak so roughly, but you have only +yourself to thank; you have driven me to it.” +</p> + +<p> +His determination frightened her, and she took refuge in an armour of calm and +freezing contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand you,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“On the contrary, you understand me very well. You always avoid me; I can +never see you, try how I will. Perhaps,” he went on, still talking quite +quietly, “if you knew what a hell there is in my heart and brain you +would not treat me so. I tell you that I am in torture,” and the muscles +of the pallid face twitched in a way that went far to confirm his words. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand your meaning, unless, indeed, you are trying to +frighten and insult me, as you have done before,” answered Angela. +</p> + +<p> +Poor girl, she did not know what else to say; she was not of a nervous +disposition, but there was something about George’s manner that alarmed +her very much, and she glanced anxiously around to see if any one was within +call, but the place was lonely as the grave. +</p> + +<p> +“There is no need for you to look for help, I wish neither to frighten +nor insult you; my suit is an honourable one enough. I wish you to promise to +marry me, that is all; you must and shall promise it, I will take no refusal. +You were made for me and I for you; it is quite useless for you to resist me, +for you must marry me at last. I love you, and by that right you belong to me. +I love you—I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You—love—me—you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do, and why should you look at me like that? I cannot help it, +you are so beautiful; if you knew your loveliness, you would understand me. I +love those grey eyes of yours, even when they flash and burn as they do now. +Ah! they shall look softly at me yet, and those sweet lips that curl so +scornfully shall shape themselves to kiss me. Listen, I loved you when I first +saw you there in the drawing-room at Isleworth, I loved you more and more all +the time that I was ill, and now I love you to madness. So you see, Angela, you +<i>must</i> marry me soon.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>I</i> marry you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! don’t say you won’t, for God’s sake, don’t +say you won’t,” said George, with a sudden change of manner from +the confident to the supplicatory. “Look, I beg you not to, on my +knees,” and he actually flung himself down on the grass roadway and +grovelled before her in an abandonment of passion hideous to behold. +</p> + +<p> +She turned very pale, and answered him in a cold, quiet voice, every syllable +of which fell upon him like the stroke of a knife. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a thing would be quite impossible for many reasons, but I need only +repeat you one that you are already aware of. I am engaged to Mr. +Heigham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah, that is nothing. I know that; but you will not throw away such a +love as I have to offer for the wavering affection of a boy. We can soon get +rid of him. Write and tell him that you have changed your mind. Listen, +Angela,” he went on, catching her by the skirt of her dress; “he is +not rich, he has only got enough for a bare living. I have five times the +money, and you shall help to spend it. Don’t marry a young beggar like +that; you won’t get value for yourself. It will pay you ever so much +better to marry me.” +</p> + +<p> +George was convinced from his experience of the sex that every woman could be +bought if only you bid high enough; but, as the sequel showed, he could not +well have used a worse argument to a person like Angela, or one more likely to +excite the indignation that fear of him, together with a certain respect for +the evident genuineness of his suffering, had hitherto kept in suppression. She +wrenched her dress free from him, leaving a portion of its fabric in his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you not ashamed?” she said, her voice trembling with +indignation and her eyes filled with angry tears; “are you not ashamed to +talk to me like this, <i>you</i>, my own father’s cousin, and yourself +old enough to be my father? I tell you that my love is already given, which +would have been a sufficient answer to any <i>gentleman</i>, and you reply by +saying that you are richer than the man I love. Do you believe that a woman +thinks of nothing but money? or do you suppose that I am to be bought like a +beast at the market? Get up from the ground, for, since your brutality forces +me to speak so plainly in my own defence, I must tell you once and for all that +you will get nothing by kneeling to me. Listen: I would rather die than be your +wife; rather than always see your face about me, I would pass my life in +prison; I had sooner be touched by a snake than by you. You are quite hateful +to me. Now you have your answer, and I beg that you will get up and let me +pass!” +</p> + +<p> +Drawn up the full height of her majestic stature, her face flushed with +emotion, and her clear eyes flashing scornful fire, whilst in her hand she +still held the bough of sweet honeysuckle; Angela formed a strange contrast to +the miserable man crouched at her feet, swaying himself to and fro and moaning, +his hat off and his face hidden in his trembling hands. +</p> + +<p> +As he would not, or could not move, she left him there, and slipping through a +neighbouring gap vanished from sight. When she was fairly gone, he stirred, and +having risen and recovered his hat, which had fallen off in his excitement, his +first action was to shake his fist in the direction in which she had vanished, +his next to frantically kiss the fragment of her dress that he still held in +his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>shall</i> marry me yet, my fine lady,” he hissed between +his teeth; “and, if I do not repay your gentle words with interest, my +name is not George Caresfoot;” and then, staggering like a drunken man, +he made his way home. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur,” thought Angela, as she crept quite broken in spirit +to the solitude of her room, “if I only knew where you were, I think that +I would follow you, promise or no promise. There is no one to help me, no one; +they are all in league against me—even my own father.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2> + +<p> +Notwithstanding his brave threats made behind Angela’s back, about +forcing her to marry him in the teeth of any opposition that she could offer, +George reached home that night very much disheartened about the whole business. +How was he to bow the neck of this proud woman to his yoke, and break the +strong cord of her allegiance to her absent lover. With many girls it might +have been possible to find a way, but Angela was not an ordinary girl. He had +tried, and Lady Bellamy had tried, and they had both failed, and as for Philip +he would take no active part in the matter. What more could be done? Only one +thing that he could think of, he could force Lady Bellamy to search her finer +brains for a fresh expedient. Acting upon this idea, he at once despatched a +note to her, requesting her to come and see him at Isleworth on the following +morning. +</p> + +<p> +That night passed very ill for the love-lorn George. Angela’s vigorous +and imaginative expression of her entire loathing of him had pierced even the +thick hide of his self-conceit, and left him sore as a whipped hound, +altogether too sore to sleep. When Lady Bellamy arrived on the following +morning, she found him marching up and down the dining-room, in the worst of +his bad tempers, and that was a very shocking temper indeed. His light blue +eyes were angry and bloodshot, his general appearance slovenly to the last +degree, and a red spot burned upon each sallow cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, George, what is the matter? You don’t look quite so happy as +a lover should.” +</p> + +<p> +He grunted by way of answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Has the lady been unkind, failed to appreciate your advances, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now look here, Anne,” he answered, savagely, “if I have to +put up with things from that confounded girl, I am not going to stand your +jeers, so stop them once and for all.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very evident that she has been unkind. Supposing that instead of +abusing me you tell me the details. No doubt they are interesting,” and +she settled herself in a low chair, and glanced at him keenly from under her +heavy eyelids. +</p> + +<p> +Thus admonished, George proceeded to giver her such a version of his melancholy +tale as best suited him, needless to say not a full one, but his hearer’s +imagination easily supplied the gaps, and, as he proceeded, a slow smile crept +over her face as she conjured up the suppressed details of the scene in the +lane. +</p> + +<p> +“Curse you! what are you laughing at? You came here to listen, not +laugh,” broke out George furiously, when he saw it. +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer, and he continued his thrilling tale without comment on her +part. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” he said, when it was finished, “what is to be +done?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing to be done; you have failed to win her affections, and +there is an end of the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you mean I must give it up?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and a very good thing too, for the ridiculous arrangement that you +have entered into with Philip would have half-ruined you, and you would be +tired of the girl in a month.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, look you here, Anne,” said George, in a sort of hiss, and +standing over her in a threatening attitude, “I have suspected for some +time that you were playing me false in this business, and now I am sure of it. +You have put the girl up to treating me like this, you treacherous snake; you +have struck me from behind, you Red Indian in petticoats. But, look here, I +will be square with you; you shall not have all the laugh on your side.” +</p> + +<p> +“George, you must be mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall see whether I am mad or not. Did you see what the brigands did +to a fellow they caught in Greece the other day for whom they wanted ransom? +First, they sent his ear to his friends, then his nose, then his foot, and, +last of all, his head—all by post, mark you. Well, dear Anne, that is +just how I am going to pay you out. You shall have a week to find a fresh plan +to trap the bird you have frightened, and, if you find none, first, I shall +post one of those interesting letters that I have yonder to your +husband—anonymously, you know—not a very compromising one, but one +that will pique his curiosity and set him making inquiries; then I shall wait +another week.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy could bear it no longer. She sprang up from her chair, pale with +anger. +</p> + +<p> +“You fiend in human form, what is it, I wonder, that has kept me so long +from destroying you and myself too? Oh! you need not laugh; I have the means to +do it, if I choose: I have had them for twenty years.” +</p> + +<p> +George laughed again, hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite penny-dreadful, I declare. But I don’t think you will come +to that; you would be afraid, and, if you do, I don’t much care—I +am pretty reckless, I can tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +“For your threats,” she went on, without heeding him, “I care +nothing, for, as I tell you, I have their antidote at hand. You have known me +for many years, tell me, did you ever see my nerve desert me? Do you suppose +that I am a woman who would bear failure when I could choose death? No, George, +I had rather pass into eternity on the crest of the wave of my success, such as +it has been, and let it break and grind me to powder there, or else bear me to +greater heights. All that should have been a woman’s better part in the +world you have destroyed in me. I do not say that it was altogether your fault, +for an evil destiny bound me to you, and it must seem odd to you when I say +that, knowing you for what you are, I still love you. And to fill up this void, +to trample down those surging memories, I have made myself a slave to my +ambition, and the acquisition of another power that you cannot understand. The +man you married me to is rich and a knight to-day. I made him so. If I live +another twenty years, his wealth shall be colossal and his influence unbounded, +and I will be one of the most powerful women in the kingdom. Why do you suppose +that I so fear your treachery? Do you think that I should mind its being known +that I had thrown aside that poor fig-leaf, virtue—the green garment that +marks a coward or a fool; for, mark you, all women, or nearly all, would be +vicious if they dared. Fear and poverty of spirit restrain them, not virtue. +Why, it is by their vices, properly managed, that women have always risen, and +always will rise. To be really great, I think that a woman must be vicious with +discrimination, and I respect vice accordingly. No, it is not that I fear. I am +afraid because I have a husband whose bitter resentment is justly piling up +against me from year to year, who only lies in wait for an opportunity to +destroy me. Nor is he my only enemy. In his skilful hands, the letters you +possess can, as society is in this country, be used so as to make me powerless. +Yes, George, all the good in me is dead; the mad love I have given you is +hourly outraged, and yet I cannot shake it off. <i>There</i> alone my strength +fails me, and I am weak as a child. Only the power to exercise my will, my +sense of command over the dullards round me, and a yet keener pleasure you do +not know of, are left to me. If these are taken away, what will my life be? A +void, a waste, a howling wilderness, a place where I will not stay! I had +rather tempt the unknown. Even in Hell there must be scope for abilities such +as mine!” +</p> + +<p> +She paused awhile, as if for an answer, and then went on— +</p> + +<p> +“And as for you, poor creature that you are, words cannot tell how I +despise you. You discard me and my devotion, to follow a nature, in its way, it +is true, greater even than my own, representing the principle of good, as I +represent the principle of evil, but one to which yours is utterly abhorrent. +Can you mix light with darkness, or filthy oil with water? As well hope to +merge your life, black as it is with every wickedness, with that of the +splendid creature you would defile. Do you suppose that a woman such as she +will ever be really faithless to her love, even though you trap her into +marriage? Fool, her heart is as far above you as the stars; and without a heart +a woman is a husk that none but such miserables as yourself would own. But go +on—dash yourself against a white purity that will, in the end, blind and +destroy you. Dree your own doom! I will find you expedients; it is my business +to obey you. You shall marry her, if you will, and taste of the judgment that +will follow. Be still, I will bear no more of your insolence to-day.” And +she swept out of the room, leaving George looking somewhat scared. +</p> + +<p> +When Lady Bellamy reached Rewtham House, she went straight to her +husband’s study. He received her with much politeness, and asked her to +sit down. +</p> + +<p> +“I have come to consult you on a matter of some importance,” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“That is, indeed, an unusual occurrence,” answered Sir John, +rubbing his dry hands and smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not my own affair: listen,” and she gave him a full, +accurate, and clear account of all that had taken place with reference to +George’s determination to marry Angela, not omitting the most trivial +detail. Sir John expressed no surprise; he was a very old bird was Sir John, +one for whom every net was spread in vain, whether in or out of his sight. +Nothing in this world, provided that it did not affect his own comfort or +safety, could affect his bland and appreciative smile. He was never surprised. +Once or twice he put a shrewd question to elucidate some point in the +narrative, and that was all. When his wife was finished, he said, +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Anne, you have told a very interesting and amusing little history, +doubly so, if you will permit me to say it, seeing that it is told of George +Caresfoot by Lady Bellamy; but it seems that your joint efforts have failed. +What is it that you wish me to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to ask you if you can suggest any plan that will not fail. You +are very cunning in your way, and your advice may be good.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me see, young Heigham is in Madeira, is he not?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure I do not know.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I do,” and he extracted a note-book from a drawer. “Let +me see, I think I have an entry somewhere here. Ah! here we are. ‘Arthur +P. Heigham, Esq., passenger, per <i>Warwick Castle</i>, to Madeira, June +16.’ (Copied from passenger-list, <i>Western Daily News</i>.) His second +name is Preston, is it not? Lucky I kept that. Now, the thing will be to +communicate with Madeira, and see if he is still there. I can easily do that; I +know a man there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you formed any plan, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Sir John, with great deliberation, “I think I +see my way; but I must have time to think of it. I will speak to you about it +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +When Lady Bellamy had gone, the little man rose, peeped round to see that +nobody was within hearing, and then, rubbing his dry hands with infinite zest, +said aloud, in a voice that was quite solemn in the intensity of its +satisfaction, +</p> + +<p> +“The Lord hath delivered mine enemies into mine hand.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2> + +<p> +Two days after Sir John had been taken into confidence, Philip received a visit +from Lady Bellamy that caused him a good deal of discomfort. After talking to +him on general subjects for awhile, she rose to go. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way, Mr. Caresfoot,” she said, “I really had almost +forgotten the object of my visit. You may remember a conversation we had +together some time ago, when I was the means of paying a debt owing to +you?” +</p> + +<p> +Philip nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will not have forgotten that one of the articles of our little +verbal convention was, that if it should be considered to the interest of all +the parties concerned, your daughter’s old nurse was not to remain in +your house?” +</p> + +<p> +“I remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, do you know, I cannot help thinking that it must be a bad thing +for Angela to have so much of the society of an ill-educated and not very +refined person like Pigott. I really advise you to get rid of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has been with me for twenty years, and my daughter is devoted to +her. I can’t turn her off.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is always painful to dismiss an old servant—almost as bad as +discarding an old dress; but when a dress is worn out it must be thrown away. +Surely the same applies to servants.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t see how I am to send her away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can quite understand your feelings; but then, you see, an agreement +implies obligations on both sides, doesn’t it? especially an agreement +‘for value received,’ as the lawyers say.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip winced perceptibly. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I had never had anything to do with your agreements.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! if you think it over, I don’t think that you will say so. +Well, that is settled. I suppose she will go pretty soon. I am glad to see you +looking so well—very different from your cousin, I assure you. I +don’t think much of his state of health. Good-bye; remember me to Angela. +By the way, I don’t know if you have heard that George has met with a +repulse in that direction; he does not intend to press matters any more at +present; but, of course, the agreement holds all the same. Nobody knows what +the morrow may bring forth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where you and my amiable cousin are concerned, I shall be much surprised +if it does not bring forth villany,” thought Philip, as soon as he heard +the front door close. “I suppose that it must be done about Pigott. Curse +that woman, with her sorceress face. I wish I had never put myself into her +power; the iron hand can be felt pretty plainly through her velvet +glove.” +</p> + +<p> +Life is never altogether clouded over, and that morning Angela’s horizon +had been brightened by two big rays of sunshine that came to shed their +cheering light on the grey monotony of her surroundings. For of late, +notwithstanding its occasional spasms of fierce excitement, her life had been +as monotonous as it was miserable. Always the same anxious grief, the same +fears, the same longing pressing hourly round her like phantoms in the +mist—no, not like phantoms, like real living things peeping at her from +the dark. Sometimes, indeed, the presentiments and intangible terrors that were +gradually strengthening their hold upon her would get beyond her control, and +arouse in her a restless desire for action—any action, it did not matter +what—that would take her away out of these dull hours of unwholesome +mental growth. It was this longing to be doing something that drove her, +fevered physically with the stifling air of the summer night, and mentally by +thoughts of her absent lover and recollections of Lady Bellamy’s ominous +words, down to the borders of the lake on the evening of George’s visit +to her father, and once there, prompted her to try to forget her troubles for +awhile in the exercise of an art of which she had from childhood been a +mistress. +</p> + +<p> +The same feeling it was too, that led her to spend long hours of the day and +even of the night, when by rights she should have been asleep, immersed in +endless mathematical studies, and in solving, or attempting to solve, almost +impossible problems. She found that the strenuous effort of the brain acted as +a counter-irritant to the fretting of her troubles, and though it may seem an +odd thing to say, mathematics alone, owing to the intense application they +required, exercised a soothing effect upon her. But, as one cannot constantly +sleep induced by chloral without paying for it in some shape or form, +Angela’s relief from her cares was obtained at no small cost to her +health. When the same brain, however well developed it may be, has both to +study hard and suffer much, there must be a waste of tissue somewhere. In +Angela’s case the outward and visible result of this state of things was +to make her grow thinner, and the alternate mental effect to increasingly +rarefy an intellect already too ethereal for this work-a-day world, and to +plunge its owner into fits of depression which were rendered dreadful by sudden +forebodings of evil that would leap to life in the recesses of her mind, and +for a moment cast a lurid glare upon its gloom, such as at night the lightning +gives to the blackness which surrounds it. +</p> + +<p> +It was in one of the worst of these fits, her “cloudy days” as she +would call them to Pigott, that good news found her. As she was dressing, +Pigott brought her a letter, which, recognizing Lady Bellamy’s bold +handwriting, she opened in fear and trembling. It contained a short note and +another letter. The note ran as follows: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dear Angela,<br/> + +“I enclose you a letter from your cousin George, which contains what I +suppose you will consider good news. <i>For your own sake</i> I beg you not to +send it back unopened as you did the last.<br/> + +“A. B.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Angela was tempted to mistrust this enclosure, and almost come to +the determination to throw it into the fire, feeling sure that a serpent lurked +in the grass and that it was a cunningly disguised love-letter. But curiosity +overcame her, and she opened it as gingerly as though it were infected, +unfolding the sheet with the handle of her hair-brush. Its contents were +destined to give her a surprise. They ran thus: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Isleworth Hall, September 20.<br/> + +“My dear Cousin,<br/> + +“After what passed between us a few days ago you will perhaps be +surprised at hearing from me, but, if you have the patience to read this short +letter, its contents will not, I fear, be altogether displeasing to you. They +are very simple. I write to say that I accept your verdict, and that you need +fear no further advances from me. Whether I quite deserved all the bitter words +you poured out upon me I leave you to judge at leisure, seeing that my only +crime was that I loved you. To most women that offence would not have seemed so +unpardonable. But that is as it may be. After what you said there is only one +course left for a man who has any pride—and that is to withdraw. So let +the past be dead between us. I shall never allude to it again. Wishing you +happiness in the path of life which you have chosen,<br/> + +“I remain, “Your affectionate cousin, “George +Caresfoot.” +</p> + +<p> +It would have been difficult for any one to have received a more perfectly +satisfactory letter than this was to Angela. +</p> + +<p> +“Pigott,” she called out, feeling the absolute necessity of a +confidant in her joy, and forgetting that that worthy soul had nothing but the +most general knowledge of George’s advances, “he has given me up; +just think, he is going to let me alone. I declare that I feel quite fond of +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“And who might you be talking of, miss?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, my cousin George, of course; he is going to let me alone, I tell +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which, seeing how as he isn’t fit to touch you with a pair of +tongs, is about the least as he can do, miss, and, as for letting you alone, I +didn’t know as he ever proposed doing anything else. But that reminds me, +miss, though I am sure I don’t know why it should, how as Mrs. Hawkins, +as was put in to look after the vicarage while the Reverend Fraser was away, +told me last night how as she had got a telegraft the sight of which, she said, +knocked her all faint like, till she turned just as yellow as the cover, to say +nothing of four- and-six porterage, the which, however, she intends to recover +from the Reverend—Lord, where was I?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sure I don’t know, Pigott, but I suppose you were going to +tell me what was in the telegram.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, miss, that’s right; but my head does seem to wool up somehow +so at times that I fare to lose my way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Pigott, what was in the telegram?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, miss, how you do hurry one, begging your pardon; only that the +Reverend Fraser—not but what Mrs. Hawkins do say that it can’t be +true, because the words warn’t in his writing nor nothing like, as she +has good reason to know, seeing that——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but what about Mr. Fraser, Pigott? Isn’t he well?” +</p> + +<p> +“The telegraft didn’t say, as I remembers, miss; bless me, I forget +if it was to-day or to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Pigott,” groaned Angela, “do tell me what was in the +telegram.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, miss, surely I told you that the thing said, though I fancy likely +to be in error——” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” almost shouted Angela. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, that the Reverend Fraser would be home by the midday train, and +would like a beefsteak for lunch, not mentioning, however, anything about the +onions, which is very puzzling to Mrs.——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I am glad; why could you not tell me before? Cousin George disposed +of and Mr. Fraser coming back. Why, things are looking quite bright again; at +least they would be if only Arthur were here,” and her rejoicing ended in +a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as she thought that he would have finished his beefsteak, with or +without the onions, Angela walked down to the vicarage and broke in upon Mr. +Fraser with something of her old gladsome warmth. Running up to him without +waiting to be announced, she seized him by both hands. +</p> + +<p> +“And so you are back at last? what a long time you have been away. Oh, I +am so glad to see you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser, who, it struck her, looked older since his absence, turned first a +little red and then a little pale, and said, +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Angela, here I am back again in the old shop; it is very good of +you to come so soon to see me. Now, sit down and tell me all about yourself +whilst I go on with my unpacking. But, bless me, my dear, what is the matter +with you, you look thin, and as though you were not happy, and—where has +your smile gone to, Angela?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind me, you must tell me all about yourself first. Where have you +been and what have you been doing all these long months?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I have been enjoying myself over half the civilized globe,” he +answered, with a somewhat forced laugh. “Switzerland, Italy, and Spain +have all been benefited by my presence, but I got tired of it, so here I am +back in my proper sphere, and delighted to again behold these dear familiar +faces,” and he pointed to his ample collection of classics. “But +let me hear about yourself, Angela. I am tired of No. 1, I can assure +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mine is a long story, you will scarcely find patience to listen to +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I thought that there was a story from your face; then I think that I +can guess what it is about. Young ladies’ stories generally turn upon the +same pivot,” and he laughed a little softly, and sat down in a corner +well out of the light. “Now, my dear, I am ready to give you my best +attention.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela blushed very deeply, and, looking studiously out of the window, began, +with many hesitations, to tell her story. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Fraser, you must understand first of all—I mean, you +know, that I must tell you that—” desperately, “that I am +engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +There was a something so sharp and sudden about this exclamation that Angela +turned round quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter, have you hurt yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but go on, Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +It was an awkward story to tell, especially the George complication part of it, +and to any one else she felt that she would have found it almost impossible to +tell it, but in Mr. Fraser she was, she knew, sure of a sympathetic listener. +Had she known, too, that the mere mention of her lover’s name was a stab +to her listener’s heart, and that every expression of her own deep and +enduring love and each tone of endearment were new and ingenious tortures, she +might well have been confused. +</p> + +<p> +For so it was. Although he was fifty years of age, Mr. Fraser had not educated +Angela with impunity. He had paid the penalty that must have resulted to any +heart-whole man not absolutely a fossil, who had been brought into close +contact with such a woman as Angela. Her loveliness appealed to his sense of +beauty, her goodness to his heart, and her learning to his intellectual +sympathies. What wonder that he learnt by imperceptible degrees to love her; +the wonder would have been if he had not. +</p> + +<p> +The reader need not fear, however; he shall not be troubled with any long +account of Mr. Fraser’s misfortune, for it never came to light or +obtruded itself upon the world or even upon its object. His was one of those +earnest, secret, and self-sacrificing passions of which, if we only knew it, +there exist a good many round about us, passions which to all appearance tend +to nothing and are entirely without object, unless it to be make the +individuals on whom they are inflicted a little less happy, or a little more +miserable, as the case may be, than he or she would otherwise have been. It was +to strive to conquer this passion, which in his heart he called dishonourable, +that Mr. Fraser had gone abroad, right away from Angela, where he had wrestled +with it, and prayed against it, and at last, as he thought, subdued it. But +now, on his first sight of her, it rose again in all its former strength, and +rushed through his being like a storm, and he realized that such love is of +those things that cannot die. And perhaps it is a question if he really wished +to lose it. It was a poor thing indeed, a very poor thing, but his own. There +is something so divine about all true love that there lurks a conviction at the +bottom of the hearts of most of us that it is better to love, however much we +suffer, than not to love at all. Perhaps, after all, those really to be pitied +are the people who are not capable of any such sensation. +</p> + +<p> +But what Mr. Fraser suffered listening that autumn afternoon to Angela’s +tale of another’s love and of her own deep return of that love, no man +but himself ever knew. Yet still he heard and was not shaken in his +loyal-heartedness, and comforted and consoled her, giving her the best advice +in his power, like the noble Christian gentleman that he was; showing her too +that there was little need of anxiety and every ground for hope that things +would come to a happy and successful issue. The martyr’s abnegation of +self is not yet dead in the world. +</p> + +<p> +At last Angela came to the letter that she had that very morning received from +George. Mr. Fraser read it carefully. +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate,” he said, “he is behaving like a gentleman now. +On the whole, that is a nice letter. You will be troubled with him no +more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” answered Angela, and then flushing up at the memory of +George’s arguments in the lane, “but it is certainly time that he +did, for he had no business, oh, he had no business to speak to me as he spoke, +and he a man old enough to be my father.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser’s pale cheeks coloured a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be hard upon him because he is old, Angela—which by +the way he is not, he is nearly ten years my junior—for I fear that old +men are just as liable to be made fools of by a pretty face as young +ones.” +</p> + +<p> +From that moment, not knowing the man’s real character, Mr. Fraser +secretly entertained a certain sympathy for George’s sufferings, arising +no doubt from a fellow-feeling. It seemed to him that he could understand a man +going very far indeed when his object was to win Angela: not that he would have +done it himself, but he knew the temptation and what it cost to struggle +against it. +</p> + +<p> +It was nearly dark when at length Angela, rising to go, warmly pressed his +hand, and thanked him in her own sweet way for his goodness and kind counsel. +And then, declining his offer of escort, and saying that she would come and see +him again on the morrow, she departed on her homeward path. +</p> + +<p> +The first thing that met her gaze on the hall-table at the Abbey House was a +note addressed to herself in a handwriting that she had seen in many washing +bills, but never before on an envelope. She opened it in vague alarm. It ran as +follows: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Miss,—Yore father has just dismissed me, saying that he is too +pore to keep me any longer, which is a matter as I holds my own opinion on, and +that I am too uneddicated to be in yore company, which is a perfect truth. But, +miss, not feeling any how ekal to bid you good-bye in person after bringing you +up by hand and doing for you these many years, I takes the liberty to write to +you, miss, to say good-bye and God bless you, my beautiful angel, and I shall +be to be found down at the old housen at the end of the drift as my pore +husband left me, which is fortinately just empty, and p’raps you will +come and see me at times, miss.<br/> + +“Yore obedient servant, “Pigott.<br/> + +“I opens this again to say how as I have tied up your things a bit afore +I left leaving mine till to-morrow, when, if living, I shall send for them. If +you please, miss, you will find yore clean night-shift in the left hand +drawyer, and sorry am I that I can’t be there to lay it out for you. I +shall take the liberty to send up for your washing, as it can’t be +trusted to any one.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela read the letter through, and then sank back upon a chair and burst into +a storm of tears. Partially recovering herself, however, she rose and entered +her father’s study. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this true?” she asked, still sobbing. +</p> + +<p> +“Is what true?” asked Philip, indifferently, and affecting not to +see her distress. +</p> + +<p> +“That you have sent Pigott away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes, you see, Angela——” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that she is really to stop away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I do, I really must be allowed, Angela——” +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, father, but I do not want to listen to your reasons and +excuses.” Her eyes were quite dry now. “That woman nursed my dying +mother, and played a mother’s part to me. She is, as you know, my only +woman friend, and yet you throw her away like a worn-out shoe. No doubt you +have your reasons, and I hope that they are satisfactory to you, but I tell +you, reasons or no reasons, you have acted in a way that is cowardly and +cruel;” and casting one indignant glance at him she left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Philip quailed before his daughter’s anger. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank goodness she’s gone, and that job is done with. I am +downright afraid of her, and the worst of it is she speaks the truth,” +said Philip to himself, as the door closed. +</p> + +<p> +Ten days after this incident, Angela heard casually from Mr. Fraser that Sir +John and Lady Bellamy were going on a short trip abroad for the benefit of the +former’s health. If she thought about the matter at all, it was to feel +rather glad. Angela did not like Lady Bellamy, indeed she feared her. Of George +she neither heard nor saw anything. He had also gone away. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap41"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2> + +<p> +Meanwhile at Madeira matters were going on much as we left them; there had +indeed been little appreciable change in the situation. +</p> + +<p> +For his part, our friend Arthur continued to dance or rather stroll along the +edge of his flowery precipice, and found the view pleasant and the air bracing. +</p> + +<p> +And no doubt things were very nicely arranged for his satisfaction, and had it +not been for the ever-present thought of Angela—for he did think of her a +great deal and with deep longing—he should have enjoyed himself +thoroughly, for every day was beautiful, and every day brought its amusements +with it. Perhaps on arriving at the Quinta Carr about eleven o’clock, he +would find that the steam launch was waiting for them in a little bay where the +cliff on which the house stood curved inwards. Then, a merry party of young +English folks all collected together by Mrs. Carr that morning by the dint of +superhuman efforts, they would scramble down the steps cut in the rock and +steam off to some neighbouring islet to eat luncheon and wander about +collecting shells and flowers and beetles till sunset, and then steam back +again through the spicy evening air, laughing and flirting and making the night +melodious with their songs. Or else the horses would be ordered out and they +would wander over the lonely mountains in the interior of the island, talking +of mummies and all things human, of Angela and all things divine. And +sometimes, in the course of these conversations, Arthur would in a brotherly +way call Mrs. Carr “Mildred,” while occasionally, in the tone of a +spinster aunt, she would address him as “Arthur,” a practice that, +once acquired, she soon found was, like all other bad habits, not easy to get +rid of. For somehow in all these expeditions she was continually at his side, +striving, and not without success, to weave herself into the substance of his +life, and to make herself indispensable to him, till at last he grew to look +upon her almost as a sister. +</p> + +<p> +But beyond this he never went, and to her advances he was as cold as ice, +simply because he never noticed them, and she was afraid of making them more +obvious for fear that she would frighten him away. He thought it the most +natural thing in the world that he and Mildred should live together like +brother and sister, and be very fond of each other as “sich,” +whilst she thought him—just what he was—the blindest of fools, and +then loved him the more for his folly. The sisterly relationship did not +possess the same charms for Mildred that it did for Arthur; they looked at +matters from different points of view. +</p> + +<p> +One morning, peeping through a big telescope that was fixed in the window of +the little boudoir which formed an entrance lobby to the museum, Mrs. Carr saw +a cloud of smoke upon the horizon. Presently the point of a mast poked up +through the vapour as though the vessel were rising out of the ocean, then two +more mastheads and a red and black funnel, and last of all a great grey hull. +</p> + +<p> +“Hurrah!” called out Mrs. Carr, with one eye still fixed to the +telescope and the remainder of her little face all screwed up in her efforts to +keep the other closed, “it’s the mail; I can see the Donald Currie +flag, a white C on a blue ground.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am sure, Mildred, there’s no need for you to make your +face look like a monkey, if it is; you look just as though the corner of your +mouth were changing places with your eyebrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Agatha, you are dreadfully rude; when the fairies took your endowments +in hand, they certainly did not forget the gift of plain speech. I shall appeal +to Mr. Heigham; do I look like a monkey, Mr. Heigham? No, on second thoughts, I +won’t wait for the inevitable compliment. Arthur, hold your tongue and I +will tell you something. That must be the new boat, the <i>Garth Castle</i>, +and I want to see over her. Captain Smithson, who is bringing her out, has got +a box of things for me. What do you say if we kill two birds with one stone, go +and see the vessel and get our luncheon on board.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am at your ladyship’s service,” answered Arthur, lazily, +“but would you like to have the compliment apropos of the monkey? I have +thought of something extremely neat now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not on any account; I hate compliments that are not meant,” and +her eyes gave a little flash which put a point to her words. “Agatha, I +suppose that you will come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes, dear, the bay looks pretty smooth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Smooth, yes, you might sail across it in a paper ship,” yawned +Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“For goodness’ sake don’t look so lazy, Mr. Heigham, but ring +the bell —not that one, the electric one—and let us order the +launch at once. The mail will be at anchor in about an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur did as he was bid, and within that time they were steaming through the +throng of boats already surrounding the steamer. +</p> + +<p> +“My gracious, Mildred,” suddenly exclaimed Agatha, “do you +see who that is there leaning over the bulwarks? oh, he’s gone, but so +sure as I am a living woman, it was Lord Minster and Lady Florence Thingumebob, +his sister, you know, the pretty one.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred looked vexed, and glanced involuntarily at Arthur who was steering the +launch. For a moment she hesitated about going on, and glanced again at Arthur. +The look seemed to inspire her, for she said nothing, and presently he brought +the boat deftly alongside the gangway ladder. +</p> + +<p> +The captain of the ship had already come to the side to meet her, having +recognized her from the bridge; indeed there was scarcely a man in Donald +Currie’s service who did not know Mrs. Carr, at any rate, by sight. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mrs. Carr; are you coming on to South Africa with +us?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Captain Smithson; I, or rather we, are coming to lunch, and to see +your new boat, and last, but not least, to claim my box.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Carr, will you ever forgive me? I have lost it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Produce my box, Captain Smithson, or I will never speak to you again. +I’ll do more. I’ll go over to the Union line.” +</p> + +<p> +“In which case, I am afraid Donald Currie would never speak to me again. +I must certainly try to find that box,” and he whispered an order to a +quartermaster. “Well, it is very kind of you to come and lunch, and I +hope that you and your friends will do so with me. Till then, good-by, I must +be off.” +</p> + +<p> +As soon as they got on the quarter-deck, Arthur perceived a tall, +well-preserved man with an eyeglass, whom he seemed to know, bearing down upon +them, followed by a charming-looking girl, about three-and- twenty years of +age, remarkable for her pleasant eyes and the humorous expression of her mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mrs. Carr?” said the tall man. “I suppose +that you heard that we were coming; it is very good of you to come and meet +us.” +</p> + +<p> +“I had not the slightest idea that you were coming, and I did not come to +meet you, Lord Minster; I came to lunch,” answered Mrs. Carr, rather +coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nasty one for James that, very,” murmured Lady Florence; +“hope it will do him good.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was determined to come and look you up as soon as I got time, but the +House sat very late. However, I have got a fortnight here now, and shall see +plenty of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“A good deal too much I daresay, Lord Minster; but let me introduce you +to Mr. Heigham.” +</p> + +<p> +Lord Minster glanced casually at Arthur, and, lifting his hat about an eighth +of an inch, was about to resume his conversation, when Arthur, who was rather +nettled by this treatment, said, +</p> + +<p> +“I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you before, Lord Minster; we +were stopping together at the Stanley Foxes last autumn.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stanley Foxes, ah, quite so, forgive my forgetfulness, but one meets so +many people, you see,” and he turned round to where Mrs. Carr had been, +but that lady had taken the opportunity to retreat. Lord Minster at once +followed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if my brother has forgotten you, Mr. Heigham, I have not,” +said Lady Florence, now coming forward for the first time. “Don’t +you remember when we went nutting together and I tumbled into the pond?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I do, Lady Florence, and I can’t tell you how pleased I am +to see you again. Are you here for long?” +</p> + +<p> +“An indefinite time: an old aunt of mine, Mrs. Velley, is coming out by +next mail, and I am going to stop with her when my brother goes back. Are you +staying with Mrs. Carr?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, only I know her very well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you admire her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Immensely.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you won’t like James—I mean my brother.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he also admires her immensely.” +</p> + +<p> +“We both admire the view from here very much indeed, but that is no +reason why you and I should not like each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but then you see there is a difference between lovely scenery and +lovely widows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps there is,” said Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment Lord Minster returned with Mrs. Carr. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Lady Florence?” said the latter; “let me +introduce you to Mr. Heigham. What, do you already know each other?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, Mrs. Carr, we are old friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed, that is very charming for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is,” said Lady Florence, frankly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we must be off now, Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, James, I’m ready.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you both come and dine with me to-night sans façon, there will be +nobody else except Agatha and Mr. Heigham?” asked Mrs. Carr. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall be delighted,” said Lord Minster. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Au revoir</i>, then,” nodded Lady Florence to Arthur, and they +separated. +</p> + +<p> +When, after lunching and seeing round the ship, Miss Terry and Arthur found +themselves in the steam launch waiting for Mrs. Carr, who was saying good-by to +the captain and looking after her precious box, Arthur took the opportunity to +ask his companion what she knew of Lord Minster. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, not much, that is, nothing in particular, except that he is the son +of a sugar-broker or something, who was made a peer for some reason or other, +and I suppose that is why he is so stuck up, because all the other peers I ever +met are just like other people. He is very clever, too, is in the government +now, and always hanging about after Mildred. He wants to marry her, you know, +and I expect that he will at last, but I hope he won’t. I don’t +like him; he always looks at one as though one were dirt.” +</p> + +<p> +“The deuce he does!” ejaculated Arthur, his heart filling on the +instant with envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness towards Lord +Minster. He had not the slightest wish to marry Mildred himself, but he boiled +at the mere thought of anybody else doing so. Lady Florence was right, there is +a difference between ladies and landscapes. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Mildred herself arrived, but so disgusted was he that he would +scarcely speak to her, and on arriving at the landing stage he at once departed +to the hotel, and even tried to get out of coming to dinner that night, but +this was overruled. +</p> + +<p> +“Good,” said Mildred to herself, with a smile; “I have found +out how to vex him.” +</p> + +<p> +At dinner that evening Lord Minster, who had of course taken his hostess in, +opened the conversation by asking her how she had been employing herself at +Madeira. +</p> + +<p> +“Better than you have at St. Stephen’s, Lord Minster; at any rate, +I have not been forwarding schemes for highway robbery and the national +disgrace,” she answered, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that you mean the Irish Land Act and the Transvaal Convention. +I have heard several ladies speak of them like that, and I am really coming to +the conclusion that your sex is entirely devoid of political instinct.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean by political instinct, Lord Minster?” asked +Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“By political instinct,” he replied, “I understand a proper +appreciation of the science and object of government.” +</p> + +<p> +“Goodness me, what are they?” asked Mrs. Carr. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the science of government consists, roughly speaking, in knowing +how to get into office, and remain there when once in; its objects are to guess +and give expression to the prevailing popular feeling or whim with the loss of +as few votes as possible.” +</p> + +<p> +“According to that definition,” said Arthur, “all national +questions are, or should be, treated by those who understand the ‘science +and objects of government’ on a semi-financial basis. I mean, they should +be dealt with as an investor deals with his funds, in order to make as much out +of them as possible, not to bring real benefit to the country.” +</p> + +<p> +“You put the matter rather awkwardly, but I think I follow you. I will +try to explain. In the first place, all the old-fashioned Jingo nonsense about +patriotism and the ‘honour of the country’ has, if people only knew +it, quite exploded; it only lingers in a certain section of the landed gentry +and a proportion of the upper middle class, and has no serious weight with +leading politicians.” +</p> + +<p> +“How about Lord Beaconsfield?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he was perhaps an exception; but then he was a man with so large a +mind—I say it, though I detested him—that he could actually, by a +sort of political prescience, see into the far future, and shape his course +accordingly. But even in his case I do not believe that he was actuated by +patriotism, but rather by a keener insight into human affairs than most men +possess.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet he came terribly to grief.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he outflew his age. The will of the country—which means +the will of between five hundred thousand and a million hungry fluctuating +electors—could not wait for the development of his imperial schemes. They +wanted plunder in the present, not honour and prosperity for the Empire in the +future. The instinct of robbery is perhaps the strongest in human nature, and +those who would rule humanity on its present basis must pander to it or fail. +The party of progress means the party that can give most spoil, taken from +those that have, to those that have not. That is why Mr. Gladstone is such a +truly great man; he understands better than any one of his age how to excite +the greed of hungry voters and to guide it for his own ends. What was the +Midlothian campaign but a crusade of plunder? First he excited the desire, then +he promised to satisfy it. Of course that is impossible, but at the time he was +believed, and his promises floated us triumphantly into power. The same +arguments apply to that body of electors whose motive power is +sentiment—their folly must be pandered to. For instance, the Transvaal +Convention that Mrs. Carr mentioned is an admirable example of how such +pandering is done. No man of experience can have believed that such an +agreement could be wise, or that it can result in anything but trouble and +humiliation; but the trouble and humiliation will not come just yet, and in the +meanwhile a sop is thrown to Cerberus. Political memories are short, and when +exposure comes it will be easy to fix the blame upon the other side. It is +because we appreciate these facts that in the end we must prevail. The Liberal +party, or rather the Radical section, which is to the great Liberal party what +the helm is to the ship, appeals to the baser instincts and more pressing +appetites of the people; the Conservative only to their traditions and higher +aspirations, in the same way that religion appeals to the spirit, and the +worship of Mammon to the senses. The shibboleth of the one is +‘self-interest;’ of the other, ‘national honour.’ The +first appeals to the many, the second to the finer few, and I must leave you to +judge which will carry the day.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if ever you become Prime Minister, shall you rule England upon these +principles?” asked Mrs. Carr. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly; it is because I have mastered them that I am what I am. I owe +everything to them, consequently in my view they are the finest of all +principles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then Heaven help England!” soliloquized Arthur, rudely. +</p> + +<p> +“And so say we all,” added Lady Florence, who was a strong +Conservative. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear young people,” answered Lord Minster, with a superior +smile, “England is quite capable of looking after herself. I have to look +after myself. She will, at any rate, last my time, and my motto is that one +should get something out of one’s country, not attempt to do her services +that would in all probability never be recognized, or, if recognized, left +unrewarded.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur was about to answer, with more sharpness than discretion, but Mrs. Carr +interposed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Lord Minster, we have to thank you for a very cynical and lucid +explanation of the objects of your party, if they really are its objects. Will +you give me some wine?” +</p> + +<p> +After dinner Mrs. Carr devoted herself almost exclusively to Lord Minster, +leaving Arthur to talk to Lady Florence. Lord Minster was not slow to avail +himself of the opportunity. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been thinking of your remark to me in London about the +crossing-sweeper,” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t drag that wretched man out of +his grave, Lord Minster. I really have forgotten what I said about him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope, Mrs. Carr, that you have forgotten a good deal you said that +day. I may as well take this opportunity——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, please don’t, Lord Minster,” she answered, knowing very +well what was coming; “I am so tired to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, in that case I can easily postpone my statement. I have a whole +fortnight before me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Carr secretly determined that it should remain as much as possible at his +own exclusive disposal, but she did not say so. +</p> + +<p> +Shortly after this, Arthur took his leave, after shaking hands very coldly with +her. Nor did he come to the Quinta next day, as he had conceived too great a +detestation of Lord Minster to risk meeting him, a detestation which he +attributed solely to that rising member of the Government’s political +principles, which jarred very much with his own. +</p> + +<p> +“Better and better,” said Mrs. Carr to herself, as she took off her +dress, “but Lord Minster is really odious, I cannot stand him for +long.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap42"></a>CHAPTER XLII.</h2> + +<p> +“Why, Arthur, I had almost forgotten what you are like,” said +Mildred, when that young gentleman at last put in an appearance at the Quinta. +“Where have you been to all this time?” +</p> + +<p> +“I—oh, I have been writing letters,” said Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“Then they must have been very long ones. Don’t tell fibs, Arthur; +you have not stopped away from here for a day and a half in order to write +letters. What is the matter with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you must know, Mildred, I detest your friend Lord Minster, the +mere sight of him sets my teeth on edge, and I did not want to meet him. I only +came here to-day because Lady Florence told me that they were going up to the +Convent this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you have been to see Lady Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I met her buying fruit yesterday, and went for a walk with +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“In the intervals of the letter-writing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, do you know I detest Lady Florence?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very unkind of you. She is charming.” +</p> + +<p> +“From your point of view, perhaps, as her brother is from mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean to tell me that you think that horrid fellow +charming?” asked Arthur in disgust. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, for the matter of that there is no reason why you should not, but I +can’t congratulate you either on your friend or your taste.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leaving my taste out of the question, why do you call Lord Minster my +friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because Miss Terry told me that he was; she said that he was always +proposing to you, and that you would probably marry him in the end.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred blushed faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“She has no business to tell you; but, for the matter of that, so have +many other men. It does not follow that, because they choose to propose to me, +they are my friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but then they have not married you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No more has he; but, while we are talking of it, why should I not marry +Lord Minster? He can give me position, influence, everything that is dear to a +woman, except the rarest of all gifts—love.” +</p> + +<p> +“But is love so rare, Mildred?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the love that it can satisfy a woman either to receive or to give, +especially the latter, for in this we are more blessed in giving than in +receiving. It is but very rarely that the most fortunate of us get a chance of +accepting such love as I mean, and we can only give it once in our lives. But +you have not told me your reasons against my marrying Lord Minster.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because he is a mean-spirited, selfish man. If he were not, he could not +have talked as he did last night. Because you do not love him, Mildred, you +cannot love such a man as that, if he were fifty times a member of the +Government.” +</p> + +<p> +“What does it matter to you, Arthur,” she said, in a voice of +indescribable softness, bending her sunny head low over her work, +“whether I love him or not; my doing so would not make your heart beat +the faster.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t wish you to marry him,” he said, confusedly. +</p> + +<p> +She raised her head and looked full at him with eyes which shone like stars +through a summer mist. +</p> + +<p> +“That is enough, Arthur,” she answered, in a tone of gentle +submission, “if you do not wish it, I will not,” and, rising, she +left the room. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur blushed furiously at her words, and a new sensation crept over him. +</p> + +<p> +“Surely,” he said to himself, “she cannot—— No, +of course she only means that she will take my advice.” +</p> + +<p> +But, though he dismissed the suspicion thus readily, it left something that he +could not quite define behind it. He had, after the manner of young men where +women are concerned, thought that he understood Mildred thoroughly; now he came +to the modest conclusion that he knew very little about her. +</p> + +<p> +On the following afternoon, when he was at the Quinta talking as usual to Mrs. +Carr, he saw Lord Minster coming up the steps of the portico, dressed in much +the same way and with exactly the same air as he was accustomed to assume when +he mounted those of the “Reform,” or occasionally, if he thought +that the “hungry electors” wanted “pandering” to, those +of the new “National Club.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo,” said Arthur, “here comes Lord Minster in his war +paint, frock coat, tall hat, eye-glass and all. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you go away, Arthur? Stop and protect me,” said Mildred, +laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, indeed, I don’t want to spoil sport. I would not interfere +with your amusement on any account.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred looked a little vexed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you will come back to dinner?” +</p> + +<p> +“That depends upon what happens.” +</p> + +<p> +“I told you what would happen, Arthur. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it is as well to get it over at once,” thought Mildred. +</p> + +<p> +In the hall Arthur met Lord Minster, and they passed with a gesture of +recognition so infinitesimally small that it almost faded into the nothingness +of a “cut.” So far as he could condescend to notice so low a thing +at all, his lordship had conceived a great dislike for Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Lord Minster?” said Mildred, cordially. “I +hear that you went to the Convent yesterday; what did you think of the +view?” +</p> + +<p> +“The view, Mrs. Carr—was there a view? I did not notice it; indeed, +I only went up there at all to please Florence. I don’t like that sort of +thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you don’t like roughing it, I am afraid that you did not enjoy +your voyage out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no, I don’t think I did, and there was a low fellow on board +who had been ruined by the retrocession of the Transvaal, and who, hearing that +I was in the Government, took every possible opportunity to tell me publicly +that his wife and children were almost in a state of starvation, as though I +cared about his confounded wife and children. He was positively brutal. No, +certainly I did not enjoy it. However, I am rewarded by finding you +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very much flattered.” +</p> + +<p> +Lord Minster fixed his eye-glass firmly in his eye, planted his hands at the +bottom of his trousers pockets, and, clearing his throat, placed himself in the +attitude that was so familiar to the House, and began. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Carr, I told you, when last I had the pleasure of seeing you, that +I should take the first opportunity of renewing a conversation that I was +forced to suspend in order to attend, if my memory serves me, a very important +committee meeting. I was therefore surprised, indeed I may almost say hurt, +when I found that you had suddenly flitted from London.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Lord Minster?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not, however, take up the time of this—I mean your time, by +recapitulating all that I told you on that occasion; the facts are, so to +speak, all upon the table, and I will merely touch upon the main heads of my +case. My prospects are these: I am now a member of the Cabinet, and enjoy, +owing to the unusual but calculated recklessness of my non-official public +utterances, an extraordinary popularity with a large section of the country, +the hungry section to which I alluded last night. It is probable that the +course of the present Government is pretty nearly run, the country is sick of +it, and those who put it into power have not got enough out of it. A +dissolution is therefore an event of the near future; the Conservatives will +come in, but they have no power of organization, and very little political +talent at their backs, above all, they are deficient in energy, probably +because there is nothing that they can destroy and therefore no pickings to +struggle for. In short, they are not ‘capaces imperii.’ The want of +these qualities and of leaders will very soon undermine their hold upon the +country, always a slight one, and, assisted by a few other pushing men, I +anticipate, by carefully playing into the hands of the Irish party which will +really rule England in the future, being able, as one of the leaders of the +Opposition, to consummate their downfall. Then will come my opportunity, and, +if luck goes with me, I shall be first Lord of the Treasury within half a dozen +years. But now comes the difficulty. Though I am so popular with the country, I +am, for some reason quite inexplicable to myself, rather at a—hum—a +discount amongst my colleagues and that influential section of society to which +they belong. Now, in order to succeed to the full extent that I have planned, +it is absolutely essential that I should win the countenance of this class, and +the only way that I can see of doing it is by marrying some woman charming +enough to disarm dislike, beautiful enough to command admiration, rich enough +to entertain profusely, and clever enough to rule England. Those desiderata are +all to a striking degree united in your person, Mrs. Carr, and I have therefore +much pleasure in asking you to become my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have, as I understand you, Lord Minster, made a very admirable +statement of how desirable it is for yourself that you should marry me, but it +is not so clear what advantage I should reap by marrying you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the advantages are obvious: if by your help I can become Prime +Minister, you would become the wife of the Prime Minister.” +</p> + +<p> +“The prospect fails to dazzle me. I have everything that I want; why +should I strive to reach a grandeur to which I was not born, and which, to +speak the truth, I regard with a very complete indifference? But there is +another point. In all your speech you have said nothing of any affection that +you have to offer, not a single word of love— you have been content to +expatiate on the profits that a matrimonial investment would bring to yourself, +and by reflection, to the other contracting party.” +</p> + +<p> +“Love,” asked Lord Minster, with an expression of genuine surprise; +“why, you talk like a character in a novel; now tell me, Mrs. Carr, +<i>what</i> is love?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is difficult to define, Lord Minster; but as you ask me to do so, I +will try. Love to a woman is what the sun is to the world, it is her life, her +animating principle, without which she must droop, and, if the plant be very +tender, die. Except under its influence, a woman can never attain her full +growth, never touch the height of her possibilities, or bloom into the +plenitude of her moral beauty. A loveless marriage dwarfs our natures, a +marriage where love is develops them to their utmost.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is love to a man?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I should say that nine of a man’s passions are merely +episodes in his career, the mile-stones that mark his path; the tenth, or the +first, is his philosopher’s stone that turns all things to gold, or, if +the charm does not work, leaves his heart, broken and bankrupt, a cold monument +of failure.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t quite follow you, and I must say that, speaking for +myself, I never felt anything of all this,” said Lord Minster, blankly. +</p> + +<p> +“I know you do not, Lord Minster; your only passions tend towards +political triumphs and personal aggrandisement; we are at the two poles, you +see, and I fear that we can never, never meet upon a common matrimonial line. +But don’t be down-hearted about it, you will find plenty more women who +fulfil all your requirements and will be very happy to take you at your own +valuation. If only a woman is necessary to success, you need not look far, and +forgive me if I say that I believe it will not make much difference to you who +she is. But all the same, Lord Minster, I will venture to give you a piece of +advice: next time you propose, address yourself a little more to the +lady’s affections and a little less to her interests,” and Mrs. +Carr rose as though to show that the interview was at an end. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I then to understand that my offer is definitely refused?” +asked Lord Minster, stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid so, and I am sure that you will, on reflection, see how +utterly unsuited we are to each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly, Mrs. Carr, possibly; at present all that I see is that you +have had a great opportunity, and have failed to avail yourself of it. My only +consolation is that the loss will be yours, and my only regret is that I have +had the trouble of coming to this place for nothing. However, there is a ship +due to-morrow, and I shall sail in her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to have been the cause of bringing you here, Lord Minster, +and still more sorry that you should feel obliged to cut short your stay. +Good-bye, Lord Minster; we part friends, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, certainly, Mrs. Carr. I wish you a very good morning, Mrs. +Carr,” and his lordship marched out of Mildred’s life. +</p> + +<p> +“There goes my chance of becoming the wife of a prime minister, and +making a figure in history,” said that lady, as she watched his tall +figure stalking stiffly down the avenue. “Well, I am glad of it. I would +just as soon have married a speech-making figure-head stuffed full of the +purest Radical principles.” +</p> + +<p> +On the following day Arthur met Lady Florence again in the town. +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you been to, Lady Florence?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“To see my brother off,” she answered, without any signs of deep +grief. +</p> + +<p> +“What, has he gone already?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; your friend Mrs. Carr has been too many for poor James.” +</p> + +<p> +“What! do you mean that he has been proposing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and got more than he bargained for.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he cut up?” +</p> + +<p> +“He, no, but his vanity is. You see, Mr. Heigham, it is this way. My +brother may be a very great man and a pillar of the State, and all that sort of +thing. I don’t say he isn’t; but from personal experience I +<i>know</i> that he is an awful prig, and thinks that all women are machines +constructed to advance the comfort of your noble sex. Well, he has come down a +peg or two, that’s all, and he don’t like it. Good- bye; I’m +in a hurry.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Florence was nothing if not outspoken. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap43"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2> + +<p> +A week or so after the departure of Lord Minster, Mildred suggested that they +should, on the following day, vary their amusements by going up to the Convent, +a building perched on the hills some thousand feet above the town of Funchal, +in palanquins, or rather hammocks swung upon long poles. Arthur, who had never +yet travelled in these luxurious conveyances, jumped at the idea, and even Miss +Terry, when she discovered that she was to be carried, made no objection. The +party was completed by the addition of a newly-married couple of whom Mrs. Carr +had known something at home, and who had come to Madeira to spend the +honeymoon. Lady Florence also had been asked, but, rather to Arthur’s +disappointment, she could not come. +</p> + +<p> +When the long line of swinging hammocks, each with its two sturdy bearers, were +marshalled, and the adventurous voyagers had settled themselves in them, they +really formed quite an imposing procession, headed as it was by the extra-sized +one that carried Miss Terry, who complained bitterly that “the thing +wobbled and made her feel sick.” +</p> + +<p> +But to Arthur’s mind there was something effeminate in allowing himself, +a strong, active man, to be carted up hills as steep as the side of a house by +two perspiring wretches; so, hot as it was, he, to the intense amusement of his +bearers, elected to get out and walk. The newly-married man followed his +example, and for a while they went on together, till presently the latter +gravitated towards his wife’s palanquin, and, overcome at so long a +separation, squeezed her hand between the curtains. Not wishing to intrude +himself on their conjugal felicity, Arthur in his turn gravitated to the side +of Mrs. Carr, who was being lightly swung along in the second palanquin some +twenty yards behind Miss Terry’s. Shortly afterwards they observed a +signal of distress being flown by that lady, whose arm was to be seen violently +agitating her green veil from between the curtains of her hammock, which +immediately came to a dead stop. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” cried Arthur and Mildred, in a breath, as they +arrived on the scene of the supposed disaster. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Mildred, will you be so kind as to tell that man” +(pointing to her front bearer, a stout, flabby individual) “that he must +not go on carrying me. I must have a cooler man. It makes me positively ill to +see him puffing and blowing and dripping under my nose like a fresh basted +joint.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Terry’s realistic description of her bearer’s appearance, +which was, to say the least of it, limp and moist, was no exaggeration. But +then she herself, as Arthur well remembered, was no feather-weight, especially +when, as in the present case, she had to be carted up the side of a nearly +perpendicular hill some miles long, a fact very well exemplified by the +condition of the bearer. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Agatha,” replied Mildred, laughing, “what is to be +done? Of course the man is hot, you are not a feather-weight; but what is to be +done?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, but I won’t go on with him, it’s simply +disgusting; he might let himself out as a watering-cart.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we can’t get another here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he must cool himself, the others might come and fan him. I +won’t go on till he is cool, and that’s flat.” +</p> + +<p> +“He will take hours to cool, and meanwhile we are broiling on this hot +road. You really must come on, Agatha.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have it,” said Arthur. “Miss Terry must turn herself round +with her head towards the back of the hammock, and then she won’t see +him.” +</p> + +<p> +To this arrangement the aggrieved lady was after some difficulty persuaded to +accede, and the procession started again. +</p> + +<p> +Their destination reached, they picnicked as they had arranged, and then +separated, the bride and bridegroom strolling off in one direction, and Mildred +and Arthur in another, whilst Miss Terry mounted guard over the plates and +dishes. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Arthur and Mildred came to a little English-looking grove of pine and +oak, that extended down a gentle slope and was bordered by a steep bank, at the +foot of which great ferns and beautiful Madeira flowers twined themselves into +a shelter from the heat. Here they sat down and gazed at the splendid and +many-tinted view set in its background of emerald ocean. +</p> + +<p> +“What a view it is,” said Arthur. “Look, Mildred, how dark +the clumps of sugar-cane look against the green of the vines, and how pretty +the red roofs of the town are peeping out of the groves of fruit-trees. Do you +see the great shadow thrown upon the sea by that cliff? how deep and cool the +water looks within it, and how it sparkles where the sun strikes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is beautiful, and the pines smell sweet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish Angela could see it,” he said, half to himself. Mildred, +who was lying back lazily among the ferns, her hat off, her eyes closed, so +that the long dark lashes lay upon her cheek, and her head resting on her arm, +suddenly started up. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, you woke me from a sort of dream, that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“This spring I remember going with her to look at a view near the Abbey +House, and saying—what I often think when I look at anything beautiful +and full of life—that it depressed one to know that all this was so much +food for death, and its beauty a thing that to-day is and to-morrow is +not.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what did she say?” +</p> + +<p> +“She said that to her it spoke of immortality, and that in everything +around her she saw evidence of eternal life.” +</p> + +<p> +“She must be very fortunate. Shall I tell you of what it reminds +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of neither death nor immortality, but of the full, happy, pulsing +existence of the hour, and of the beautiful world that pessimists like yourself +and mystics like your Angela think so poorly of, but which is really so +glorious and so rich in joy. Why, this sunlight and those flowers, and the wide +sparkle of that sea, are each and all a happiness, and the health in our veins +and the beauty in our eyes, deep pleasures that we never realize till we lose +them. Death, indeed, comes to us all, but why add to its terrors by thinking of +them whilst it is far off? And, as for life after death, it is a faint, vague +thing, more likely to be horrible than happy. This world is our only reality, +the only thing that we can grasp; here alone we <i>know</i> that we can enjoy, +and yet how we waste our short opportunities for enjoyment! Soon youth will +have slipped away, and we shall be too old for love. Roses fade fastest, +Arthur, when the sun is bright; in the evening when they have fallen, and the +ground is red with withering petals, do you not think we shall wish that we had +gathered more?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yours is a pleasant philosophy, Mildred,” he said, struggling +faintly in his own mind against her conclusions. +</p> + +<p> +But at this moment, somehow, his fingers touched her own and were presently +locked fast within her little palm, and for the first time in his life they sat +hand in hand. But, happily for him, he did not venture to look into her eyes, +and, before many minutes had passed, Miss Terry’s voice was heard calling +him loudly. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that you must go,” said Mildred, with a shade of +vexation in her voice and a good many shades upon her face, “or she will +be blundering down here. I will come, too; it is time for tea.” +</p> + +<p> +On arriving at the spot whence the sounds proceeded, they found Miss Terry +surrounded by a crowd of laughing and excited bearers, and pouring out a flood +of the most vigorous English upon an unfortunate islander, who stood, a silver +mug in each hand, bowing and shrugging his shoulders, and enunciating with +every variety of movement indicative of humiliation, these mystic words: +</p> + +<p> +“Mee washeeuppee, signora, washeeuppee—e.” +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>is</i> the matter now, Agatha?” +</p> + +<p> +“Matter, why I woke up and found this man stealing the cups; I charged +him at once with my umbrella, but he dodged and I fell down, and the umbrella +has gone over the rock there. Take him up at once, Arthur— there’s +the stolen property on his person. Hand him over to justice.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious, Agatha, what are you thinking about? The poor man only +wants to wash the things out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I should like to know why he could not tell me so in plain +English,” said Miss Terry, retiring discomfited amidst shouts of laughter +from the whole party, including the supposed thief. +</p> + +<p> +After tea they all set out on a grand beetle-hunting expedition, and so intent +were they upon this fascinating pursuit that they did not note the flight of +time, till suddenly Mildred, pulling out her watch, gave a pretty cry of alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know what time it is, good people? Half-past six, and the +Custances are to dine with us at a quarter-past-seven. It will take us a good +hour to get down; what <i>shall</i> we do?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” said Arthur, “there are two sledges just below; I +saw them as we came up. They will take us down to Funchal in a quarter of an +hour, and we can get to the Quinta by about seven.” +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur, you are invaluable; the very thing. Come on, all of you, +quick.” +</p> + +<p> +Now these sledges are peculiar to Madeira, being made on the principle of the +bullock car, with the difference that they travel down the smooth, stone-paved +roadways by their own momentum, guided by two skilled conductors, each with one +foot naked to prevent his slipping, who hold the ropes, and when the sledge +begins to travel more swiftly than they can follow, mount upon the projecting +ends of the runners and are carried with it. By means of the swift and +exhilarating rush of these sledges, the traveller traverses the distance, that +it takes some hours to climb, in a very few minutes. Indeed, his journey up and +down may be very well compared with that of the well-known British sailor who +took five hours to get up Majuba mountain, but, according to his own forcibly +told story, came down again with an almost incredible rapidity. It may +therefore be imagined that sledge- travelling in Madeira is not very well +suited to nervous voyagers. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Terry had at times seen these wheelless vehicles shoot from the top of a +mountain to the bottom like a balloon with the gas out, and had also heard of +occasional accidents in connection with them. Stoutly she vowed that nothing +should induce her to trust her neck to one of them. +</p> + +<p> +“But you must, Agatha, or else be left behind. They are as safe as a +church, and I can’t leave the Custances to wait till half-past eight for +dinner. Come, get in. Arthur can go in front and hold you; I will sit +behind.” +</p> + +<p> +Thus admonished—Miss Terry entered groaning, Arthur taking his seat +beside her, and Mrs. Carr hers in a sort of dickey behind. The newly- married +pair, who did not half like it, possessed themselves of the smaller sledge, +determined to brave extinction in each other’s arms. Then the conductors +seized the ropes, and, planting their one naked foot firmly before them, +awaited the signal to depart. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop,” said Miss Terry, lifting the recovered umbrella, +“that man has forgotten to put on his shoe and stocking on his right leg. +He will cut his foot, and, besides, it doesn’t look respectable to be +seen flying through a place with a one-legged ragamuffin——” +</p> + +<p> +“Let her go,” shouted Arthur, and they did, to some purpose, for in +a minute they were passing down that hill like a flash of light. Woods and +houses appeared and vanished like the visions of a dream, and the soft air went +singing away on either side of them as they clove it, flying downwards at an +angle of thirty degrees, and leaving nothing behind them but the sound of Miss +Terry’s lamentations. Soon they neared the bottom, but there was yet a +dip—the deepest of them all, with a sharp turn at the end of it—to +be traversed. +</p> + +<p> +Away went the little connubial sled in front like a pigeon down the wind; away +they sped after it like an eagle in pursuit; <i>crack</i> went the little +sledge into the corner, and out shot the happy pair; <i>crash</i> went the big +sledge into it, and Arthur became conscious of a wild yell, of a green veil +fluttering through the air, and of a fall as on to a feather-bed. Miss +Terry’s superior weight had brought her to her mother earth the first, +and he, after a higher heavenward flight, had lit upon the top of her. He +picked her up and sat her down against a wall to recover her breath, and then +fished Mildred, dirty and bruised, but as usual laughing, out of a gutter; the +loving pair had already risen and in an agony of mutual anxiety were rubbing +each other’s shins. And then he started back with a cry, for there before +him, surveying the disaster with an air of mingled amusement and benevolence, +stood—Sir John and Lady Bellamy. +</p> + +<p> +Had it been the Prince and Princess of Evil—if, as is probable, there is +a Princess—Arthur could scarcely have been more astounded. Somehow he had +always in his thoughts regarded Sir John and Lady Bellamy, when he thought +about them at all, as possessing indeed individual characters and tendencies, +but as completely “adscripti glebae” of the neighbourhood of the +Abbey House as that house itself. He would as soon have expected to see +Caresfoot’s Staff re-rooted in the soil of Madeira, as to find them +strolling about Funchal. He rubbed his eyes; perhaps, he thought, he had been +knocked silly and was labouring under a hallucination. No, there was no doubt +about it; there they were, just the same as he had seen them at Isleworth, +except that if possible Sir John looked even more like a ripe apple than usual, +while the sun had browned his wife’s Egyptian face and given her a last +finish as a perfect type of Cleopatra. Nor was the recognition on his side +only, for next second his hand was grasped first by Sir John and then by Lady +Bellamy. +</p> + +<p> +“When we last met, Mr. Heigham,” said the gentleman, with a +benevolent beam, “I think I expressed a wish that we might soon renew our +acquaintance, but I little thought under what circumstances our next meeting +would take place,” and he pointed to the overturned sledges and the +prostrate sledgers. +</p> + +<p> +“You have had a very merciful escape,” chimed in Lady Bellamy, +cordially; “with so many hard stones about, affairs might have ended +differently.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now then, Mr. Heigham, we had better set to and run, that is, if Agatha +has got a run left in her, or we shall be late after all. Thank goodness nobody +is hurt; but we must find a hammock for Agatha, for to judge from her groans +she thinks she is. Is my nose—— Oh, I beg your pardon,” and +Mrs. Carr stopped short, observing for the first time that he was talking to +strangers. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not let me detain you, if you are in a hurry. I am so thankful that +nobody is hurt,” said Lady Bellamy. “I believe that we are stopping +at the same hotel, Mr. Heigham, I saw your name in the book, so we shall have +plenty of opportunities of meeting.” +</p> + +<p> +But Arthur felt that there was one question which he must ask before he went +on, whether or no it exceeded the strict letter of his agreement with Philip; +so, calling to Mrs. Carr that he was coming, he said, with a blush, +</p> + +<p> +“How was Miss Caresfoot when—when you last saw her, Lady +Bellamy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly well,” she answered, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“And more lovely than ever,” added her husband. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you for that news, it is the best I have heard for some time. +Good-bye for the present, we shall meet to-morrow at breakfast,” and he +ran on after the others, happier than he had been for months, feeling that he +had come again within call of Angela, and as though he had never sat hand in +hand with Mildred Carr. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap44"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2> + +<p> +At breakfast on the following morning Arthur, as he had anticipated, met the +Bellamys. Sir John came down first, arrayed in true English fashion, in a +tourist suit of grey, and presently Lady Bellamy followed. As she entered, +dressed in trailing white, and walked slowly up the long table, every eye was +turned upon her, for she was one of those women who attract attention as surely +and unconsciously as a magnet attracts iron. Arthur, looking with the rest, +thought that he had never seen a stranger, or at the same time a more imposing- +looking, woman. Time had not yet touched her beauty or impaired her vigorous +constitution, and at forty she was still at the zenith of her charms. The dark +hair, that threw out glinting lights of copper when the sun struck it, still +curled in its clustering ringlets and showed no line of grey, while the +mysterious, heavy-lidded eyes and the coral lips were as full of rich life and +beauty as they had been when she and Hilda von Holtzhausen first met at Rewtham +House. +</p> + +<p> +On her face, too, was the same expression of quiet power, of conscious +superiority and calm command, that had always distinguished it. Arthur tried to +think what it reminded him of, and remembered that the same look was to be seen +upon the stone features of some of the Egyptian statues in Mildred’s +museum. +</p> + +<p> +“How splendid Lady Bellamy looks!” he said, almost unconsciously, +to his neighbour. +</p> + +<p> +Sir John did not answer; and Arthur, glancing up to learn the reason, saw that +he also was watching the approach of his wife, and that his face was contorted +with a sudden spasm of intense malice and hatred, whilst his little, pig-like +eyes glittered threateningly. He had not even heard the remark. Arthur would +have liked to whistle; he had surprised a secret. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Heigham? I hope that you are not bruised after your +tumble yesterday. Good morning, John.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur rose and shook hands. +</p> + +<p> +“I never was more surprised in my life,” he said, “than when +I saw you and Sir John at the top of the street there. May I ask what brought +you to Madeira?” +</p> + +<p> +“Health, sir, health,” answered the little man. “Cough, +catarrh, influenza, and all that’s damn——ah! infernal!” +</p> + +<p> +“My husband, Mr. Heigham,” struck in Lady Bellamy, in her full, +rich tones, “had a severe threatening of chest disease, and the doctor +recommended a trip to some warmer climate. Unfortunately, however, his business +arrangements will not permit of a long stay. We only stop here three weeks at +most.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry to hear that you are not well, Sir John.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it is nothing very much,” answered Lady Bellamy for him; +“only he requires care. What a lovely garden this is—is it not? By +the way, I forgot to inquire after the ladies who shared your tumble. I hope +that they were none the worse. I was much struck with one of them, the very +pretty person with the brown hair, whom you pulled out of the gutter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mrs. Carr. Yes, she is pretty.” +</p> + +<p> +After breakfast, Arthur volunteered to take Lady Bellamy round the garden, with +the ulterior object of extracting some more information about Angela. It must +be remembered that he had no cause to mistrust that lady, nor had he any +knowledge of the events which had recently happened in the neighbourhood of the +Abbey House. He was therefore perfectly frank with her. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that you have heard of my engagement, Lady Bellamy?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, Mr. Heigham; it is quite a subject of conversation in the +Roxham neighbourhood. Angela Caresfoot is a sweet and very beautiful girl, and +I congratulate you much.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know, then, of its conditions?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I heard of them, and thought them ridiculous. Indeed I tried, at +Angela’s suggestion, to do you a good turn with Philip Caresfoot, and get +him to modify them; but he would not. He is a curious man, Philip, and, when he +once gets a thing into his head, it is beyond the power of most people to drive +it out again. I suppose that you are spending your year of probation +here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes—I am trying to get through the time in that way; but it +is slow work.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you seemed pretty happy yesterday,” she answered, +smiling. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur blushed. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! yes, I may appear to be. But tell me all about Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have really very little to tell. She seems to be living as usual, and +looks well. Her friend Mr. Fraser has come back. But I must be going in; I have +promised to go out walking with Sir John. <i>Au revoir</i>, Mr. Heigham.” +</p> + +<p> +Left to himself, Arthur remembered that he also had an appointment to +keep—namely, to meet Mildred by the Cathedral steps, and go with her to +choose some Madeira jewellery, an undertaking which she did not feel competent +to carry out without his assistance. +</p> + +<p> +When he reached the Cathedral, he found her rather cross at having been kept +waiting for ten minutes. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very rude of you,” she said; “but I suppose that you +were so taken up with the conversation of your friends that you forgot the +time. By the way, who are they? anybody you have told me about?” +</p> + +<p> +In the pauses of selecting the jewellery, Arthur told her all he knew about the +Bellamys, and of their connection with the neighbourhood of the Abbey House. +The story caused Mildred to open her brown eyes and look thoughtful. Just as +they came out of the shop, who should they run into but the Bellamys +themselves, chaffering for Madeira work with a woman in the street. Arthur +stopped and spoke to them, and then introduced Mrs. Carr, who, after a little +conversation, asked them up to lunch. +</p> + +<p> +After this Mildred and Lady Bellamy met a good deal. The two women interested +each other. +</p> + +<p> +One night, when the Bellamys had been about ten days in Madeira, the +conversation took a personal turn. Sir John and Arthur were sitting over their +wine (they were dining with Mrs. Carr), Agatha Terry was fast asleep on a sofa, +so that Lady Bellamy and Mildred, seated upon lounging-chairs, by a table with +a light on it, placed by an open window, were practically alone. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, by the way, Lady Bellamy,” said Mildred, after a pause, +“I believe that you are acquainted with the young lady to whom Mr. +Heigham is engaged?” She had meant to say, “to be married,” +but the words stuck in her throat. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, I know her well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am so glad. I am quite curious to hear what she is like; one can never +put much faith in lovers’ raptures, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean in person or in character?” +</p> + +<p> +“Both.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Angela Caresfoot is as lovely a woman as ever I saw, with a noble +figure, well-set head, and magnificent eyes and hair.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred turned a little pale and bit her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“As to her character, I can hardly describe it. She lives in an +atmosphere of her own, an atmosphere that I cannot reach, or, at any rate, +cannot breathe. But if you can imagine a woman whose mind is enriched with +learning as profound as that of the first classical scholars of the day, and +tinged with an originality all her own; a woman whose faith is as steady as +that star, and whose love is deep as the sea and as definite as its tides; who +lives to higher ends than those we strive for; whose whole life, indeed, gives +one the idea that it is the shadow—imperfect, perhaps, but still the +shadow—of an immortal light: then you will get some idea of Angela +Caresfoot. She is a woman intellectually, physically, and spiritually +immeasurably above the man on whom she has set her affections.” +</p> + +<p> +“That cannot be,” said Mildred, softly, “like draws to like; +she must have found something in him, some better part, some affinity of which +you know nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +After this she fell into silence. Presently Lady Bellamy raised her eyes, just +now filled up with the great pupils, and fixed them on Mildred. +</p> + +<p> +“You are thinking,” she said, slowly, “that Angela Caresfoot +is a formidable rival.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred started. +</p> + +<p> +“How can you pretend to read my thoughts?” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a little. +</p> + +<p> +“I am an adept at the art. Don’t be down-hearted. I should not be +surprised if, after all, the engagement between Mr. Heigham and Angela +Caresfoot should come to nothing. Of course, I speak in perfect +confidence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the marriage is not altogether agreeable to the father, who would +prefer another and more suitable match. But, unfortunately, there is no way of +shaking the young lady’s determination.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think that, with assistance, a way might be found.” +</p> + +<p> +Their eyes met, and this time Mildred took up the parable. +</p> + +<p> +“Should I be wrong, Lady Bellamy, if I supposed that you have not come to +Madeira solely for pleasure?” +</p> + +<p> +“A wise person always tries to combine business and pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“And in this case the business combined is in connection with Mr. +Heigham’s engagement?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly.” +</p> + +<p> +“And supposing that I were to tell him this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Had I not known that you would on no account tell Mr. Heigham, I should +not have told you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how do you know that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I will answer your question by another. Did you ever yet know a woman, +who loved a man, willingly help him to the arms of a rival, unless indeed she +was forced to it?” she added, with something like a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +Mildred Carr’s snowy bosom heaved tumultuously, and the rose-leaf hue +faded from her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that I am in love with Arthur Heigham. On what do you base that +belief?” +</p> + +<p> +“On a base as broad as the pyramids of which you were talking at dinner. +Public report, not nearly so misleading a guide as people think, your face, +your voice, your eyes, all betray you. Why do you always try to get near him to +touch him?—answer me that. I have seen you do it three times this +evening. Once you handed him a book in order to touch his hand beneath it; but +there is no need to enumerate what you doubtless very well remember. No nice +woman, Mrs. Carr, ever likes to continually touch a man unless she loves him. +You are always listening for his voice and step, you are listening for them +now. Your eyes follow his face as a dog does his master’s—when you +speak to him, your voice is a caress in itself. Shall I go on?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that it is unnecessary. Whether you be right or not, I will give +you the credit of being a close observer.” +</p> + +<p> +“To observe with me is at once a task and an amusement, and the habit is +one that leads me to accurate conclusions, as I think you will admit. The +conclusion I have come to in your case is that you do not wish to see Arthur +Heigham married to another woman. I spoke just now of +assistance——” +</p> + +<p> +“I have none to give, I will give none. How could I look him in the +face?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are strangely scrupulous for a woman in your position.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have always tried to behave like an honourable woman, Lady Bellamy, +and I do not feel inclined to do otherwise now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you will think differently when it comes to the point. But in +the meanwhile remember, that people who will not help themselves, cannot expect +to be helped.” +</p> + +<p> +“Once and for all, Lady Bellamy, understand me. I fight for my own hand +with the weapons which Nature and fortune have given me, and by myself I will +stand or fall. I will join in no schemes to separate Arthur from this woman. If +I cannot win him for myself by myself, I will at any rate lose him fairly. I +will respect what you have told me, but I will do no more.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy smiled as she answered— +</p> + +<p> +“I really admire your courage. It is quite quixotic. Hush, here come the +gentlemen.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap45"></a>CHAPTER XLV.</h2> + +<p> +A few days after the dinner at the Quinta Carr, the Bellamys’ visit to +Madeira drew to a close. On the evening before their departure, Arthur +volunteered to take Lady Bellamy down to the parade to hear the band play. +After they had walked about a while under the shade of the magnolia-trees, +which were starred all over with creamy cups of bloom, and sufficiently +inspected the gay throng of Portuguese inhabitants and English visitors, made +gayer still by the amazingly gorgeous uniforms of the officials, Arthur spied +two chairs in a comparatively quiet corner, and suggested that they should sit +down. +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Bellamy,” he said, after hesitating a while, “you are a +woman of the world, and I believe a friend of my own. I want to ask your advice +about something.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is entirely at your service, Mr. Heigham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, really it is very awkward——” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I turn my head so as not to see your blushes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t laugh at me, Lady Bellamy. Of course you will say nothing of +this.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you doubt my discretion, Mr. Heigham, do not choose me as a +confidante. You are going, unless I am mistaken, to speak to me about Mrs. +Carr.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is about her. But how did you know that? You always seem to be +able to read one’s thoughts before one speaks. Do you know, sometimes I +think that she has taken a fancy to me, do you see, and I wanted to ask you +what you thought about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, supposing that she had, most young men, Mr. Heigham, would not +talk of such a thing in a tone befitting a great catastrophe. But, if I am not +entering too deeply into particulars, what makes you think so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, really, I don’t exactly know. She sometimes gives me a +general idea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, then, there has been nothing tangible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes, once she took my hand, or I took hers, I don’t know +which; but I don’t think much of that, because it’s the sort of +thing that’s always happening, don’t you know, and nine times out +of ten means nothing at all. But why I ask you about it is that, if there is +anything of the sort, I had better cut and run out of this, because it would +not be fair to stop, either to her, or to Angela, or myself. It would be +dangerous, you see, playing with such a woman as Mildred.” +</p> + +<p> +“So you would go away if you thought that she took any warmer interest in +you than ladies generally do in men engaged to be married.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I should.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, I think that I can set your mind at ease. I have observed +Mrs. Carr pretty closely, and in the way you suppose she cares for you no more +than she does for your coat. She is, no doubt, a bit of a flirt, and very +likely wishes to get you to fall in love with her—a natural ambition on +the part of a woman; but, as for being in love with you herself, the idea is +absurd. Women of the world do not fall in love so readily; they are too much +taken up with thinking about themselves to have time to think about anybody +else. With them it is all self, self, self, from morning till night. Besides, +look at the common-sense side of the thing. Do you suppose it likely that a +person of Mrs. Carr’s wealth and beauty, who has only to lift her hand to +have all London at her feet, is likely to fix her affections upon a young man +whom she knows is already engaged to be married, and who— forgive me if I +say so—has not got the same recommendations to her favour that many of +her suitors have? It is, of course, quite possible that Mrs. Carr’s +society may be dangerous to you, in which case it might be wise for you to go; +but I really do not think that you need feel any anxiety on her account. She +finds you a charming companion, and in some ways a useful one, and that is all. +When you go, somebody else will soon fill the vacant space.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then that’s all right,” said Arthur, though somehow he did +not feel as wildly delighted as he should have done at hearing it so clearly +demonstrated that Mildred did not care a brass button about him; but then that +is human nature. Between eighteen and thirty-five, ninety per cent. of the men +in the world would like to centre in themselves the affections of every young +and pretty woman they know, even if there was not the ghost of a chance of +their marrying one of them. The same tendency is to be observed conversely in +the other sex, only in their case with a still smaller proportion of +exceptions. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way,” asked Arthur, presently, “how is my late +guardian, Mr. George Caresfoot?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all well, I am sorry to say. I am very anxious about his health. +He is in the south of England now for a change.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry he is ill. Do you know, I daresay you will think me absurd; +but you have taken a weight off my mind. I always had an idea that he wanted to +marry Angela, and sometimes I am afraid that I have suspected that Philip +Caresfoot carted me off in order to give him a chance. You see, Philip is +uncommonly fond of money, and George is rich.” +</p> + +<p> +“What an absurd idea, Mr. Heigham! Why, George looks upon matrimony as an +institution of the evil one. He admires Angela, I know—he always does +admire a pretty face; but as for dreaming of marrying a girl half his age and +his own cousin into the bargain, it is about the last thing that he would +do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear it. I am sure I have been uncomfortable enough +thinking about him sometimes. Lady Bellamy, will you do something for +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is that, Mr. Heigham?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell Angela all about me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But would that be quite honourable, Mr. Heigham—under the +conditions of your engagement, I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“You never promised not to talk about me; I only promised not to attempt +verbal or written communication with Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will tell her that I met you, and that you are well, and, if +Philip will allow me, I will tell her more; but of course I don’t know if +he will or not. What ring is that you wear?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is one that Angela gave me when we became engaged. It was her +mother’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you let me look at it?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur held out his hand. The ring was an antique, a large emerald, cut like a +seal and heavily set in a band of dull gold. On the face of the stone were +engraved some mysterious characters. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that engraved on the stone?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not sure; but Angela told me that Mr. Fraser had taken an +impression of it, and forwarded it to a great Oriental scholar. His friend said +that the stone must be extremely ancient, as the character is a form of +Sanscrit, and that he believed the word to mean ‘For ever’ or +‘Eternity.’ Angela said that it had been in her mother’s +family for generations, and was supposed to have been brought from the East +about the year 1700. That is all I know about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The motto is better suited to a wedding-ring than to an engagement +stone,” said Lady Bellamy, with one of her dark smiles. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because engagements are like promises and pie-crust, made to be +broken.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that will not be the case with ours, however,” said Arthur, +attempting a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope not, I am sure; but never pin your faith absolutely to any woman, +or you will regret it. Always accept her oaths and protestations as you would a +political statement, politely, and with an appearance of perfect faith, but +with a certain grain of mistrust. Woman’s fidelity is in the main a +fiction. We are faithful just as men are, so long as it suits us to be so; with +this difference however, men play false from passion or impulse, women from +calculation.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not draw a pleasing picture of your own sex.” +</p> + +<p> +“When is the truth pleasing? It is only when we clothe its nakedness with +the rags of imagination, or sweeten it with fiction, that it can please. Of +itself, it is so ugly a thing that society in its refinement will not even hear +it, but prefers to employ a corresponding formula. Thus all passion, however +vile, is called by the name of ‘love,’ all superstitious terror and +grovelling attempts to conciliate the unseen are known as +‘religion,’ while selfish greed and the hungry lust for power +masquerade as laudable ‘ambition.’ Men and women, especially women, +hate the truth, because, like the electric light, it shows them as they are, +and that is vile. It has grown so strange to them from disuse that, like +Pilate, they do not even know what it is! I was going to say, however, that if +you care to trust me with it, I think I see how I can take a message to Angela +for you—without either causing you to break your promise or doing +anything dishonourable myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, if you like, I will take her that ring. I think that is a very +generous offer on my part, for I do not like the responsibility.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what is the use of taking her the ring?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is something that there can be no mistake about, that is all, a +speaking message from yourself. But don’t give it me if you do not like; +perhaps you had rather not!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like parting with it at all, I confess, but I should +dearly like to send her something. I suppose that you would not take a +letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“You would not write one, Mr. Heigham!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, of course, I forget that accursed promise. Here, take the ring, and +say all you can to Angela with it. You promise that you will?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, I promise that I will say all I can.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very good and kind. I wish to Heaven that I were going to +Marlshire with you. If you only knew how I long to see her again. I think that +it would break my heart if anything happened to separate us,” and his +lips quivered at the thought. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy turned her sombre face upon him—there was compassion in her +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“If you bear Angela Caresfoot so great a love, be guided by me and shake +it off, strangle it—be rid of it anyhow; for fulfilled affection of that +nature would carry a larger happiness with it than is allowed in a world +planned expressly to secure the greatest misery of the greatest number. There +is a fate which fights against it; its ministers are human folly and passion. +You have seen many marriages, tell me, how many have you known, out of a novel, +where the people married their true loves? In novels they always do, it is +another of society’s pleasant fictions, but real life is like a novel +without the third volume. I do not want to alarm you, Mr. Heigham; but, because +I like you, I ask you to steel your mind to disappointment, so that, if a blow +comes, it may not crush you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean, Lady Bellamy, do you know of any impending +trouble?” +</p> + +<p> +“I? Certainly not. I only talk on general principles. Do not be over- +confident, and <i>never</i> trust a woman. Come, let us get home.” +</p> + +<p> +Next morning, when Arthur came down to breakfast, the Bellamys had sailed. The +mail had come in from the Cape at midnight, and left again at dawn, taking them +with it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap46"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2> + +<p> +The departure of the Bellamys left Arthur in very low spirits. His sensations +were similar to those which one can well imagine an ancient Greek might have +experienced who, having sent to consult the Delphic oracle, had got for his +pains a very unsatisfactory reply, foreshadowing evils but not actually +defining them. Lady Bellamy was in some way connected with the idea of an +oracle in his mind. She looked oracular. Her dark face and inscrutable eyes, +the stamp of power upon her brow, all suggested that she was a mistress of the +black arts. Her words, too, were mysterious, and fraught with bitter wisdom and +a deep knowledge distilled from the poisonous weeds of life. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur felt with something like a shudder that, if Lady Bellamy prophesied +evil, evil was following hard upon her words. And in warning him not to place +his whole heart’s happiness upon one venture, lest it should meet with +shipwreck, he was sure that she was prophesying with a knowledge of the future +denied to ordinary mortals. How earnestly, too, she had cautioned him against +putting absolute faith in Angela—so earnestly, indeed, that her talk had +left a flavour of distrust in his mind. Yet how could he mistrust Angela? +</p> + +<p> +Nor was he comforted by a remark that fell from Mildred Carr the afternoon +following the departure of the mail. Raising her eyes, she glanced at his hand. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you looking at?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Was not that queer emerald you wore your engagement ring?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“What have you done with it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I gave it to Lady Bellamy to give to Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +“What for?” +</p> + +<p> +“To show her that I am alive and well. I may not write, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very confiding.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing. At least, I mean that I don’t think that I should care to +hand over my engagement ring so easily. It might be misapplied, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +This view of the matter helped to fill up the cup of Arthur’s nervous +anxiety, and he vainly plied Mildred with questions to get her to elucidate her +meaning, and state her causes of suspicion, if she had any; but she would say +nothing more on the subject, which then dropped, and was not alluded to again +between them. +</p> + +<p> +After the Bellamys’ departure, the time wore on at Madeira without +bringing about any appreciable change in the situation. But Mildred saw that +their visit had robbed her of any advantages she had gained over Arthur, for +they had, as it were, brought Angela’s atmosphere with them, and, faint +though it was, it sufficed to overpower her influence. He made no move forward, +and seemed to have entirely forgotten the episode on the hills when he had gone +so very near disaster. On the contrary, he appeared to her to grow increasingly +preoccupied as time went on, and to look upon her more and more in the light of +a sister, till at length her patience wore thin. +</p> + +<p> +As for her passion, it grew almost unrestrainable in its confinement. Now she +drifted like a rudderless vessel on a sea which raged continuously and knew no +space of calm. And so little oil was poured upon the troubled waters, there +were so few breaks in the storm-walls that rose black between her and the +desired haven of her rest. Indeed, she began to doubt if even her poor power of +charming him, as at first she had been able to do, with the sparkle of her wit +and the half- unconscious display of her natural grace, was not on the wane, +and if she was not near to losing her precarious foothold in his esteem and +affection. The thought that he might be tiring of her struck her like a +freezing wind, and for a moment turned her heart to ice. +</p> + +<p> +Poor Mildred! higher than ever above her head bloomed that “blue +rose” she longed to pluck. Would she ever reach it after all her +striving, even to gather one poor leaf, one withered petal? The path which led +to it was very hard to climb, and below the breakers boiled. Would it, after +all, be her fate to fall, down into that gulf of which the sorrowful waters +could bring neither death nor forgetfulness? +</p> + +<p> +And so Christmas came and went. +</p> + +<p> +One day, when they were all sitting in the drawing-room, some eight weeks after +the Bellamys had left, and Mildred was letting her mind run on such thoughts as +these, Arthur, who had been reading a novel, got up and opened the +folding-doors at the end of the room which separated it from the second +drawing-room, and also the further doors between that room and the dining-room. +Then he returned, and, standing at the top of the big drawing-room, took a +bird’s-eye view of the whole suite. +</p> + +<p> +“What <i>are</i> you doing, Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am reflecting, Mildred, that, with such a suite of apartments at your +command, it is a sin and a shame not to give a ball.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will give a ball, if you like, Arthur. Will you dance with me if I +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“How many times?” he said, laughing. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I will be moderate—three times. Let me see—the first +waltz, the waltz before supper, and the last galop.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will dance me off my head. It is dangerous to waltz with any one so +pretty,” he said, in that bantering tone he often took with her, and +which aggravated her intensely. +</p> + +<p> +“It is more likely that my own head will suffer, as I dance so rarely. +Then, that is a bargain?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, Mildred, how silly you are; you are like a schoolgirl!” +said Miss Terry. +</p> + +<p> +“Agatha is put out because you do not offer to dance three times with +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! but I will, though, if she likes; three quadrilles.” +</p> + +<p> +And so the matter passed off in mutual badinage; but Mildred did not forget her +intention. On the contrary, “society” at Madeira was soon +profoundly agitated by the intelligence that the lady Croesus, Mrs. Carr, was +about to give a magnificent ball, and so ill-natured—or, rather, so given +to jumping to conclusions—is society, that it was freely said it was in +order to celebrate her engagement to Arthur Heigham. Arthur heard nothing of +this; one is always the last to hear things about oneself. Mildred knew of it, +however, but, whether from indifference or from some hidden motive, she neither +took any steps to contradict it herself, nor would she allow Miss Terry to do +so. +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense,” she said; “let them talk. To contradict such +things only makes people believe them the more. Mind now, Agatha, not a word of +this to Mr. Heigham; it would put him out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mildred, I should have thought that you would be put out +too.” +</p> + +<p> +“I!—oh, no! Worse things might happen,” and she shrugged her +shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +At length the much-expected evening came, and the arriving guests found that +the ball had been planned on a scale such as Madeira had never before beheld. +The night was lovely and sufficiently still to admit of the illumination of the +gardens by means of Chinese lanterns that glowed all around in hundreds, and +were even hung like golden fruit amongst the topmost leaves of the lofty +cabbage palms, and from the tallest sprays of the bamboos. Within, the scene +was equally beautiful. The suite of three reception-rooms had been thrown into +one, two for dancing, and one for use as a sitting-room. They were quite full, +for the Madeira season was at its height, and all the English visitors who were +“anybody” were there. There happened, too, to be a man-of-war in +the harbour, every man-jack, or, rather, every officer-jack of which, with the +exception of those on watch—and they were to be relieved later +on—was there, and prepared to enjoy himself with a gusto characteristic +of the British sailor-man. +</p> + +<p> +The rooms, too, were by no means devoid of beauty, but by far the loveliest +woman in them was Mrs. Carr herself. She was simply dressed in a +perfectly-fitting black satin gown, looped up with diamond stars that showed +off the exquisite fairness of her skin to great perfection. Her ornaments were +also diamonds, but such diamonds—not little flowers and birds constructed +of tiny stones, but large single gems, each the size of a hazel-nut. On her +head she wore a tiara of these, eleven stones in all, five on each side, and +surmounted over the centre of the forehead by an enormous gem as large as a +small walnut, which, standing by itself above the level of the others, flashed +and blazed like a fairy star. Around her neck, wrists, and waist were similar +points of concentrated light, that, shining against the black satin as she +moved, gave her a truly magnificent appearance. Never before had Mildred Carr +looked so perfectly lovely, for her face and form were well worthy of the gems +and dress; indeed, most of the men there that night thought her eyes as +beautiful as her diamonds. +</p> + +<p> +The ball opened with a quadrille, but in this Mrs. Carr did not dance, being +employed in the reception of her guests. Then followed a waltz, and, as its +first strains struck up, several applicants came to compete for the honour of +her hand; but she declined them all, saying that she was already engaged; and +presently Arthur, looking very tall and quite the typical young Englishman in +his dress-clothes, came hurrying up. +</p> + +<p> +“You are late, Mr. Heigham,” she said; “the music has +begun.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; I am awfully sorry. I was dancing with Lady Florence, and could not +find her old aunt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, to me Mrs. Velley is pretty conspicuous, with that green thing +on her head; but come along, we are wasting time.” +</p> + +<p> +Putting his arm round her waist, they sailed away together amidst of the +murmurs of the disappointed applicants. +</p> + +<p> +“Lucky dog,” said one. +</p> + +<p> +“Infernal puppy,” muttered another. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur enjoyed his waltz very much, for the rooms, though full, were not +crowded, and Mildred waltzed well. Still he was a little uneasy, for he felt +that, in being chosen to dance the first waltz with the giver of this splendid +entertainment over the heads of so many of his superiors in rank and position, +he was being put rather out of his place. He did not as a rule take any great +degree of notice of Mildred’s appearance, but to-night it struck him as +unusually charming. +</p> + +<p> +“You look very beautiful to-night, Mildred,” he said, when they +halted for breath; “and what splendid diamonds you have on!” +</p> + +<p> +She flushed with pleasure at his compliment. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not laugh at my diamonds. I know that I am too insignificant to +wear such jewels. I had two minds about putting them on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Laugh at them, indeed. I should as soon think of laughing at the Bank of +England. They are splendid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said, bitterly; “they would be splendid on your +Angela. They want a splendid woman to carry them off.” +</p> + +<p> +Oddly enough, he was thinking the same thing: so, having nothing to say, he +went on dancing. Presently the waltz came to an end, and Mildred was obliged to +hurry off to receive the Portuguese Governor, who had just put in an +appearance. Arthur looked at his card, and found that he was down for the next +galop with Lady Florence Claverley. +</p> + +<p> +“Our dance again, Lady Florence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Mr. Heigham, this is quite shocking. If everybody did not know +that you belonged body and soul to the lovely widow, I should be accused of +flirting with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was it made me promise to dance five times?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did. I want to make Mrs. Carr angry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should my dancing five or fifty dances with you make Mrs. Carr +angry?” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Florence shrugged her pretty shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you blind?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur felt uncomfortable. +</p> + +<p> +In due course, however, the last waltz before supper came round, and he, as +agreed upon, danced it with his hostess. As the strains of the music died away, +the doors of the supper-room and tent were thrown open. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Arthur,” said Mildred, “take me in to supper.” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“The Portuguese Governor——” he began. +</p> + +<p> +She stamped her little foot, and her eyes gave an ominous flash. +</p> + +<p> +“Must I ask you twice?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Then he yielded, though the fact of being for the second time that night placed +in an unnecessarily prominent position made him feel more uncomfortable than +ever, for they were seated at the head of the top table. Mildred Carr was in +the exact centre, with himself on her right and the Portuguese Governor on the +left. To Arthur’s left was Lady Florence, who took an opportunity to +assure him solemnly that he really “bore his blushing honours, very +nicely,” and to ask him “how he liked the high places at +feasts?” +</p> + +<p> +The supper passed off as brilliantly as most successful suppers do. Mrs. Carr +looked charming, and her conversation sparkled like her own champagne; but it +seemed to him that, as in the case of the wine, there was too much sting in it. +The wine was a little too dry, and her talk a little too full of suppressed +sarcasm, though he could not quite tell what it was aimed at, any more than he +could trace the source of the champagne bubbles. +</p> + +<p> +Supper done, he led her back to the ball-room. The second extra was just +beginning, and she stood as though she were expecting him to ask her to dance +it. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry, Mildred, but I must go now. I am engaged this dance.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed—who to?” This was very coldly said. +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Florence,” he answered, confusedly, though there really was +no reason why he should be ashamed. +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I forgot, for to-night you are her monopoly. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +A little while after this, Arthur thought that he had had about enough dancing +for awhile, and went and sat by himself in a secluded spot under the shadow of +a tree-fern in a temporary conservatory put up outside a bow-window. The +Chinese lantern that hung upon the fern had gone out, leaving his chair in +total darkness. Presently a couple, whom he did not recognize, for he only saw +their backs, strayed in, and placed themselves on a bench before him in such a +way as to entirely cut off his retreat. He was making up his mind to disturb +them, when they began a conversation, in which the squeezing of hands and mild +terms of endearment played a part. Fearing to interrupt, lest he should disturb +their equanimity, he judged it best to stop where he was. Presently, however, +their talk took a turn that proved intensely interesting to him. It was +something as follows:— +</p> + +<p> +<i>She</i>. “Have you seen the hero of the evening?” +</p> + +<p> +<i>He</i>. “Who? Do you mean the Portuguese Governor in his +war-paint?” +</p> + +<p> +<i>She</i>. “No, of course not. You don’t call him a hero, do you? +I mean our hostess’s <i>fiance</i>, the nice-looking young fellow who +took her in to supper.” +</p> + +<p> +<i>He</i>. “Oh, yes. I did not think much of him. Lucky dog! but he must +be rather mean. They say that he is engaged to a girl in England, and has +thrown her over for the widow.” +</p> + +<p> +<i>She</i>. “Ah, you’re jealous! I know that you would like to be +in his shoes. Come, confess.” +</p> + +<p> +<i>He</i>. “You are very unkind. Why should I be jealous +when——” +</p> + +<p> +<i>She</i>. “Well, you need not hurt my hand, and will you <i>never</i> +remember that black shows against white!” +</p> + +<p> +<i>He</i>. “It’s awfully hot here; let’s go into the +garden.” [<i>Exeunt</i>.] +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap47"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2> + +<p> +Arthur emerged from his hiding-place, horror-struck at hearing what was being +said about him, and wondering, so far as he was at the moment capable of +accurate thought, how long this report had been going about, and whether by any +chance it had reached the ears of the Bellamys. If it had, the mischief might +be very serious. In the confusion of his mind, only two things were clear to +him—one was, that both for Mildred’s and his own sake, he must +leave Madeira at once; and, secondly, that he would dance no more with her that +night. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the ball was drawing to a close, and presently he heard the strains +of the last galop strike up. After the band had been playing for a minute or +two, a natural curiosity drew him to the door of the ball-room, to see if +Mildred was dancing with anybody else. Here he found Lady Florence, looking +rather disconsolate. +</p> + +<p> +“How is it that you are not dancing?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +He murmured something inaudible about “partner.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, we are in the same box. What do you think? I promised this galop +to Captain Clemence, and now there he is, vainly trying to persuade Mrs. Carr, +who won’t look at him, and appears to be waiting for somebody +else—you, I should think—to give him the dance. I will be even with +him, though.” +</p> + +<p> +Just then the music reached a peculiarly seductive passage. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come along!” said Lady Florence, quite regardless of the +proprieties; and, before Arthur well knew where he was, he was whirling round +the room. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Carr was standing at the top corner, where the crush obliged him to +slacken his pace, and, as he did so, he caught her eye. She was talking to Lady +Florence’s faithless partner, with a smile upon her lips; but one glance +at her face sufficed to tell him that she was in a royal rage, and, what was +more, with himself. His partner noticed it, too, and was amused. +</p> + +<p> +“Unless I am mistaken, Mr. Heigham, you have come into trouble. Look at +Mrs. Carr.” And she laughed. +</p> + +<p> +But that was not all. Either from sheer mischief, or from curiosity to see what +would happen, she insisted upon stopping, as the dance drew to a close, by +Mildred’s corner. That lady, however, proved herself equal to the +occasion. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham,” she said sweetly, “do you know that that was +our dance?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, was it?” he replied, feeling very much a fool. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, certainly it was; but with such a temptation to +error”—and she smiled towards Lady Florence—“it is not +wonderful that you made a mistake, and, as you look so contrite, you shall be +forgiven. Agatha, there’s a dear, just ask that man to go up to the band, +and tell them to play another waltz, ‘La Berceuse,’ before +‘God save the Queen.’” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur felt all the while, though she was talking so suavely, that she was in a +state of suppressed rage; once he glanced at her, and saw that her eyes seemed +to flash. But her anger only made her look more lovely, supplying as it did an +added dignity and charm to her sweet features. Nor did she allow it to have +full play. +</p> + +<p> +Mildred felt that the crisis in her fortunes was far too serious to admit of +being trifled with. She knew how unlikely it was that she would ever have a +better chance with Arthur than she had now, for the mirrors told her that she +was looking her loveliest, which was very lovely indeed. In addition, she was +surrounded by every seductive circumstance that could assist to compel a young +man, however much engaged, to commit himself by some act or words of folly. The +sound and sights of beauty, the rich odour of flowers, the music’s +voluptuous swell, and last, but not least, the pressure of her gracious form +and the glances from her eyes, which alone were enough to make fools of +ninety-nine out of every hundred young men in Europe —all these things +combined to help her. And to them must be added her determination, that +concentrated strength of will employed to a single end, which, if there be any +truth in the theories of the action of mind on mind, cannot fail to influence +the individual on whom it is directed. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +The room was very nearly clear, for it was drawing towards daylight when they +floated away together. Oh! what a waltz that was! The incarnate spirit of the +dance took possession of them. She waltzed divinely, and there was scarcely +anything to check their progress. On, on they sped with flying feet as the +music rose and fell above them. And soon things began to change for Arthur. All +sense of embarrassment and regret vanished from his mind, which now appeared to +be capable of holding but one idea of the simplest and yet the most soaring +nature. He thought that he was in heaven with Mildred Carr. On, still on; now +he saw nothing but her shell-like face and the large flash of the circling +diamonds, felt nothing but the pressure of her form and her odorous breath upon +his cheek, heard nothing but the soft sound of her breathing. Closer he clasped +her; there was no sense of weariness in his feet or oppression in his lungs; he +could have danced for ever. But all too soon the music ceased with a crash, and +they were standing with quick breath and sparkling eyes by the spot that they +had started from. Close by Miss Terry was sitting yawning. +</p> + +<p> +“Agatha, say good-bye to those people for me. I must get a breath of +fresh air. Give me a glass of water, please, Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +He did so, and, by way of composing his own nerves, took a tumbler of +champagne. He had no longer any thought of anxiety or danger, and he, too, +longed for air. They passed out into the garden, and, by a common consent, made +their way to the museum verandah, which was, as it proved, quite deserted. +</p> + +<p> +The night, which was drawing to its close, was perfect. Far over the west the +setting moon was sinking into the silver ocean, whilst the first primrose hue +of dawn was creeping up the eastern sky. It was essentially a dangerous night, +especially after dancing and champagne —a night to make people do and say +regrettable things; for, as one of the poets—is it not Byron?—has +profoundly remarked, there is the very devil in the moon at times. +</p> + +<p> +They stood and gazed awhile at the softness of its setting splendours, and +listened to the sounds of the last departing guests fading into silence, and to +the murmurs of the quiet sea. At last she spoke, very low and musically. +</p> + +<p> +“I was angry with you. I brought you here to scold you; but on such a +night I cannot find the heart.” +</p> + +<p> +“What did you want to scold me about?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind; it is all forgotten. Look at that setting moon and the +silver clouds above her,” and she dropped her hand, from which she had +slipped the glove, upon his own. +</p> + +<p> +“And now look at me and tell me how I look, and how you liked the ball. I +gave it to please you.” +</p> + +<p> +“You look very lovely, dangerously lovely, and the ball was splendid. Let +us go.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think me lovely, Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; who could help it? But let us go in.” +</p> + +<p> +“Stay awhile, Arthur; do not leave me yet. Tell me, is not this necklace +undone? Fasten it for me, Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned to obey, but his hand shook too much to allow him to do so. Her eyes +shone into his own, her fragrant breath played upon his brow, and her bosom +heaved beneath his shaking hand. She too was moved; light tremors ran along her +limbs, the colour came and went upon her neck and brow, and a dreamy look had +gathered in her tender eyes. Beneath them the sea made its gentle music, and +above the wind was whispering to the trees. Presently his hand dropped, and he +stood fascinated. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot. What makes you look like that? You are bewitching me.” +</p> + +<p> +Next moment he heard a sigh, the next Mildred’s sweet lips were upon his +own, and she was in his arms. She lay there still, quite still, but even as she +lay there rose, as it were, in the midst of the glamour and confusion of his +mind, that made him see all things distraught, and seemed to blot out every +principle of right and honour, another and far different scene. For, as in a +vision, he saw a dim English landscape and a grey ruin, and himself within its +shadows with a nobler woman in his arms, “Dethrone me,” said a +remembered voice, “desert me, and I will still thank you for this hour of +imperial happiness.” The glamour was gone, the confusion made straight, +and clear above him shone the light of duty. +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, dear Mildred, this cannot be. Sit down. I want to speak to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned quite white, and sank from his arms without a word. +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, you know that I am engaged.” +</p> + +<p> +The lips moved, but no sound issued from them. Again she tried. +</p> + +<p> +“I know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why do you tempt me? I am only a man, and weak as water in your +presence. Do not make me dishonourable to myself and her.” +</p> + +<p> +“I love you as well as she. There—take the shameful truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but—forgive me if I pain you, for I must, I must. I love +<i>her</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +The beautiful face hid itself in the ungloved hands. No answer came, only the +great diamond sparkled and blazed in the soft light like a hard and cruel eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not, Mildred, for pity’s sake, involve us all in shame and +ruin, but let us part now. If I could have foreseen how this would end! But I +have been a blind and selfish fool. I have been to blame.” +</p> + +<p> +She was quite calm now, and spoke in her usual singularly clear voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur dear, I do not blame you. Loving <i>her</i>, how was it likely +that you should think of love from <i>me</i>? I only blame myself. I have loved +you, God help me, ever since we met—loved you with a despairing, +desperate love such as I hope that you may never know. Was I to allow your +phantom Angela to snatch the cup from my lips without a struggle, the only +happy cup I ever knew? For, Arthur, at the best of times, I have not been a +happy woman; I have always wanted love, and it has not come to me. Perhaps I +should be, but I am not—a high ideal being. I am as Nature made me, +Arthur, a poor creature, unable to stand alone against such a current as has +lately swept me with it. But you are quite right, you must leave me, we +<i>must</i> separate, you <i>must</i> go; but oh God! when I think of the +future, the hard, loveless future——” +</p> + +<p> +She paused awhile, and then went on— +</p> + +<p> +“I did not think to harm you or involve you in trouble, though I hoped to +win some small portion of your love, and I had something to give you in +exchange, if beauty and great wealth are really worth anything. But you must +go, dear, now, whilst I am brave. I hope that you will be happy with your +Angela. When I see your marriage in the paper, I shall send her this tiara as a +wedding present. I shall never wear it again. Go, dear; go quick.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned to leave, not trusting himself to speak, for the big tears stood in +his eyes, and his throat was choked. When he had reached the steps, she called +him back. +</p> + +<p> +“Kiss me once before you go, and I see your dear face no more. I used to +be a proud woman, and to think that I can stoop to rob a kiss from Angela. +Thank you; you are very kind. And now one word; you know a woman always loves a +last word. Sometimes it happens that we put up idols, and a stronger hand than +ours shatters them to dust before our eyes. I trust this may not be your lot. I +love you so well that I can say that honestly; but, Arthur, if it should be, +remember that in all the changes of this cold world there is one heart which +will never forget you, and never set up a rival to your memory, one place where +you will always find a home. If anything should ever happen to break your life, +come back to me for comfort, Arthur. I can talk no more; I have played for high +stakes—and lost. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +He went without a word. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap48"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2> + +<p> +Reader, have you ever, in the winter or early spring, come from a hot- house +where you have admired some rich tropical bloom, and then, in walking by the +hedgerows, suddenly seen a pure primrose opening its sweet eye, and looking +bravely into bitter weather’s face? If so, you will, if it is your habit +to notice flowers, have experienced some such sensation as takes possession of +my mind when I pass from the story of Mildred as she was then, storm-tossed and +loving, to Angela, as loving indeed, and yet more anxious, but simple-minded as +a child, and not doubtful for the end. They were both flowers indeed, and both +beautiful, but between them there was a wide difference. The one, in the +richness of her splendour, gazed upon the close place where she queened it, and +was satisfied with the beauty round her, or, if not satisfied, she could +imagine none different. The limits of that little spot formed the horizon of +her mind—she knew no world beyond. The other, full of possibilities, shed +sweetness even on the blast which cut her, and looked up for shelter towards +the blue sky she knew endured eternally above the driving clouds. +</p> + +<p> +Whilst Sir John Bellamy’s health was being recruited at Madeira, +Angela’s daily life pursued an even and, comparatively speaking, a happy +course. She missed Pigott much, but then she often went to see her, and by way +of compensation, if she had gone, so had George Caresfoot and Lady Bellamy. Mr. +Fraser, too, had come back to fill a space in the void of her loneliness, and +for his presence she was very grateful. Indeed none but herself could know the +comfort and strength she gathered from his friendship, none but himself could +know what it cost him to comfort her. But he did not shrink from the duty; +indeed, it gave him a melancholy satisfaction. He loved her quite as dearly, +and with as deep a longing as Mildred Carr did Arthur; but how different were +his ends! Of ultimately supplanting his rival he never dreamt; his aim was to +assist him, to bring the full cup of joy, untainted, to his lips. And so he +read with her and talked with her, and was sick at heart; and she thanked him, +and consecrating all her most sacred thoughts to the memory of her absent +lover, and all her quick energies to self-preparation for his coming, possessed +her soul in patience. +</p> + +<p> +And thus her young life began to bloom again with a fresh promise. The close of +each departing day was the signal for the lifting of a portion of her load, for +it brought her a day nearer to her lover’s arms, subtracting something +from the long tale of barren hours; since to her all hours seemed most barren +that were not quickened by his presence. Indeed, no Arctic winter could be +colder and more devoid of light and life than this time of absence was to her, +and, had it not been for the warm splendour of her hopes, shooting its +beautiful promise in unreal gleams across the blackness of her horizon, she +felt as though she must have frozen and died. For hope, elusive as she is, +often bears a fairer outward mien than the realization to which she points, +and, like a fond deceiver, serves to keep the heart alive till the first +bitterness is overpast, and, schooled in trouble, it can know her false, and +yet remain unbroken. +</p> + +<p> +But sometimes Angela’s mood would change, and then, to her strained and +sensitive mind, this dead calm and cessation of events would seem to resemble +that ominous moment when, in tropic seas, the fierce outrider of the tempest +has passed howling away clothed in flying foam. Then comes a calm, and for a +space there is blue sky, and the sails flap drearily against the mast, and the +vessel only rocks from the violence of her past plunging, while the scream of +the sea-bird is heard with unnatural clearness, for there is no sound nor +motion in the air. Intenser still grows the silence, and the waters almost +cease from tossing; but the seaman knows that presently, with a sudden roar, +the armies of the winds and waves will leap upon him, and that a struggle for +life is at hand. +</p> + +<p> +Such fears, however, did not often take her, for, unlike Arthur, she was +naturally of a hopeful mind, and, when they did, Mr. Fraser would find means to +comfort her. But this was soon to change. +</p> + +<p> +One afternoon—it was Christmas Eve—Angela went down the village to +see Pigott, now comfortably established in the house her long departed husband +had left her. It was a miserable December day, a damp, unpleasant ghost of a +day, and all the sky was packed with clouds, while the surface of the earth was +wrapped in mist. Rain and snow fell noiselessly by turns; indeed, the only +sound in the air was the loud dripping of water from the trees on the dead +leaves beneath. The whole outlook was melancholy in the extreme. While Angela +was in her old nurse’s cottage, the snow fell in earnest for an hour or +so, and then held up again, and when she came out the mist had recovered its +supremacy, and now the snow was melting. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, miss, you must be getting home, or it will be dark. Shall I come +with you a bit?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you, Pigott. I am not afraid of the dark, and I ought to know +my way about these parts. Good-night, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +The prevailing dismalness of the scene oppressed her, and she made up her mind +to go and see Mr. Fraser, instead of returning at present to her lonely home. +With this view, leaving the main road that ran through Rewtham, Bratham, and +Isleworth to Roxham, she turned up a little bye-lane which led to the foot of +the lake. Just as she did so, she heard the deadened footfall of a +fast-trotting horse, accompanied by the faint roll of carriage-wheels over the +snow. As she turned half involuntarily to see who it was that travelled so +fast, the creeping mist was driven aside by a puff of wind, and she saw a +splendid blood- horse drawing an open victoria trotting past her at, at least, +twelve miles an hour. But, quickly as it passed, it was not too quick for her +to recognize Lady Bellamy wrapped up in furs, her dark, stern face looking on +straight before her, as though the mist had no power to dim <i>her</i> sight. +Next second the dark closed in, and the carriage had vanished like a dream in +the direction of Isleworth. +</p> + +<p> +Angela shivered; the dark afternoon seemed to have grown darker to her. +</p> + +<p> +“So she <i>is</i> back,” she said to herself. “I felt that +she was back. She makes me feel afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +Going on her way, she came to a spot where the path forked, one track leading +to a plank with a hand-rail spanning the stream that fed the lake, and the +other to some stepping-stones, by crossing which and following the path on the +other side a short cut could be made to the rectory. The bridge and the +stepping-stones were not more than twenty yards apart, but so intent was Angela +upon her own thoughts and upon placing her feet accurately on the stones that +she did not notice a little man with a red comforter, who was leaning on the +hand-rail, engaged apparently in meditation. The little man, however, noticed +her, for he gave a violent start, and apparently was about to call out to her, +when he changed his mind. He was Sir John Bellamy. +</p> + +<p> +“Better let her go perhaps, John,” he said, addressing his own +effigy in the water. “After all, it will be best for you to let things +take their course, and not to burn your own fingers or commit yourself in any +way, John. You will trap them more securely so. If you were to warn the girl +now, you would only expose them; if you wait till he has married her, you will +altogether destroy them with the help of that young Heigham. And perhaps by +that time you will have touched those compromising letters, John, and made a +few other little arrangements, and then you will be able to enjoy the sweets of +revenge meted out with a quart measure, not in beggarly ones or twos. But you +are thinking of the girl—eh, John? Ah! you always were a pitiful beggar; +but tread down the inclination, decline to gratify it. If you do, you will +spoil your own hand. The girl must take her chance—oh! clearly the girl +must take her chance. But all the same, John, you are very sorry for +her—very. Come, come, you must be off, or her ladyship and the gentle +George will be kept waiting,” and away he went at a brisk pace, +cheerfully singing a verse of a comic song. Sir John was a merry little man. +</p> + +<p> +In due course Angela reached the rectory, and found Mr. Fraser seated in his +study reading. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear, what brings you here? What a dreary night!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is dreadfully damp and lonesome; the people look like ghosts in +the mist, and their voices sound hollow. A proper day for evil things to creep +home,” and she laughed drearily. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean,” he answered, with a quick glance at her face, +which wore an expression of nervous anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean that Lady Bellamy has come home; is she not an evil thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Angela; you should not talk so. You are excited, dear. Why should +you call her evil?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know; but have you ever noticed her? Have you never seen +her creep, creep, like a tiger on its prey? Watch her dark face, and see the +bad thoughts come and peep out of her eyes as the great black pupils swell and +then shrivel, till they are no larger than the head of this black pin, and you +will know that she is evil, and does evil work.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, my dear, you are upset to talk so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! no, I am not upset; but did you ever have a presentiment?” +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty; but never one that came true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I have a presentiment now—yes, a presentiment—it +caught me in the mist.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? I am anxious to hear.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—I cannot say; it is not clear in my mind. I +cannot see it, but it is evil, and it has to do with that evil woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, Angela, you must not give way to this sort of thing; you will make +yourself ill. Sit down, there is a good girl, and have some tea.” +</p> + +<p> +She was standing by the window staring out into the mist, her fingers +alternately intertwining and unlacing themselves, whilst an unusual— +almost an unearthly expression, played upon her face. Turning, she obeyed him. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not fear for me. I am tough, and growing used to troubles. What +was it you said? Oh! tea. Thank you; that reminds me. Will you come and have +dinner with me to-morrow after church? It is Christmas Day, you know. Pigott +has given me a turkey she has been fatting, and I made the mincemeat myself, so +there will be plenty to eat if we can find the heart to eat it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your father, my dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! you need not be afraid. I have got permission to ask you. What do +you think? I actually talked to my father for ten whole minutes yesterday; he +wanted to avoid me when he saw me, but I caught him in a corner. He took +advantage of the opportunity to try to prevent me from going to see Pigott, but +I would not listen to him, so he gave it up. What did he mean by that? Why did +he send her away? What does it all mean? Oh! Arthur, when will you come back, +Arthur?” and, to Mr. Fraser’s infinite distress, she burst into +tears. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap49"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.</h2> + +<p> +Presentiments are no doubt foolish things, and yet, at the time that Angela was +speaking of hers to Mr. Fraser, a consultation was going on in a back study at +Isleworth that might almost have justified it. The fire was the only light in +the room, and gathered round it, talking very low, their features thrown +alternately into strong light and dark shadow, were George Caresfoot and Sir +John and Lady Bellamy. It was evident from the strong expression of interest, +almost of excitement, on their faces that they were talking of some matter of +great importance. +</p> + +<p> +Sir John was, as usual, perched on the edge of his chair, rubbing his dry hands +and eliciting occasional sparks in the shape of remarks, but he was no longer +merry; indeed, he looked ill at ease. George, his red hair all rumpled up, and +his long limbs thrust out towards the fire, spoke scarcely at all, but glued +his little bloodshot eyes alternately on the faces of his companions, and only +contributed an occasional chuckle. But the soul of this witches’ +gathering was evidently Lady Bellamy. She was standing up, and energetically +detailing some scheme, the great pupils of her eyes expanding and contracting +as the unholy flame within them rose and fell. +</p> + +<p> +“Then that is settled,” she said, at last. +</p> + +<p> +George nodded, Bellamy said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose that silence gives consent. Very well, I will take the first +step to-morrow. I do not like Angela Caresfoot, but, upon my word, I shall be +sorry for her before she is twenty-four hours older. She is made of too fine a +material to be sold into such hands as yours, George Caresfoot.” +</p> + +<p> +George looked up menacingly, but said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“I have often urged you to give this up; now I urge no more—the +thing is done in spirit, it may as well be done in reality. I told you long ago +that it was a most dreadfully wicked thing, and that nothing but evil can come +of it. Do not say that I have not warned you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, stop that devil’s talk,” growled George. +</p> + +<p> +“Devil’s talk!—that is a good word, George, for it is of the +devil’s wages that I am telling you. Now listen, I am going to prophesy. +A curse will fall upon this house and all within it. Would you like to have a +sign that I speak the truth? Then wait.” She was standing up, her hand +stretched out, and in the dim light she looked like some heathen princess +urging a bloody sacrifice to her gods. Her forebodings terrified her hearers, +and, by a common impulse, they rose and moved away from her. +</p> + +<p> +At that moment a strange thing happened. A gust of wind, making its way from +some entrance in the back of the house, burst open the door of the room in +which they were, and entered with a cold flap as of wings. Next second a +terrible crash resounded from the other end of the room. George turned white as +a sheet, and sank into a chair, cursing feebly. Bellamy gave a sort of howl of +terror, and shrank up to his wife, almost falling into the fire in his efforts +to get behind her. Lady Bellamy alone, remaining erect and undaunted, laughed +aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, one of you brave conspirators against a defenceless girl, strike a +light, for the place is as dark as a vault, and let us see what has happened. I +told you that you should have a sign.” +</p> + +<p> +After several efforts, George succeeded in doing as she bade him, and held a +candle forward in his trembling hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, don’t be foolish,” she said; “a picture has +fallen, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +He advanced to look at it, and then benefited his companions with a further +assortment of curses. The picture, on examination, proved to be a large one +that he had, some years previously, had painted of Isleworth, with the Bellamys +and himself in the foreground. The frame was shattered, and all the centre of +the canvass torn out by the weight of its fall on to a life-sized and beautiful +statue of Andromeda chained to a rock, awaiting her fate with a staring look of +agonized terror in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“An omen, a very palpable omen,” said Lady Bellamy, with one of her +dark smiles. “Isleworth and ourselves destroyed by being smashed against +a marble girl, who rises uninjured from the wreck. Eh, John?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t touch me, you sorceress,” replied Sir John, who was +shaking with fear. “I believe that you are Satan in person.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are strangely complimentary, even for a husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I am, but I know your dark ways, and your dealings with your +master, and I tell you both what it is; I have done with the job. I will have +nothing more to do with it. I will know nothing more about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You hear what he says,” said Lady Bellamy to George. “John +does not like omens. For the last time, will you give it up, or will you go +on?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t give her up—I can’t indeed; it would kill +me,” answered George, wringing his hands. “There is a fiend driving +me along this path.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a doubt of it,” said Sir John, who was staring at the broken +picture with chattering teeth, and his eyes almost starting out of his head; +“but if I were you, I should get him to drive me a little straighter, +that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are poor creatures, both of you,” said Lady Bellamy; +“but we will, then, decide to go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fiat ‘injuria’ ruat coelum,” said Sir John, who knew a +little Latin; and, frightened as he was, could not resist the temptation to air +it. +</p> + +<p> +And then they went and left George still contemplating the horror- stricken +face of the nude marble virgin whose eyes appeared to gaze upon the ruins of +his picture. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning, being Christmas Day, Lady Bellamy went to church, as behoves a +good Christian, and listened to the Divine message of peace on earth and +good-will towards men. So, for the matter of that, did George, and so did +Angela. After church, Lady Bellamy went home to lunch, but she was in no mood +for eating, so she left the table, and ordered the victoria to be round in half +an hour. +</p> + +<p> +After church, too, Angela and Mr. Fraser ate their Christmas dinner. +Angela’s melancholy had to some extent melted beneath the genial +influence of the Christmas-tide, and her mind had taken comfort from the words +of peace and everlasting love that she had heard that morning, and for awhile, +at any rate, she had forgotten her forebodings. The unaccustomed splendour of +the dinner, too, had diverted her attention, for she was easily pleased with +such things, and altogether she was in a more comfortable frame of mind than +she had been on the previous evening, and was inclined to indulge in a pleasant +talk with Mr. Fraser upon various subjects, mostly classical and Arthurian. She +had already cracked some filberts for him, plucked by herself in the autumn, +and specially saved in a damp jar, and was about to settle herself in a chair +by the fire, when suddenly she turned white and stood quite still. +</p> + +<p> +“Hark!” she said, “do you hear it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Bellamy’s horse—the big black horse that trots so +fast.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can hear nothing, Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I can. She is on the high-road yet; she will be here very soon; that +horse trots fast.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense, Angela; it is some other horse.” +</p> + +<p> +But, as he spoke, the sound of a powerful animal trotting very rapidly became +distinctly audible. +</p> + +<p> +“It has come—the evil news—and she has brought it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rubbish, dear; somebody to see your father, no doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +A minute elapsed, and then Mrs. Jakes, now the only servant in the house, was +heard shuffling along the passage, followed by a firm, light step. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t leave me,” said Angela to Mr. Fraser. “God give +me strength to bear it,” she went on, beneath her breath. She was still +standing staring vacantly towards the door, pale, and her bosom heaving. The +intensity of her anxiety had to some extent communicated itself to Mr. Fraser, +for there are few things so catching as anxiety, except enthusiasm; he, too, +had risen, and was standing in an attitude of expectancy. +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Bellamy to see yer,” said Mrs. Jakes, pushing her head +through the half-opened door. +</p> + +<p> +Next second she had entered. +</p> + +<p> +“I must apologise for disturbing you at dinner, Angela,” she began +hurriedly, and then stopped and also stood still. There was something very +curious about her reception, she thought; both Mr. Fraser and Angela might have +been cut out of stone, for neither moved. +</p> + +<p> +Standing thus in the silence of expectancy, the three made a strange picture. +On Lady Bellamy’s face there was a look of stern determination and +suppressed excitement such as became one about to commit a crime. +</p> + +<p> +At last she broke the silence. +</p> + +<p> +“I come to bring you bad news, Angela,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“What have you to say? tell me, quick! No, stop, hear me before you +speak. If you have come here with any evil in your heart, or with the intention +to deceive or betray, pause before you answer. I am a lonely and almost +friendless woman, and have no claim except upon your compassion; but it is not +always well to deal ill with such as I, since we have at last a friend whose +vengeance you too must fear. So, by the love of Christ and by the presence of +the God who made you, speak to me only such truth as you will utter at his +judgment. Now, answer, I am ready.” +</p> + +<p> +At her words, spoken with an earnestness and in a voice which made them almost +awful, a momentary expression of fear swept across Lady Bellamy’s face, +but it went as quickly as it came, and the hard, determined look returned. The +mysterious eyes grew cold and glittered, the head erected itself. At that +moment Lady Bellamy distinctly reminded Mr. Fraser of a hooded cobra about to +strike. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I to speak before Mr. Fraser?” +</p> + +<p> +“Speak!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the good of this high-flown talk, Angela? You seem to know my +news before I give it, and believe me it pains me very much to have to give it. +<i>He is dead, Angela.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +The cobra had struck, but as yet the poison had scarcely begun to work. There +was only numbness. Mr. Fraser gave a gasp and half dropped, half fell, into his +chair. The noise attracted Angela’s attention, and pressing her hand to +her forehead she turned towards him with a ghost of a laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Did I not tell you that this evil woman would bring evil news.” +Then addressing Lady Bellamy, “But stop, you forget what I said to you, +you do not speak the truth. Arthur dead! How can Arthur be dead and I alive? +How is it that I do not know he is dead? Oh, for shame, it is not true, he is +not dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“This seems to me to be a thankless as well as a painful task,” +said Lady Bellamy, hoarsely, “but, if you will not believe me, look here, +you know this, I suppose? I took it, as he asked me to do, from his dead hand +that it might be given back to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“If Mr. Heigham is dead,” said Mr. Fraser, “how do you know +it, where did he die, and what of?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know it, Mr. Fraser, because it was my sad duty to nurse him through +his last illness at Madeira. He died of enteric fever. I have got a copy of his +burial certificate here which I had taken from the Portuguese books. He seems +to have had no relations living, poor young man, but Sir John communicated with +the family lawyer. Here is the certificate,” and she handed Mr. Fraser a +paper written in Portuguese and officially stamped. +</p> + +<p> +“You say,” broke in Angela, “that you took this ring from his +dead hand, the hand on which I placed it. I do not believe you. You beguiled it +from his living hand. It cannot be that he is dead; for, if he were, I should +have felt it. Oh, Arthur!” and in her misery she stretched out her arms +and turned her agonized eyes upwards, “if you are dead, come to me, and +let me see your spirit face, and hear the whisper of your wings. Have you no +voice in the silence? You see he does not come, he is not dead; if he were +dead, Heaven could not hold him from my side, or, if it could, it would have +drawn me up to his.” +</p> + +<p> +“My love, my love,” said Mr. Fraser, in a scared voice, “it +is not God’s will that the dead should come back to us +thus——” +</p> + +<p> +“My poor Angela, why will you not believe me? This is so very painful, do +you suppose that I want to torture you by saying what is not true about your +love? The idea is absurd. I had meant to keep it till you were calmer; but I +have a letter for you. Read it and convince yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela almost snatched the paper from her outstretched hand. It ran thus, in +characters almost illegible from weakness:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dearest,—Good-bye. I am dying of fever. Lady Bellamy will take +back your ring when it is over. Try to forget me, and be happy. Too weak to +write more. Good-bye. God——” +</p> + +<p> +At the foot of this broken and almost illegible letter was scrawled the word, +“ARTHUR.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela read it slowly, and then at length the poison did its work. She did not +speak wildly any more, or call upon Arthur; she was stung back to sense, but +all the light went out of her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“It is his writing,” she said, slowly. “I beg your pardon. It +was good of you to nurse him.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, pressing the paper to her bosom with one hand, with the other she groped +her way towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very dark,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy’s eyes gave a flash of triumph, and then she stood watching +the pitiable exhibition of human misery as curiously as ever a Roman matron did +an expiring gladiator. When Angela was near the door, the letter still pressed +against her heart, she spoke again. +</p> + +<p> +“The blow comes from God, Angela, and the religion and spiritual theories +which you believe in will bring you consolation. Most likely it is a blessing +in disguise—a thing that you will in time even learn to be thankful +for.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy had overacted her part. The words did not ring true, they jarred +upon Mr. Fraser; much more did they jar upon Angela’s torn nerves. Her +pale cheek flushed, and she turned and spoke, but there was no anger in her +face, nothing but sorrow that dignified, and unfathomable love lost in its own +depths. Only the eyes seemed as sightless as those of one walking in her sleep. +</p> + +<p> +“When your hour of dreadful trouble comes, as it will come, pray God that +there may be none to mock you as you mock me.” And she turned like a +stricken thing, and went slowly out, blindly groping her way along. +</p> + +<p> +Her last words had hit the victor hard. Who can say what hidden string they +touched, or what prescience of evil they awakened? But they went nigh to +felling her. Clutching the mantel-piece, Lady Bellamy gasped for air; then, +recovering a little, she said: +</p> + +<p> +“Thank God, that is over.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser scarcely saw this last incident. So overwhelmed was he at the sight +of Angela’s agony that he had covered his face with his hand. When he +lifted it again, Lady Bellamy was gone, and he was alone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap50"></a>CHAPTER L.</h2> + +<p> +Three months had passed since that awful Christmas Day. Angela was +heart-broken, and, after the first burst of her despair, turned herself to the +only consolation which was left her. It was not of this world. +</p> + +<p> +She did not question the truth of the dreadful news that Lady Bellamy had +brought her, and, if ever a doubt did arise in her breast, a glance at the ring +and the letter effectually quelled it. Nor did she get brain-fever or any other +illness; her young and healthy frame was too strong a citadel to be taken out +of hand by sorrow. And this to her was one of the most wonderful things in her +affliction. It had come and crushed her, and life still went on much as before. +The sun of her system had fallen, and yet the system was not appreciably +deranged. It was dreadful to her to think that Arthur was dead, but an added +sting lay in the fact that she was not dead too. Oh! how glad she would have +been to die, since death had become the gate through which she needs must pass +to reach her lover’s side. +</p> + +<p> +For it had been given to Angela, living so much alone, and thinking so long and +deeply upon these great mysteries of our being, to soar to the heights of a +noble faith. To the intense purity of her mind, a living heaven presented +itself, a comfortable place, very different from the vague and formularised +abstractions with which we are for the most part satisfied; where Arthur and +her mother were waiting to greet her, and where the great light of the Godhead +would shine around them all. She grew to hate her life, the dull barrier of the +flesh that stood between her and her ends. Still she ate and drank enough to +support it, still dressed with the same perfect neatness as before, still +lived, in short, as though Arthur had not died, and the light and colour had +not gone out of her world. +</p> + +<p> +One day—it was in March—she was sitting in Mr. Fraser’s study +reading the “Shakespeare” which Arthur had given to her, and in the +woes of others striving to forget her own. But the attempt proved a failure; +she could not concentrate her thoughts, they would continually wander away into +space in search of Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +She was dressed in black; from the day that she heard her lover was dead, she +would wear no other colour, and as she gazed, with her hands idly clasped +before her, out at the driving sleet and snow, Mr. Fraser thought that he had +never seen statue, picture, or woman of such sweet, yet majestic beauty. But it +had been filched from the features of an immortal. The spirit-look which at +times had visited her from a child now continually shone upon her face, and to +the sight of sinful men her eyes seemed almost awful in their solemn calm and +purity. She smiled but seldom now, and, when she did, it was in those grey eyes +that the radiance began: her features scarcely seemed to move. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you thinking of, Angela?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am thinking, Mr. Fraser, that it is only fourteen weeks to-day since +Arthur died, and that it is very likely that I shall live another forty or +fifty years before I see him. I am only twenty-one, and I am so strong. Even +this shock has not hurt me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should you want to die?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because all the beauty and light has gone out of my life; because I +prefer to trust myself into the hands of God rather than to the tender mercies +of the world; because he is there, and I am here, and I am tired of +waiting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you no fear of death?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have never feared death, and least of all do I fear it now. Why, the +veriest coward would not shrink back when the man she loved was waiting for +her. And I am not a coward, and if I were told that I must die within an hour, +I could say, ‘How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of Him that +bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace!’ Cannot you understand me? +If all your life and soul were wrapped up in one person, and she died, would +you not long to go to her?” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser made no reply for a while, but in his turn gazed out at the drifting +snow, surely not more immaculately pure than this woman who could love with so +divine a love. At length he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela, do you know that it is wrong to talk so? You have no right to +set yourself up against the decrees of the Almighty. In His wisdom He is +working out ends of which you are one of the instruments. Who are you that you +should rebel?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one—a grain, an atom, a wind-tossed feather; but what am I to +do with my life, how am I to occupy all the coming years?” +</p> + +<p> +“With your abilities, that is a question easy to answer. Work, write, +take the place in scholastic or social literature which I have trained you to +fill. For you, fame and fortune lie in an inkstand; your mind is a golden key +that will open to your sight all that is worth seeing in the world, and pass +you into its most pleasant places. You can become a famous woman, +Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned upon him sadly. +</p> + +<p> +“I had such ideas; for Arthur’s sake I wished to do something +great; indeed I had already formed a plan. But, Mr. Fraser, like many another, +when I lost my love I lost my ambition too; both lie buried in his grave. I +have nothing left to work for; I do not care for fame or money for myself, they +would only have been valuable to give to him. At twenty-one I seem to have done +with the world’s rewards and punishments, its blanks and prizes, its +satisfactions and desires, even before I have learnt what they are. My hopes +are as dull and leaden as that sky, and yet the sun is behind it. Yes, that is +my only hope, the sun is behind it though we cannot see it. Do not talk to me +of ambition, Mr. Fraser. I am broken-spirited, and my only ambition is for +rest, the rest He gives to His beloved——” +</p> + +<p> +“Rest, Angela! that is the cry of us all, we strive for rest, and here we +never find it. You suffer, but do not think that you are alone, everybody +suffers in their degree, though perhaps such as you, with the nerves of your +mind bared to the roughness of the world’s weather, feel mental pain the +more acutely. But, my dear, there are few really refined men and women of +sensitive organization, who have not at times sent up that prayer for rest, any +rest, even eternal sleep. It is the price they pay for their refinement. But +they are not alone. If the heart’s cry of every being who endures in this +great universe could be collected into a single prayer, that prayer would be, +‘Thou who made us, in pity give us rest.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we suffer, no doubt, all of us, and implore a peace that does not +come. We must learn +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘How black is night when golden day is done,<br/> +How drear the blindness that hath seen the sun!’ +</p> + +<p> +“You can tell me that; but tell me, you who are a clergyman, and stronger +to stand against sorrow than I, how can we win even a partial peace and draw +the sting from suffering? If you know a way, however hard, tell it me, for do +you know,” and she put her hand to her head and a vacant look came into +her eyes, “I think that if I have to endure much more of the anguish +which I sometimes suffer, or get any more shocks, I shall go mad? I try to look +to the future only and to rise superior to my sorrows, and to a certain extent +I succeed, but my mind will not always carry the strain put upon it, but falls +heavily to earth like a winged bird. Then it is that, deprived of its higher +food, and left to feed upon its own sadness and to brood upon the bare fact of +the death of the man I loved—I sometimes think, as men are not often +loved—that my spirit almost breaks down. If you can tell me any cure, +anything which will bring me comfort, I shall indeed be grateful to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I can, Angela. If you will no longer devote yourself to study, +you have only to look round to find another answer to your question as to what +you are to do? Are there no poor in these parts for you to visit? Cannot your +hands make clothes to cover those who have none? Is there no sickness that you +can nurse, no sorrow that you can comfort? I know that even in this parish +there are many homes where your presence would be as welcome as a sunbeam in +winter. Remember, Angela, that grief can be selfish as well as pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, Mr. Fraser, you always are right; I think I am selfish in +my trouble, but it is a fault that I will try to mend. Indeed, to look at it in +that light only, my time is of no benefit to myself, I may as well devote it to +others.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you do, your labour will bring its own reward, for in helping others +to bear their load you will wonderfully lighten your own. Nor need you go far +to begin. Why do you not see more of your own father? You are naturally bound +to love him. Yet it is but rarely that you speak to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“My father! you know he does not like me, my presence is always a source +of irritation to him, he cannot even bear me to look at him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, surely that must be your fancy; probably he thinks you do not care +about him. He has always been a strange and wayward man, I know, but you should +remember that he has had bitter disappointments in life, and try to soften him +and win him to other thoughts. Do this and you will soon find that he will be +glad enough of your company.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will try to do as you say, Mr. Fraser, but I confess I have only small +hopes of any success in that direction. Have you any parish work I can +do?” +</p> + +<p> +Nor did the matter end there, as is so often the case where parish work and +young ladies are concerned. Angela set to her charitable duties with a steady +determination that made her services very valuable. She undertook the sole +management of a clothing club, in itself a maddening thing to ordinary mortals, +and had an eye to the distribution of the parish coals. Of mothers’ +meetings and other cheerful parochial entertainments, she became the life and +soul. Giving up her mathematics and classical reading, she took to knitting +babies’ vests and socks instead; indeed, the number of articles which her +nimble fingers turned out in a fortnight was a pleasant surprise for the cold +toes of the babies. And, as Mr. Fraser had prophesied, she found that her +labour was of a sort which brought a certain reward. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap51"></a>CHAPTER LI.</h2> + +<p> +On one point, however, Angela’s efforts failed completely; she could make +no headway with her father. He shrank more than ever from her society, and at +last asked her to oblige him by allowing him to follow his own path in peace. +Of Arthur’s death he had never spoken to her, or she to him, but she knew +that he had heard of it. +</p> + +<p> +Philip had heard of it thus. On that Christmas afternoon he had been taking his +daily exercise when he met Lady Bellamy returning from the Abbey House. The +carriage stopped, and she got out to speak to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been to the Abbey House to pay a Christmas visit?” he +asked. “It is very kind of you to come and see us so soon after your +return.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am the bearer of bad news, so I did not loiter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bad news! what was it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham is dead,” she answered, watching his face narrowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Dead, impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +“He died of enteric fever at Madeira. I have just been to break the news +to Angela.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, indeed, she will be pained; she was very fond of him, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy smiled contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever see any one put to the extremest torture? If you have, you +can guess how your daughter was ‘pained.’” +</p> + +<p> +Philip winced. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I can’t help it, it is no affair of mine. Good-bye,” +and then, as soon as she was out of hearing; “I wonder if she lies, or if +she has murdered him. George must have been putting on the screw.” +</p> + +<p> +Into the particulars of Arthur Heigham’s death, or supposed death, he +never inquired. Why should he? It was no affair of his; he had long ago washed +his hands of the whole matter, and left things take their chance. If he was +dead, well and good, he was very sorry for him; if he was alive, well and good +also. In that case, he would no doubt arrive on the appointed date to marry +Angela. +</p> + +<p> +But, notwithstanding all this unanswerable reasoning, he still found it quite +impossible to look his daughter in the face. Her eyes still burnt him, ay, even +more than ever did they burn, for her widowed dress and brow were agony to him, +and rent his heart, not with remorse but fear. But still his greed kept the +upper hand, though death by mental torture must result, yet he would glut +himself with his desire. More than ever he hungered for those wide lands which, +if only things fell out right, would become his at so ridiculous a price. +Decidedly Arthur Heigham’s death was “no affair of his.” +</p> + +<p> +About six weeks before Angela’s conversation with Mr. Fraser which ended +in her undertaking parish work, a rumour had got about that George Caresfoot +had been taken ill, very seriously ill. It was said that a chill had settled on +his lungs, which had never been very strong since his fever, and that he had, +in short, gone into a consumption. +</p> + +<p> +Of George, Angela had neither seen nor heard anything for some time— not +since she received the welcome letter in which he relinquished his suit. She +had, indeed, with that natural readiness of the human mind to forget unpleasant +occurrences, thought but little about him of late, since her mind had been more +fully occupied with other and more pressing things. Still she vaguely wondered +at times if he was really so ill as her father thought. +</p> + +<p> +One day she was walking home by the path round the lake, after paying a visit +to a sick child in the village, when she suddenly came face to face with her +father. She expected that he would as usual pass on without addressing her, and +drew to one side of the path to allow him to do so, but to her surprise he +stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“Where have you been, Angela?” +</p> + +<p> +“To see Ellen Mim; she is very ill, poor child.” +</p> + +<p> +“You had better be careful; you will be catching scarlet fever or +something—there is a great deal about.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not at all afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; but you never think that you may bring it home to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I never thought that there was any likelihood of my bringing anything to +you. We see so little of each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, I have been to Isleworth to see your cousin George; he is +very ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“You told me that he was ill some time back. What is it that is really +the matter with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Galloping consumption. He cannot last long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor man, why does he not go to a warmer climate?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know—that is his affair. But it is a serious matter +for me. If he dies under present circumstances, all the Isleworth estates, +which are mine by right, must pass away from the family forever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why must they pass away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because your grandfather, with a refined ingenuity, made a provision in +his will that George was not to leave them back to me, as he was telling me +this afternoon he is anxious to do. If he were to die now with a will in my +favour, or without any will at all, they would all go to some far away cousins +in Scotland.” +</p> + +<p> +“He died of heart-disease, did he not?—my grandfather, I +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +Philip’s face grew black as night, and he shot a quick glance of +suspicion at his daughter. +</p> + +<p> +“I was saying,” he went on, without answering her question, +“that George may sell the land or settle it, but must not leave it to me +or you, nor can I take under an intestacy.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela did not understand these legal intricacies, and knew about as much about +the law of intestacy as she did of Egyptian inscriptions. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she said, consolingly, “I am very sorry, but it +can’t be helped, can it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The girl is a born fool,” muttered Philip beneath his breath, and +passed on. +</p> + +<p> +A week or so afterwards, just when the primroses and Lent-lilies were at the +meridian of their beauty and all the air was full of song, Angela heard more +about her cousin George. Mr. Fraser was one day sent for to Isleworth; Lady +Bellamy brought him the message, saying that George was in such a state of +health that he wished to see a clergyman. +</p> + +<p> +“I never saw a worse case,” he said to Angela on his return. +“He does not leave the house, but lies in a darkened room coughing and +spitting blood. He is, I should say, going off fast; but he refuses to see a +doctor. His frame of mind, however, is most Christian, and he seems to have +reconciled himself to the prospect of a speedy release.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor man!” said Angela sympathetically; “he sent and asked +to see you, did he not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well—yes; but when I got there he talked more about the things of +this world than of the next. He is greatly distressed about your father. I +daresay you have heard how your cousin George supplanted your father in the +succession to the Isleworth estates. Your grandfather disinherited him, you +know, because of his marriage with your mother. Now that he is dying, he sees +the injustice of this, but is prevented by the terms of your +grandfather’s will from restoring the land to your branch of the family, +so it must pass to some distant cousins—at least, so I understand the +matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“You always told me that it is easy to drive a coach and four through +wills and settlements and legal things. If he is so anxious to do so, can he +not find a way out of the difficulty—I mean, some honourable way?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I believe not, except an impossible one,” and Mr. Fraser +smiled a rather forced smile. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” asked Angela carelessly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that he should—should marry <i>you</i> before he dies. At +least, you know, he says that that is the only way in which he could legally +transfer the estates.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela started and turned pale. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I am afraid the estates will never be transferred. How would that +help him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he says he could then enter into a nominal sale of the estates to +your father and settle the money on you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why could he not do this without marrying me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, I don’t understand much about these things, I +am not a business man; but it is impossible for some reason or another. But of +course it is absurd. Good night, my dear. Don’t overdo it in the +parish.” +</p> + +<p> +Another week passed without any particular news of George’s illness, +except that he was getting weaker, when one day Lady Bellamy appeared at the +Abbey House, where she had not been since that dreadful Christmas Day. Angela +felt quite cold when she saw her enter, and her greeting was as cold as +herself. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope that you bring me no more bad news,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Angela, except that your cousin George is dying, but that is +scarcely likely to distress you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you? There is no particular reason why you should be. You do not +like him.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I do not like him.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a pity though, because I have come to ask you to marry him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word, Lady Bellamy, you seem to be the chosen messenger of +everything that is wretched. Last time you came to this house it was to tell me +of dear Arthur’s death, and now it is to ask me to marry a man whom I +detest. I thought that I had told both you and him that I will not marry him. I +have gone as near marrying as I ever mean to in this world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Angela, you are most unjust to me. Do you suppose that it was +any pleasure to me to have such a sad duty to perform? However, it is +refreshing to hear you talk so vigorously. Clearly the loss of your lover has +not affected your spirits.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela winced beneath the taunt, but made no reply. +</p> + +<p> +“But, if you will condescend to look at the matter with a single grain of +common-sense, you will see that circumstances have utterly changed since you +refused to marry George. Then, Mr. Heigham was alive, poor fellow, and then, +too, George wanted to marry you as a wife, now he is merely anxious to marry +you that he may be enabled to make reparation to your father. He is a +fast-dying man. You would never be his wife except in name. The grave would be +his only marriage-bed. Do you not understand the difference?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perfectly, but do <i>you</i> not understand that whether in deed or in +name I cannot outrage my dead Arthur’s memory by being for an hour the +wife of that man? Do <i>you</i> not know that the marriage service requires a +woman to swear to ‘Love, honour, and obey,’ till death parts, +whether it be a day or a lifetime away? Can I, even as a mere form, swear to +love when I loathe, honour when I despise, obey when my whole life would rise +in rebellion against obedience! What are these estates to me that I should do +such violence to my conscience and my memories? Estates, of what use are they +to one whose future lies in the wards of a hospital or a sisterhood? I will +have nothing to do with this marriage, Lady Bellamy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I must say, Angela, you do not make much ado about ruining your +father to gratify your own sentimental whims. It must be a comfortable thing to +have children to help one in one’s old age.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela reflected on Mr. Fraser’s words about her duty to her father, and +for the second time that day she winced beneath Lady Bellamy’s taunt; +but, as she returned no answer, her visitor had no alternative but to drop the +subject and depart. +</p> + +<p> +Before she went, however, she had a few words with Philip, urging the serious +state of George’s health and the terms of his grandfather’s will, +which prevented him from leaving the estates to himself, as a reason why he +should put pressure on Angela. Somewhat, but not altogether to her surprise, he +refused in these terms: +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know to what depths you have gone in this business, and it +is no affair of mine to inquire, but I have kept to my share of the bargain and +I expect you to keep to yours. If you can bring about the marriage with George, +well or ill, on the terms I have agreed upon with him, I shall throw no +obstacle in the way; but as for my trying to force Angela into it, I should +never take the responsibility of doing so, nor would she listen to me. If she +speaks to me on the subject I shall point out how the family will be +advantaged, and leave the matter to her. Further I will not go.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap52"></a>CHAPTER LII.</h2> + +<p> +Three days after her conversation with Lady Bellamy, Angela received the +following letter:— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Isleworth Hall, Roxham, May 2.<br/> + +“Dear Cousin Angela,<br/> + +“My kind and devoted friend, Lady Bellamy, has told me that she has +spoken to you on a subject which is very near to my heart, and that you have +distinctly declined to have anything to do with it. Of course I know that the +matter lies entirely within your own discretion, but I still venture to lay the +following points before you. There have, I am aware, been some painful passages +between us —passages which, under present circumstances, had much better +be forgotten. So, first, I ask you to put them quite out of your mind, and to +judge of what I have to propose from a very different point of view.<br/> + +“I write, Angela, to ask you to marry me it is true (since, +unfortunately, my health will not allow me to ask you in person), but it is a +very different offer from that which I made you in the lane when you so +bitterly refused me. Now I am solely anxious that the marriage should take +place in order that I may be enabled to avoid the stringent provisions of your +grandfather’s will, which, whilst forbidding me to leave these estates +back to your father or his issue, fortunately does not forbid a fictitious sale +and the settlement of the sum, or otherwise. But I will not trouble you with +these legal details.<br/> + +“In short, I supplanted your father in youth, and I am now anxious to +make every reparation in my power, and at present I am quite unable to make +any. Independently of this, it pains me to think of the estate passing away +from the old stock, and I should like to know that you, who have been the only +woman whom I have felt true affection for, will one day come into possession of +it. Of course, as you understand, the marriage would be <i>nothing but a +form</i>, and if, as I am told, you object to its being gone through with the +ceremonies of the Church, it could be made equally legal at a registry office.<br/> + +“But please understand, Angela, that I do not wish to press you: it is +for you to judge. Only you must judge quickly, for I am a fast- dying man, and +am anxious to get this matter off my mind one way or other, in order that I may +be able to give it fully to the consideration of subjects of more vital +importance to one in my condition, than marrying and giving in marriage.<br/> + +“Ever, dear cousin Angela, “Affectionately yours, “George +Caresfoot.”<br/> + +“P.S.—Remember you have your father to consider in this matter as +well as yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +The receipt of this letter plunged Angela into the greatest distress of mind. +It was couched in a tone so courteous and so moderate that it carried with it +conviction of its sincerity and truth. If she only had been concerned, she +would not long have hesitated, but the idea of her duty to her father rose up +before her like a cloud. What was her true duty under the circumstances? there +was the rub! +</p> + +<p> +She took the letter to Mr. Fraser and asked his advice. He read it carefully, +and thought a long while before he answered. The idea of Angela being united to +anybody in marriage, even as a matter of form, was naturally abominable to him, +but he was far too honourable and conscientious a man to allow his personal +likes or dislikes to interfere with whatever he considered to be his duty. But +in the end he found it impossible to give any fixed opinion. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” he said, “all that I can suggest is that you +should take it to your father and hear what he has got to say. After all, it is +he who must have your true welfare most at heart. It was into his hands that I +heard your mother, in peculiarly solemn words, consign you and your interests. +Take it to your father, dear, there is no counsel like that of a father.” +</p> + +<p> +Had Mr. Fraser been the father, this would, doubtless, have been true enough. +But though he had known him for so many years, and was privy to much of his +history, he did not yet understand Philip Caresfoot. His own open and guileless +nature did not easily suspect evil in another, more especially when that other +was the father of her whom he looked upon as the earthly incarnation of all +that was holy and pure. +</p> + +<p> +Angela sighed and obeyed—sighed from doubt, obeyed from duty. She handed +the letter to Philip without a word—without a word he read it. +</p> + +<p> +“I want your opinion, father,” she said. “I wish to do what +is right. You know how painful what has happened has been for me. You +know—or, if you do not know, you must have guessed—how completely +shattered my life is. As for this marriage, the whole thing is repugnant to me; +personally, I had rather sacrifice fifty properties than go through it, but I +know that I ought to think of others. Mr. Fraser tells me that it is my duty to +consult you, that you will naturally have my interest most at heart, that it +was into your hands and to your care that my mother consigned me on her +deathbed. Father”—and she clasped her hands and looked him full in +the face with her earnest eyes—“Mr. Fraser is right, it must be for +you to decide. I will trust you entirely, and leave the burden of decision to +your honour and generosity; only I say, spare me if you can.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip rose and went to look out of the window, that he might hide the evident +agitation of his face and the tremor of his limbs. He felt that the crucial +moment had come. All his poor sophistry, all his miserable shuffling and +attempts to fix the responsibility of his acts on others, had recoiled upon his +own head. She had come to him and laid the burden on his heart. What should he +answer? For a moment the shades—for with him they were only +shades—of good angels gained the upper hand, and he was about to turn and +look her in the face—for then he felt he could have looked her in the +face—and bid her have nothing to do with George and his proposals. But, +even in the act of turning to obey the impulse, his eyes fell upon the roof of +Isleworth Hall, which, standing on an eminence, could easily be seen from the +Abbey House, and his mind, quicker than the eye, flew to the outlook place upon +that roof where he had so often climbed as a boy, and surveyed the fair +champaign country beyond it; meadow and wood, fallow and cornland, all of which +were for him involved in that answer. He did not stop turning, but—so +quick is the working of the mind—he changed the nature of his answer. The +real presence of the demon of greed chased away the poor angelic shadows. +</p> + +<p> +“It would not be much of a sacrifice for you, Angela, to go through this +form; he is a dying man, and you need not even change your name. The lands are +mine by right, and will be yours. It will break my heart to lose them, after +all these years of toiling to save enough to buy them. But I do not wish to +force you. In short, I leave the matter to your generosity, as you would have +left it to mine.” +</p> + +<p> +“And suppose that I were to marry my cousin George, and he were not to +die after all, what would be my position then? You must clearly understand +that, to save us all from starvation, I would never be his wife.” +</p> + +<p> +“You need not trouble yourself with the question. He is a dead man; in +two months’ time he will be in the family vault.” +</p> + +<p> +She bowed her head and left him—left him with his hot and glowing greed, +behind which crept a terror. +</p> + +<p> +Next morning, George Caresfoot received the following letter: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Bratham Abbey, May 5.<br/> + +“Dear Cousin George,<br/> + +“In reply to your letter, I must tell you that I am willing to go through +the form of marriage with you—at a registry-office, not in +church—in order to enable you to carry out the property arrangements you +wish to make. You must, however, clearly understand that I do not do this on my +own account, but simply and solely to benefit my father, who has left the +matter to my ‘generosity.’ I must ask you as a preliminary step to +make a copy of and sign the enclosed letter addressed to me. Our lives are in +the hand of God, and it is possible that you might be restored to health. In +such an event, however improbable it may seem, it cannot be made too plain that +I am not, and have never in any sense undertaken to be, your wife.<br/> + +“Truly yours, “Angela Caresfoot.” +</p> + +<p> +The enclosure ran as follows: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“I, George Caresfoot, hereby solemnly promise before God that under no +possible circumstance will I attempt to avail myself of any rights over my +cousin, Angela Caresfoot, and that I will leave her as soon as the formal +ceremony is concluded, and never again attempt to see her except by her own +wish; the so-called marriage being only contemplated in order to enable me to +carry out certain business arrangements which, in view of the failing state of +my health, I am anxious to enter into.” +</p> + +<p> +This letter and its curious enclosure, surely the oddest marriage contract +which was ever penned, George, trembling with excitement, thrust into the hands +of Lady Bellamy. She read them with a dark smile. +</p> + +<p> +“The bird is springed,” she said, quietly. “It has been a +close thing, but I told you that I should not fail, as I have warned you of +what will follow your success. Sign this paper—this waste-paper—and +return it.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap53"></a>CHAPTER LIII.</h2> + +<p> +By return of post Angela received her strange agreement, duly copied and +signed, and after this the preparations for the marriage went on rapidly. But +where such a large transaction is concerned as the sale of between three and +four thousand acres of land, copyhold and freehold, together with sundry +rent-charges and the lordship of six manors, things cannot be done in a minute. +</p> + +<p> +Both George and Philip and their respective lawyers—Sir John would have +nothing to do with the matter—did their best to expedite matters, but +unfortunately some legal difficulty arose in connection with the transfer, and +who can hurry the ponderous and capricious machinery of the law? +</p> + +<p> +At length it became clear to all concerned, except Angela, that it would be +impossible for the marriage to take place before the eighth of June, and it +also became clear that that was the last possible day on which it could take +place. George begged Philip (by letter, being too ill to come and see him) to +allow the marriage to be gone through with at once, and have the business +transactions finished afterwards. But to this Philip would not consent; the +title-deeds, he said, must be in his possession before it took place, otherwise +he would have no marriage. George had therefore no option but to accept his +terms. +</p> + +<p> +When Angela was told of the date fixed for the ceremony—she would not +allow the word marriage to be mentioned in connection with it—she at +first created considerable consternation by quietly announcing that she would +not have it performed until the tenth of June. At last, however, when matters +were growing serious, and when she had treated all the pressure that it was +possible to put upon her with quiet indifference—for, as usual, her +father declined to interfere, but contented himself with playing a strictly +passive part—she suddenly of her own mere motion, abolished the +difficulty by consenting to appear before the registrar on the eighth of June, +as George wished. +</p> + +<p> +Her reasons for having objected to this date in the first instance will be +easily guessed. It was the day before the anniversary of Arthur’s +departure, an anniversary which it was her fancy to dedicate solely to his +memory. But as the delay appeared—though she could not altogether +understand why—to put others to great inconvenience, and as +George’s state of health had become such as to render postponement, even +for a couple of days of doubtful expediency, and as, moreover, she decided on +reflection that she could better give her thoughts to her dead lover when she +had gone through with the grim farce that hung over her, she suddenly changed +her mind. +</p> + +<p> +Occasionally they brought her documents to sign, and she signed them without a +question, but on the whole she treated the affair with considerable apathy, the +truth being that it was repugnant to her mind, which she preferred to occupy +with other and very different thoughts. So she let it go. She knew that she was +going to do a thing which was dreadful to her, because she believed it to be +her duty, but she comforted herself with the reflection that she was amply +secured against all possible contingencies by her previous agreement with +George. Angela’s knowledge of the marriage-law of her country and of what +constituted a legal document was not extensive. +</p> + +<p> +For this same reason, because it was distasteful, she had never said anything +of her contemplated marriage to Pigott, and it was quite unknown in the +neighbourhood. Since the Miss Lee scandal and his consequent disinheritance, +nobody had visited Philip Caresfoot, and those who took interest in him or his +affairs were few. Indeed the matter had been kept a dead secret. But on the +seventh of June, being the day previous to the ceremony, Angela went down to +her nurse’s cottage and told her what was about to be done, suppressing, +however, from various motives, all mention of her agreement with George. It +added to her depression to find that Pigott was unaccountably disturbed at the +news. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, miss,” she said,—“Lord, to think that I +sha’n’t be able to call you that no longer—I haven’t +got nothing in particular to say agin it, seeing that sure enough the +man’s a-dying, as I has on good authority from my own aunt’s +cousin, her that does the servants’ washing up at the Hall, and mighty +bad she does it, begging of her pardon for the disparagement, and so he +won’t trouble you for long, and somehow it do seem as though you +hadn’t got no choice left in the matter, just as though everybody and +everything was a-quietly pushing you into it. But, miss, somehow I don’t +like it, to be plain; a marriage as ain’t no marriage ain’t +altogether natural like, and in an office, too, along with a man as you would +not touch with a pair of tongs, and that man on his last leg. I’m right +down sorry if I makes you feel uncomfortable, dearie; but, bless me, I +don’t know how it is, but, when a thing sticks in my mind, I’m as +bound to hawk it up as though it were a bone in my throat.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like it any more than you do, nurse, but perhaps you +don’t understand all about the property being concerned, and about its +having to pass away from my father, if I don’t do this. I care nothing +about the property, but he left it to ‘my generosity!’ Arthur is +dead; and he left it to ‘my generosity,’ nurse. What could I +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, miss, you’re acting according to what you thinks right and +due to your father, which is more nor I does; and poor, dead Mr. Arthur up in +Heaven there will make a note of that, there ain’t no manner of doubt. +And somehow it do seem that things can’t be allowed to go wrong with you, +my dear, seeing how you’re a-sacrificing of yourself and of your wishes +to benefit others.” +</p> + +<p> +This conversation did not tend to put Angela into better spirits, but she felt +that it was now too late to recede. +</p> + +<p> +Whilst Angela was talking to Pigott, Sir John and Lady Bellamy were paying a +call at Isleworth. They found George lying on the sofa in the dining-room, in +which, though it was the first week in June, a fire was burning on the hearth. +He bore all the signs of a man in the last stage of consumption. The hollow +cough, the emaciation, and the hectic hue upon his face, all spoke with no +uncertain voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Caresfoot, you scarcely look like a bridegroom, I must say,” +said little Sir John, looking as pleased as though he had made an eminently +cheerful remark. +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I am stronger than I look; marriage will cure me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Humph! will it? Then you will be signally fortunate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t croak, Bellamy. I am happy to-day—there is fire +dancing along my veins. Just think, this time to-morrow Angela will be my legal +wife!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you appear to have given a good price for the privilege, if what +Anne tells me is correct. To sell the Isleworth estates for fifty thousand, is +to sell them for a hundred and fifty thousand less than they are worth. +Consequently, the girl costs you a hundred and fifty thousand pounds—a +long figure that for one girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bah! you are a cold-blooded fellow, Bellamy. Can’t you understand +that there is a positive delight in ruining oneself for the woman one loves? +And then, think how she will love me, when she comes to understand what she has +cost me. I can see her now. She will come and kiss me—mind you, kiss me +of her own free will—and say, ‘George, you are a noble fellow; +George, you are a lover that any woman may be proud of; no price was too heavy +for you.’ Yes, that is what she will say, that sort of thing, you +know.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir John’s merry little eye twinkled with inexpressible amusement, and +his wife’s full lips curled with unutterable contempt. +</p> + +<p> +“You are counting your kisses before they are paid for,” she said. +“Does Philip come here this afternoon to sign the deeds?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; they are in the next room. Will you come and see them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I will. Will you come, John?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, thank you. I don’t wish to be treated to any more of your +ladyship’s omens. I have long ago washed my hands of the whole business. +I will stop here and read the <i>Times</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +They went out, George leaning on Lady Bellamy’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +No sooner had they gone than Sir John put down the <i>Times</i>, and listened +intently. Then he rose, and slipped the bolt of that door which opened into the +hall, thereby halving his chances of interruption. Next, listening at every +step, his round face, which was solemn enough now, stretched forward, and +looking for all the world like that of some whiskered puss advancing on a +cream-jug, he crept on tiptoe to the iron safe in the corner of the room. +Arrived there, he listened again, and then drew a little key from his pocket, +and inserted it in the lock; it turned without difficulty. +</p> + +<p> +“Beau-ti-ful,” murmured Sir John; “but now comes the +rub.” Taking another key, he inserted it in the lock of the subdivision. +It would not turn. “One more chance,” he said, as he tried a +second. “Ah!” and open came the lid. Rapidly he extracted two thick +bundles of letters. They were in Lady Bellamy’s handwriting. Then he +relocked the subdivision, and the safe itself, and put the keys away in his +trousers and the packets in his coat-tail pockets, one in each, that they might +not bulge suspiciously. Next he unbolted the door, and, returning, gave way to +paroxysms of exultation too deep for words. +</p> + +<p> +“At last,” he said, stretching his fat little fist towards the room +where George was with Lady Bellamy, “at last, after twenty years of +waiting, you are in my power, my lady. Time <i>has</i> brought its revenge, and +if before you are forty-eight hours older you do not make acquaintance with a +bitterness worse than death, then my name is not John Bellamy. I will repay you +every jot, and with interest, too, my lady!” +</p> + +<p> +Then he calmed himself, and, ringing a bell, told the servant to tell Lady +Bellamy that he had walked on home. When, an hour and a half later, she reached +Rewtham House, she found that her husband had been suddenly summoned to London +on a matter of business. +</p> + +<p> +That night in her desolation Angela cast herself upon the floor with +outstretched arms and wept for her dead lover, and for the shame which +overshadowed her. And the moon travelling up the sky, struck her, shining +coldly on her snowy robe and rounded form—glinting on the stormy gold of +her loosed hair—flooding all the room with light: till the white floor +gleamed like a silver shrine, and she lay there a weeping saint. Then she rose +and crept to such rest as utter weariness of body and mind can give. +</p> + +<p> +All that night, too, George Caresfoot paced, hungry-eyed, up and down, up and +down the length of his great room, his gaze fixed on the windows which +commanded Bratham, like that of some caged tiger on a desired prey. +</p> + +<p> +“To-morrow,” he kept muttering; till the first ray of the rising +sun fell blood-red upon his wasted form, and then, bathing his thin hands in +its beams, he sank down exhausted, crying exultingly, “not to-morrow, but +<i>to-day</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +That night Lady Bellamy sat at an open window, rising continually to turn her +dark eyes upon the starry heavens above her. +</p> + +<p> +“It is of no use,” she said at last, “my knowledge fails me, +my calculations are baffled by a quantity I cannot trace. I am face to face +with a combination that I cannot solve. Let me try once more! Ah, supposing +that the unknown quantity is a directing will which at the crisis shatters +laws, and overrides even the immutability of the unchanging stars! I have heard +of such a thing. Let me change the positions of our opposing planets, and then, +see, it would all be clear as day. George vanishes, that I knew before. She +sails triumphant through overshadowing influences towards a silver sky. And I, +is it death that awaits me? No, but some great change; there the pale light of +my fading star would fall into her bright track. Bah, my science fails, I can +no longer prophesy. My knowledge only tells me of great events, of what use is +such knowledge as that? Well, come what may, fate will find one spirit that +does not fear him. As for this,” and she pointed towards the symbols and +calculations, “I have done with it. Henceforth I will devote myself to +the only real powers which can enlighten us. Yet there is humiliation in +failure after so many years of study. It is folly to follow a partial truth of +which we miss the keynote, though we sometimes blunder on its harmonies.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap54"></a>CHAPTER LIV.</h2> + +<p> +The arrangement for the morrow was that Angela and her father were to take a +fly to Roxham, where the registry office was, and whither George was also to be +conveyed in a close carriage; that the ceremony was then to be gone through, +after which the parties were to separate and return to their respective homes. +Mr. Fraser had been asked to attend, but had excused himself from doing so. +</p> + +<p> +In pursuance of this programme, Angela and her father left the Abbey House +about ten o’clock and drove in silence to the town. Strange as it may +seem, Angela had never been in a town before, and, in the curious condition of +her mind, the new sight of busy streets interested her greatly, and served to +divert her attention till they reached the door of the office. She alighted and +was shown with Philip into a waiting-room. And here, for some unexplained +reason, a great fear took hold of her, a terror of this ceremony which now +loomed large and life-like before her. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” she said, suddenly, after a moment of irresolution, +“I am going home. I will not go on with this business.” +</p> + +<p> +“What can you mean, Angela?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean what I say. I never realized how dreadful it all was till now; it +has come upon me like a revelation. Come, I am going.” +</p> + +<p> +“Angela, don’t be a fool. You forget that George will be here in a +minute, and that the settlements are all signed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he can go back again and the settlements can be torn up. I will not +go on with it.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip was by this time almost beside himself with anxiety. After having thus +with thought and toil, and by the aid of a blessed chance, lifted this +delicious cup to his lips, was it to be dashed from him? Were the sweet dreams +so near approaching to realization, in which he had been wrapped for so many +days, all to be dissipated into thin air? Was he to lose the land after all, +after he had fingered—oh! how lovingly—the yellow title-deeds? For, +alas! the sale depended on the marriage. It could not be, neither fate nor +Angela could be so cruel. He turned upon her with the boldness of despair. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela, you must not go on like this, after having agreed to the thing +of your own free will. Think of what it involves for me. If you refuse to marry +him now at the last moment, I shall lose the Isleworth estates. Heavens, to +think that so much property should be dependent upon the mere whim of a girl! +Cannot you have a little consideration for others beside yourself? Do you +really mean to sacrifice the hopes of my whole life, to throw away the only +opportunity I can ever have of righting my wrongs, in order to gratify a +sentimental whim? For God’s sake, think a little first before you +sacrifice me. You promised to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +Never before had Angela seen her father so strongly excited; he was positively +shaking with agitation. She looked at him steadily, and with such contempt +that, even in his excitement, he quailed before her. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well, then, I will carry out my promise, dreadful as it is to me; +but remember that it is only because you beg it, and that the responsibility of +its consequences must always remain with you. Now, are you satisfied?—you +will get your land.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip’s dark face assumed a look of fervent gratitude, but before he had +time to reply, a messenger came to say that “the gentleman” was +waiting. +</p> + +<p> +Her resolve once taken, Angela followed him with an untroubled face into the +room where the registrar, a gentleman neatly dressed in black, was sitting at a +sort of desk. Here the first thing her glance fell upon was the person of +George Caresfoot. Although it was now the second week in June, he wore a +respirator over his mouth and a scarf round his neck, and coughed very much. +These were the first things she noticed. The next was that he was much thinner, +so thin that the cheek-bones stood out from the level of his face, whilst the +little blood-shot eyes seemed to protrude, giving to his general appearance, +even with the mouth (his worst feature) hidden by the respirator, an unusually +repulsive look. He was leaning on the arm of Lady Bellamy, who greeted Angela +with a smile which the latter fancied had something of triumph in it. +</p> + +<p> +With the exception of the messenger, who played the part of clerk in this civil +ceremony, there was nobody else in the room. No greetings were interchanged, +and in another moment Angela was standing, dressed in her funeral black, by +George’s side before the registrar, and the ceremony had begun. +</p> + +<p> +But from that moment, although her beautiful face preserved its composure, she +scarcely saw or heard anything of what was going on. It was as though all the +streams of thought in her brain had burst their banks and mingled in a great +and turbulent current. She was filled with thought, but could seize upon no one +idea, whilst within her mind she heard a sound as of the continuous whirring of +broken machinery. +</p> + +<p> +Objects and individuals, real and imagined, presented themselves before her +mental vision, expanded till they filled the heavens with their bulk, and then +shrank and shrank, and vanished into nothing. The word “wife” +struck upon her ears, and seemed to go wailing away, “wife, wife, +wife,” through all the illimitable halls of sound, till they were filled +with echoes, and sound itself fell dead against the silence of the stars. +</p> + +<p> +It was done. She awoke to find herself a married woman. Lady Bellamy stepped +forward with the same half-triumphant smile with which she had greeted Angela +hovering about her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me congratulate you, <i>Mrs.</i> Caresfoot,” she said; +“indeed, I think I am privileged to do so, for, if I remember right, I +was the first to prophesy this happy event;” and then, dropping her voice +so that Angela alone could hear her, “Do you not remember that I told you +that you would as certainly come to the altar rails within nine months with +George Caresfoot as you would to your death-bed? I said that nine months ago +to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela started as though she had been stung. +</p> + +<p> +“Events have been too strong for me,” she murmured; “but all +this is nothing but a form, a form that can now be forgotten.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Lady Bellamy smiled as she answered, +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, of course, Mrs. Caresfoot, nothing but a form.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela’s eye fell upon the ring on her finger. She tore it off. +</p> + +<p> +“Take this back,” she said, “I have done with it.” +</p> + +<p> +“A married woman must wear a ring, Mrs. Caresfoot.” +</p> + +<p> +She hurled it upon the floor. +</p> + +<p> +Just then George and Philip returned from a little back-room where they had +been with the registrar, who still remained behind, to sign the certificate. +George advanced upon his wife with a dreadful smile on his features, removing +the respirator as he came. His object was to kiss her, but she divined it and +caught her father by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” she said, “protect me from this man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Protect you, Angela; why, he is your husband!” +</p> + +<p> +“My husband! Have you all agreed to drive me mad?” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy saw that if something were not done quickly, there would be a +shocking scene, which was the last thing she wanted, so she seized George and +whispered in his ear, after which he followed her sulkily, turning round from +time to time to look at Angela. +</p> + +<p> +On her way from Roxham, Lady Bellamy stopped her carriage at the telegraph +office and went in and wrote a telegram. +</p> + +<p> +“I respect that woman, and she shall have her chance,” she said, as +she re-read it previous to handing it to the clerk. +</p> + +<p> +Three hours later Mildred Carr received the following message at Madeira: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“From A. B. to Mrs. Carr, Quinta Carr, Madeira:<br/> + +“Angela C. married her cousin G. C. this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +That night Lady Bellamy dined at Isleworth with George Caresfoot. The dinner +passed over in almost complete silence; George was evidently plunged in +thought, and could not eat, though he drank a good deal. Lady Bellamy ate and +thought too. After the servants had gone, she began to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“I want my price, George,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean what I say. You are now Angela Caresfoot’s husband; give me +back those letters as you promised, I am impatient to break my chains.” +He hesitated. “George,” she said, in a warning voice, “do not +dare to play with me; I warn you that your power over me is not what it used to +be. Give me back those letters. I have done your wicked work for you and will +have my pay.” +</p> + +<p> +“All right, Anne, and so you shall; when will you have them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, this instant.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I have not got my keys.” +</p> + +<p> +“You forget your keys are on your watch-chain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, to be sure, so they are. You won’t turn round on me when you +get them, will you, Anne?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I turn on you? I wish to get the letters, and, if I can, to +have done with you.” +</p> + +<p> +He went with a somewhat hesitating step to the iron safe in the corner of the +room and opened it. The he opened the subdivision and rummaged about there for +a while. At last he looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very curious, Anne,” he said, in a half-frightened voice, +“but I can’t find them.” +</p> + +<p> +“George, give me those letters.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t find them, Anne, I can’t find them. If you +don’t believe me, come and look for yourself. Somebody must have taken +them.” +</p> + +<p> +She advanced and did as he said. It was evident that the letters were not +there. +</p> + +<p> +“Once before when you were ill you hid them. Where have you hidden them +now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I haven’t hidden them, Anne; I haven’t, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned slowly and looked him full in the eyes. Her own face was ashy pale +with fury, but she said never a word. Her silence was more terrible than words. +Then she raised her hands and covered her eyes for a while. Presently she +dropped them, and said, in a singularly soft voice, +</p> + +<p> +“It is over now.” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” he asked, fearfully, for she terrified him. +</p> + +<p> +“I mean a great deal, George Caresfoot. I mean that something has snapped +the bond which bound me to you. I mean that I no longer fear you, that I have +done with you. Use your letters, if you will, you can harm me no more; I have +passed out of the region of your influence, out of the reach of your revenge. I +look on you now and wonder what the link was between us, for there was a +mysterious link. That I cannot tell. But this I can tell you. I have let go +your hand, and you are going to fall down a great precipice, George, a +precipice of which I cannot see the foot. Yes, it is right that you should +cower before me now; I have cowered before you for more than twenty years. You +made me what I am. I am going into the next room now till my carriage comes, I +did not order it till half-past ten. Do not follow me. But before I go I will +tell you something, and you know I do not make mistakes. You will never sleep +under this roof again, George Caresfoot, and we shall not meet again alive. You +have had a long day, but your hour has struck.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you that, woman?” he asked, furiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Last night I read it in the stars, to-night I read it in your +face.” +</p> + +<p> +And again she looked at him, long and steadily, as he crouched in the chair +before her, and then slowly left the room. +</p> + +<p> +After awhile he roused himself, and began to drink wine furiously. +</p> + +<p> +“Curse her,” he said, as the fumes mounted into his brain, +“curse her, she is trying to frighten me with her infernal magic, but she +sha’n’t. I know what she is at; but I will be beforehand with +her.” And, staggering under the mingled influence of drink and +excitement, he rose and left the house. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy sat in the drawing-room, and waited for her carriage; at last she +heard the wheels upon the gravel. Then she rose, and rapidly did something to +the great lamp upon the paper-strewn table. As she shut the door she turned. +</p> + +<p> +“That will do,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +In the hall she met the servant coming to announce the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +“Is your master still in the dining-room?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lady.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a little, and civilly bade the man good-night. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap55"></a>CHAPTER LV.</h2> + +<p> +Outside the door of the registry-office, Angela and her father had to make +their way through a crowd of small boys, who had by some means or other found +out that a wedding was going on inside, and stood waiting there, animated by +the intention of cheering the bride and the certain hope of sixpences. But when +they saw Angela, her stately form robed in black, and her sweet face betraying +the anguish of her mind, the sight shocked their sense of the fitness of +things, and they slipped off without a word. Indeed, a butcher’s boy, +with a turn for expressive language, remarked in indignation to another of his +craft so soon as they had recovered their spirits. +</p> + +<p> +“Call that a weddin’, Bill; why, it’s more like +a—funeral with the plumes off; and as for the gal, though she’s a +‘clipper,’ her face was as pale as a ‘long +‘un’s.’” +</p> + +<p> +Angela never quite knew how she got back to the Abbey House. She only +remembered that she was by herself in the fly, her father preferring to travel +on the box alone with the coachman. Nor could she ever quite remember how she +got through the remainder of that day. She was quite mazed. But at length it +passed, and the night came, and she was thankful for the night. +</p> + +<p> +About nine o’clock she went up to her bedroom at the top of the house. It +had served as a nursery for many generations of Caresfoots; indeed, during the +last three centuries, hundreds of little feet had pattered over the old +worm-eaten boards. But the little feet had long since gone to dust, and the +only signs of children’s play and merriment left about the place were the +numberless scratches, nicks, and letters cut in the old panelling, and even on +the beams which supported the low ceiling. +</p> + +<p> +It was a lonesome room for a young girl, or, indeed, for anybody whose nerves +were not of the strongest. Nobody slept upon that floor or in the rooms beneath +it, Philip occupying a little closet which joined his study on the ground +floor. All the other rooms were closed, and tenanted only by rats that made +unearthly noises in their emptiness. As for Jakes and his wife, the only +servants on the place, they occupied a room over the washhouse, which was +separate from the main building. Angela was therefore practically alone in a +great house, and might have been murdered a dozen times over without the fact +being discovered for hours. This did not, however, trouble her much, simply +because she paid no heed to the noises in the house, and was singularly free +from fear of any kind. +</p> + +<p> +On reaching her room, she sat down and began to think of Arthur, and, as she +thought, her mind grew clearer and more at peace. Indeed, it seemed to her that +her dead lover was near, and as though she could distinguish pulsations of +thought which came from him, impinging on her system, and bringing his presence +with them. It is a common sensation, and occurs to many people of sensitive +organization when asleep or thinking on some one with whom they are in a high +state of sympathy, and doubtless indicates some occult communication. But, as +it chanced, it had never before visited Angela in this form, and she abandoned +herself to its influence with delight. It thrilled her through and through. +</p> + +<p> +How long she sat thus she could not tell, but presently the communication, +whatever it was, stopped as suddenly as though the connecting link had been +severed. The currents directed by her will would no longer do her bidding; they +could not find their object, or, frighted by some adverse influence, recoiled +in confusion on her brain. Several times she tried to renew this subtle +intercourse that was so palpable and real, and yet so different from anything +else in the world, but failed. Then she rose, feeling very tired, for those who +thus draw upon the vital energies must pay the penalty of exhaustion. She took +her Bible and read her nightly chapter, and then undressed and said her +prayers, praying with unusual earnestness that it might please the Almighty in +His wisdom to take her to where her lover was. Her prayers done, she rose, put +on a white dressing wrapper, and, seating herself before the glass, unloosed +her hair. Then she began to brush it, pausing presently to think how Arthur had +admired its colour and the ripples on it. She had been much more careful of her +hair since then, and smiled sadly to herself at her folly for being so. +</p> + +<p> +Thinking thus, she fell into a reverie, and sat so still that a great grey rat +came noiselessly out of his hole in a corner of the room, and, advancing into +the circle of light round the dressing-table, sat up on his hind legs to see if +he was alone. Suddenly he turned and scuttled back to his hole in evident +alarm, and at the same second Angela thought that she heard a sound of a +different character from those she was accustomed to in the old house—a +sound like the creaking of a boot. It passed, however, but left an indefinable +dread creeping over her, and chilling the blood in her veins. She began to +expect something, she knew not what, and was fascinated by the expectation. She +would have risen to lock the door, but all strength seemed to have left her; +she was paralysed by the near sense of evil. Then came a silence as intense as +it was lonely. +</p> + +<p> +It was a ghastly moment. +</p> + +<p> +Her back was towards the doorway, for her dressing-table was immediately +opposite the door, which was raised some four feet above the level of the +landing, and approached by as many steps. +</p> + +<p> +Gradually her eyes became riveted on the glass before her, for in it she +thought that she saw the door move. Next second, she was sure that it +<i>was</i> moving, very slowly; the hinges took an age to turn. What could be +behind it? At last it was open, and in the glass Angela saw framed in darkness +<i>the head and shoulders of George Caresfoot</i>. At first she believed that +her mind deceived her, that it was an apparition. No, there was no mistake. But +the respirator, the hollow cough and decrepitude of the morning—where +were they? +</p> + +<p> +With horror in her heart, she turned and faced him. Seeing that he was +observed, he staggered into the room with a step which was half drunken and +half jaunty, but which belied the conflict of passions written on his brow. He +spoke—his voice sounded hoarse and hollow, and was ill-tuned to his +words. +</p> + +<p> +“You did not expect me perhaps—wonder how I got here! Jakes let me +in; he has got a proper respect for marital rights, has Jakes. You looked so +pretty, I could not make up my mind to disturb you. Quite a romantic meeting, +is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a dying man. How did you come here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dying! my dear wife; not a bit of it. I am no more dying than you are. I +have been ill, it is true, but that is only because you have fretted me so. The +dying was only a little ruse to get your consent. All is fair in love and war, +you know; and of course you never really believed in that precious agreement. +That was nothing but a bit of maidenly shyness, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Angela stood still as a stone, a look of horror on her face. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you don’t know what you have cost me. Your father’s +price was a hundred and fifty thousand, at least that is what it came to, the +old shark! It isn’t every man who would come down like that for a girl, +now is it? It shows a generous mind, doesn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +Still she uttered not a syllable. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela,” he said, changing his tone to one of hoarse earnestness, +“don’t look at me like that, because, even if you are a bit put out +at the trick I have played you, just think it was because I loved you so much, +Angela. I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t really. It is not every man +who would go through all that I have gone through for you; it is no joke to +sham consumption for three months, I can tell you; but we will have many a +laugh over that. Why don’t you answer me, instead of standing there just +like the Andromeda in my study?” +</p> + +<p> +The simile was an apt one, the statue of the girl awaiting her awful fate wore +the same hopeless, helpless look of vacant terror which was upon Angela’s +face now. But its mention recalled Lady Bellamy and the ominous incident in +which that statue had figured, and he hastened to drown recollection in action. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” he said, “you will forgive me, won’t you? It +was all done for love of you.” And he moved towards her. +</p> + +<p> +As he came she seemed to collect her energies; the fear left her face, and in +its stead there shone a great and awful blaze of indignation. +</p> + +<p> +Her brush was still in her hand, and as he drew near she dashed it full into +his face. It was but a light thing, and only staggered him, but it gave her +time to pass him, and reach the still open door. Bare- footed, she fled like +the wind down the passages, and down the stairs. Uttering an oath, he followed +her. But, as she went, she remembered that she could not run upon the gravel +with her naked feet, and, with this in her mind, she turned to bay by a large +window that gave light to the first-floor landing, immediately opposite which +was the portrait of “Devil” Caresfoot. It was unbolted, and with a +single movement of the hand she flung it open, and stood panting by it in the +full light of the moon. In another moment he was upon her, furious at the blow, +and his face contorted with passion. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop,” she cried, “and listen to me. Before I will allow you +to touch me with a single finger, I will spring from here. I would rather +thrust myself into the hands of Providence than into yours, monster and +perjured liar that you are!” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped as she bade him, and commenced to pace round and round her in a +semicircle, glaring at her with wild eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“If you jump from there,” he said, “you will only break your +limbs; it is not high enough to kill you. You are my wife, don’t you +understand? You are my legal wife, the law is on my side. No one can help you, +no one; you are mine in the sight of the whole world.” +</p> + +<p> +“But not yours in the sight of God. It is to Him that I now appeal. Get +back!” +</p> + +<p> +She stretched out her arm, and with her golden hair glimmering in the +moonlight, her white robes, and the anger on her face, looked like some +avenging angel driving a fiend to hell. He shrank away from her, and there came +a pause, and, save for their heavy breathing, stillness again fell upon the +house, whilst the picture that hung above them seemed, in the half light, to +follow them with its fierce eyes, as though it were a living thing. +</p> + +<p> +The landing where they stood looked upon the hall below, at the end of which +was Philip’s study. Suddenly its door burst open, and Philip himself +passed through it, grasping a candlestick in one hand and some parchments in +the other. His features were dreadful to see, resembling those of a dumb thing +in torture; his eyes protruded, his livid lips moved, but no sound came from +them. He staggered across the hall with terror staring from his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Father, father,” called Angela; but he took no notice—he did +not even seem to hear. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they heard the candlestick thrown with a clash upon the hall +pavement, then the front door slammed, and he was gone, and at that moment a +great ruddy glow shot up the western sky, then a tongue of flame, then another +and another. +</p> + +<p> +“See,” said Angela, with a solemn laugh, “I did not appeal +for help in vain.” +</p> + +<p> +Isleworth Hall was in flames. +</p> + + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap56"></a>CHAPTER LVI.</h2> + +<p> +Arthur did not delay his departure from Madeira. The morning following +Mildred’s ball he embarked on board a Portuguese boat, a very dirty craft +which smelt of garlic and rancid oil, and sailed for Lisbon. He arrived there +safely, and mooned about that city for a while, himself a monument of serious +reflections, and then struck across into Spain, where he spent a month or so +inspecting the historical beauties of that fallen country. Thence he penetrated +across the Pyrenees into Southern France, which was pleasant in the spring +months. Here he remained another month, meeting with no adventures worthy of +any note, and improving his knowledge of the French language. Tiring at last of +this, he travelled to Paris, and went to the theatres, but found his own +thoughts too absorbing to allow of his taking any keen interest in their +sensationalisms; so, after a brief stay, he made his way up to Brittany and +Normandy, and went in for inspecting old castles and cathedrals, and finally +ended up his continental travels by spending a week on the island rock of Saint +Michel. +</p> + +<p> +This place pleased him more than any he had visited. He liked to wander about +among the massive granite pillars of that noble ecclesiastical fortress, and at +night to watch the phosphoric tide come rushing in with all the speed of a +race-horse, over the wide sands, which separate it from the mainland. There the +thirty-first day of May found him, and he bethought him that it was time to +return to London and see about getting the settlements drawn and ordering the +wedding bouquet. To speak the truth, he thought more about the bouquet than the +settlements. +</p> + +<p> +He arrived in London on the first of June, and went to see his family lawyer, a +certain Mr. Borley, who had been solicitor to the trust during his minority. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless me, Heigham, how like your father you have grown!” said that +legal gentleman, as soon as Arthur was ensconced in the client’s chair +—a chair that, had it been endowed with the gift of speech, could have +told some surprising stories. “It seems only the other day that he was +sitting there dictating the terms of his will, and yet that was before the +Crimean war, more than twenty years ago. Well, my boy, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur, thus encouraged, entered into a rather blundering recital of the +circumstances of his engagement. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Borley did not say much, but, from his manner and occasional comments, it +was evident that he considered the whole story very odd— regarding it, +indeed, with some suspicion. +</p> + +<p> +“I must tell you frankly, Mr. Heigham,” he said, at last, “I +don’t quite understand this business. The young lady, no doubt, is +charming —young ladies, looking at them from my clients’ point of +view, always are—but I can’t say I like your story about her +father. Why did you not tell me all this before? I might then have been able to +give you some advice worth having, or, at any rate, to make a few +confidential” —he laid great emphasis on the word +“confidential”—“inquiries.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur replied that it had not occurred to him to do so. +</p> + +<p> +“Umph, pity—great pity; but there is no time for that sort of thing +now, if you think you are going to get married on the tenth; so I suppose the +only thing to do is to go through with it and await the upshot. What do you +wish done?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur explained his views, which apparently included settling all his property +on his bride in the most absolute fashion possible. To this Mr. Borley forcibly +objected, and in the end Arthur had to give way and make such arrangements as +the old gentleman thought proper— arrangements differing considerably +from those proposed by himself. +</p> + +<p> +This interview over, he had other and pleasanter duties to perform, such as +ordering his wedding clothes, making arrangements with a florist for the bridal +bouquet, and last, but not least, having his mother’s diamonds re-set as +a present for his bride. +</p> + +<p> +But still the days went very slowly, there seemed to be no end to them. He had +no relations to go and see, and in his present anxious excited state he +preferred to avoid his friends and club acquaintances. Fifth, sixth, seventh; +never did a schoolboy await the coming of the day that marked the advent of his +holidays with such intense anxiety. +</p> + +<p> +At length the eighth of June arrived. Months before, he had settled what his +programme should be on that day. His promise, as the reader may remember, +forbade him to see Angela till the ninth, that is, at any hour after twelve on +the night of the eighth, or, practically, as early as possible on the following +morning. Now the earliest train would not get him down to Roxham till eleven +o’clock, which would involve a wicked waste of four or five hours of +daylight that might be spent with Angela, so he wisely resolved to start on the +evening of the eighth, by a train leaving Paddington at six o’clock, and +reaching Roxham at nine. +</p> + +<p> +The day he spent in signing the settlements, finally interviewing the florist, +and giving him directions as to forwarding the wedding- bouquet, which was to +be composed of orange-blossoms, lilies of the valley, and stephanotis, and in +getting the marriage-license. But, notwithstanding these manifold employments, +he managed to be three- quarters of an hour before his train, the longest +forty-five minutes he ever spent. +</p> + +<p> +He had written to the proprietor of the inn at Rewtham, where he had slept a +year ago the night after he had left Isleworth, to send a gig to meet him at +the station, and, on arriving at Roxham, a porter told him that a trap was +waiting for him. On emerging from the station, even in the darkness, he was +able to recognize the outlines of the identical vehicle which had conveyed him +to the Abbey House some thirteen months ago, whilst the sound of an ancient, +quavering voice informed him that the Jehu was likewise the same. His luggage +was soon bundled up behind, and the steady-going old nag departed into the +darkness. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sam, do you remember me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no, sir, I can’t rightly say how I do: wait a bit; +bean’t you the gemman as travels in the dry line, and as I seed a-kissing +the chambermaid?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t travel at present, and I have not kissed a chambermaid +for some time. Do you remember driving a gentleman over to the Abbey House a +year or so ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, yes, in course I does. Lord, now, and be you he? and we seed old +Devil’s Caresfoot’s granddaughter. Ah! many’s the time that +he has damned me, and all so soft and pleasant like; but it was his eyes that +did the trick. They was awful, just awful; and you gave me half-a- crown, you +did. But somehow I thought I heard summat about you, sir, but I can’t +rightly remember what it be, my head not being so good as it used to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you heard what I was going to be married?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I don’t think how as it was that neither.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, never mind me; have you seen Miss Caresfoot—the young lady +you saw the day you drove me to the Abbey House—anywhere about +lately?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur waited for the old man’s lingering answer with all his heart upon +his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Lor’, yes, sir, that I have; I saw her this morning driving +through the Roxham market-place.” +</p> + +<p> +“And how did she look?” +</p> + +<p> +“A bit pale, I thought, sir; but well enough, and wonnerful +handsome.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur gave a sigh of relief. He felt like a man who has just come scatheless +through some horrible crisis, and once more knows the sweet sensation of +safety. What a load the old man’s words had lifted from his mind! In his +active imagination he had pictured all sorts of evils which might have happened +to Angela during his year of absence. Lovers are always prone to such +imaginings, and not altogether without reason, for there would seem to be a +special power of evil that devotes itself to the derangement of their affairs, +and the ingenious disappointment of their hopes. But now the vague dread was +gone, Angela was not spirited away or dead, and to know her alive was to know +her faithful. +</p> + +<p> +As they drove along, the old ostler continued to volunteer various scraps of +information which fell upon his ears unheeded, till presently his attention was +caught by the name Caresfoot. +</p> + +<p> +“What about him?” he asked, quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“He be a-dying, they do say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which of them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, the red-haired one, him as lives up at the Hall yonder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor fellow,” said Arthur, feeling quite fond of George in his +happiness. +</p> + +<p> +They had by this time reached the inn, where he had some supper, for old +Sam’s good news had brought back his appetite, which of late had not been +quite up to par, and then went straight to his room that faced towards the +Abbey House. It was, he noticed, the same in which he had slept the year +before, and looking at the bed he remembered his dream, and smiled as he +thought that the wood was passed, and before him lay nothing but the flowery +meadows. Mildred Carr, too, crossed his mind, but of her he did not think much, +not that he was by any means heartless—indeed, what had happened had +pained him acutely, the more so because his own conscience told him he had been +a fool. He was very sorry, but, love being here below one of the most selfish +of the passions, he had not time to be sorry just then. +</p> + +<p> +For just on the horizon he could distinguish a dense mass which was the trees +surrounding the Abbey House, and between the trees there glimmered a faint +light which might proceed from some rising star, or from Angela’s window. +He preferred to believe it was the latter. The propinquity made him very happy. +What was she doing? he wondered— sitting by her window and thinking of +him! He would ask her on the morrow. It was worth while going through that year +of separation in order to taste the joy of meeting. It seemed like a dream to +think that within six-and-thirty hours he would probably be Angela’s +husband, and how nobody in the world would be able to take her away from him. +He stretched out his arms towards her. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling, my darling,” he cried aloud into the still night. +“My darling, my darling,” the echo answered sadly. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap57"></a>CHAPTER LVII.</h2> + +<p> +That night Arthur dreamed no evil dreams, but he thought he heard a sound +outside his door, and some one speak of fire. Hearing nothing more, he turned +and went to sleep again. Waking in the early dawn he felt, ere yet his senses +fully came, a happy sense of something, he knew not what, a rosy shadow of +coming joy, such as will, only with more intensity, fall upon our quickened +faculties when, death ended, our souls begin to stir as we awaken to Eternity. +</p> + +<p> +He sprang from his bed, and his eye fell on a morocco case upon the +dressing-table. It contained the diamonds which he had had re-set as a wedding +present to Angela. They were nothing compared with Mildred Carr’s, but +still extremely handsome, their beauty being enhanced by the elegance of the +setting, which was in the shape of a snake with emerald head and ruby eyes, so +constructed as to clasp tightly round Angela’s shapely throat. +</p> + +<p> +The sight of the jewellery at once recalled his present circumstances, and he +knew that the long hour of trial was passed—he was about to meet Angela. +Having dressed himself as quickly as he could, he took up the jewel-case, but, +finding it too large to stow away, he opened it, and, taking out the necklace, +crammed it into his pocket. Thus armed he slipped down the stairs, past the +open common room where the light shone through the cracks in the shutters on a +dismal array of sticky beer-mugs and spirit glasses, down the sanded passage +into the village street. +</p> + +<p> +It was full daylight now, and the sun never looked upon a lovelier morning. The +air was warm, but there was that sharp freshness in it which is needful to make +summer weather perfect, and which we always miss by breakfasting at nine +o’clock. The sky was blue, just flecked with little clouds; the dewdrops +sparkled upon every leaf and blade of grass; touches of mist clung about the +hollows, and the sweet breath of the awakened earth was full of the perfect +scent of an English June, which is in its way even more delicious than the +spicy odours of the tropics. It was a morning to make sick men well, and men +happy, and atheists believers in a creative hand. How much more then did it +fire Arthur’s pulses, already bounding with youth and health, with an +untold joy. +</p> + +<p> +He felt like a child again, so free from care, so happy, except that his heart +swelled with a love beyond the knowledge of children. His quick temperament had +rebounded from the depths of unequal depression, into which it so often fell, +to the heights of a happy assurance. The Tantalus cup was at his lips at last, +and he would drink his full, be sure! His eyes flashed and sparkled, his foot +fell light and quick as an antelope’s, his brown cheek glowed—never +had he looked so handsome. Angela would not forget her promise; she would be +waiting for him by the lake, he was sure of that, and thither he made his way +through the morning sunshine. They were happy moments. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he passed into the parish of Bratham, and his eye fell upon a neat +red brick cottage, a garden planted with sunflowers, and a bright gravel path +running to the rustic gate. He thought the garden charmingly old-fashioned, and +had just entered a mental note to ask Angela who lived there, when the door +opened, and a figure he knew emerged, bearing a mat in one hand and a mopstick +in the other. He was some way off, and at first could not quite distinguish who +it was; but before she had come to the gate he recognized Pigott. By this time +she had stepped into the road, and was making elaborate preparations to dust +her mat so that she did not see him, till he spoke to her. +</p> + +<p> +“How are you, Pigott? What may you be doing down here? Why are you not up +at the Abbey?” +</p> + +<p> +She gave a cry, and the mat and mopstick fell from her hands. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham!” she said, in an awed voice that chilled his blood, +“what has brought you back, and why do you come to me? I never wronged +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you talking about? I have come to marry Angela, of course. We +are going to be married to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, then it’s really <i>you</i>, sir! <i>And she married +yesterday—oh, good God!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t laugh at me, nurse—please don’t laugh. +It—it upsets me. Why do you shake so? What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mean!—I mean that my Angela <i>married her cousin, George +Caresfoot, at Roxham, yesterday.</i> Heaven forgive me for having to tell it +you!” +</p> + +<p> +Reader, have you ever mortally wounded a head of large game? You hear your +bullet thud upon the living flesh, and see the creature throw up its head and +stagger for a moment, and then plunge forward with desperate speed, crashing +through bush and reeds as though they were meadow-grass. Follow him awhile, and +you will find him standing quite still, breathing in great sighs, his back +humped and his eye dim, the gore trickling from his nostrils. He is +dying—but be careful, he means mischief before he dies. +</p> + +<p> +Any great shock, mental or physical, is apt to reduce man to the level of his +brother beasts. Arthur, for instance, behaved very much like a wounded buffalo +as soon as the stun of the blow passed away, and the rending pain began to make +itself felt. For a few seconds he gazed before him stupid and helpless, then +his face turned quite grey, the eyes and nostrils gaped wide, and a curious +rigidity took possession of his muscles. +</p> + +<p> +The road he was following led to a branching lane, the same that Angela was +turning up that misty Christmas Eve when she saw Lady Bellamy glide past in her +carriage. This lane had in former ages, no doubt, to judge from its numerous +curves, been an ancient forest-path, and it ran to the little bridge over the +stream that fed the lake—a point that, by travelling as the crow flies +from Pigott’s cottage, might be reached in half the time. This fact +Arthur seemed at that dreadful moment to suddenly realize, more probably from +natural instinct than from any particular knowledge of the lay of the land. He +did not speak again to Pigott, and she was too frightened at his face to speak +to him. He only looked at her, but she never forgot that look so long as she +lived. Then he turned like a mad thing, and went <i>crash</i> through the thick +fence that hedged the road, and ran at full speed towards the lake, diverging +neither to the right nor to the left, but breaking his way without the +slightest apparent difficulty through everything that opposed him. +</p> + +<p> +Very soon he came to the little bridge, and here, struck by some new instinct, +he halted. He did not appear to be out of breath, but he leaned on the rail of +the bridge and groaned like a dying man. His ghastly face made a blot in the +mimic scenery of the place, which was really very pretty. The bridge commanded +no view, for the little creek it spanned, and into which the stream ran, gave a +turn before it grew into the neck of the lake; but it was hedged in by +greenery, and the still pool beneath it was starred with water-lilies, turning +their innocent eyes up to the blue sky, and looking as peaceful as though there +were no stormy winds or waters in the world to toss them. Amongst these +water-lilies a moorhen had built her nest, and presently she came clucking out +right under Arthur’s feet, followed by ten or a dozen little hurrying +black balls, each tipped with sealing-wax red. She looked very happy with her +brood—as happy as the lilies and the blue sky—and the sight made +him savage. He took up a large stone that lay by him and threw it at her. It +hit her on the back and killed her, and Arthur laughed loud as he watched her +struggle, and then lie still, while the motherless chicks hurried, frightened, +away. And yet since he was a boy he had never till now wantonly injured any +living creature. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, the dead water-hen floated out of sight, and he roused himself, +straightened his clothes, which had been somewhat torn and deranged, and, with +a steady step and a fixed smile upon his lips, went forward, no longer at a +run, but walking quietly up the path that led to the big oak and shaded glen. +In five minutes he was there. +</p> + +<p> +Again he paused and looked. There was something to see. On one of the stone +seats, dressed in black, her face deathly pale, her head resting on her hand, +and trouble in her eyes, sat Angela. On the other was her constant companion, +the dog which he had given her. He remembered how, a little more than a year +before, she had surprised him in the same way, and he had looked upon her and +loved her. He could even smile at the strange irony of fate that had, under +such curiously reversed circumstances, brought him back to surprise her, to +look upon her, and hate her. +</p> + +<p> +She moved uneasily, and glanced round, but he was hidden by a bush. Then she +half rose, paused irresolutely, and, as though struggling against something +foolish, sat determinedly down again. When Arthur had done smiling, he came +forward a few steps into the open, feeling that his face was all drawn and +changed, as indeed it was. It was the face of a man of fifty. His eyes were +fire, and his heart was ice. +</p> + +<p> +She turned her head, and looked up with a shrinking in her eyes, as though she +feared to see something hateful—a shrinking which turned first to wonder, +then to dread, then to a lively joy, and then again to awe. She rose +mechanically, with a great gasp; her lips parted, as though to speak, but no +words came. The dog, too, saw him, and growled, then ran up and sniffed, and +leaped upon him with a yelp of joy. He waved it down, and there was something +in the gesture that frightened the beast. It shrank behind him. Then he spoke +in a clear, hard tone—not his own voice, she thought. +</p> + +<p> +“Angela, is this true? Are you <i>married?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no;” and her voice came stealing to his senses like half- +forgotten music; “that is, yes, alas! But is it really you? Oh, Arthur, +my darling, have you come back to me?” and she moved towards him with +outstretched arms. +</p> + +<p> +Already they were closing round him, and he could feel her breath upon his +cheek, when the charm broke, and he wrenched himself free. +</p> + +<p> +“Get back; do not dare to touch me. Do you know what you are? The poor +lost girl is not fallen so low as you. She must get her bread; but, at any +rate, I could have given you bread. What! fresh from your husband’s arms, +and ready to throw yourself into mine! Shame upon you! Were you not married +yesterday?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur, have pity! You do not understand. Oh, merciful +God——” +</p> + +<p> +“Have pity! What need for pity? Were you not married yesterday?” +and he laughed bitterly. “I come—I come from far to congratulate +the new- made wife. It is a little odd, though, I thought to marry you myself. +See, here was my wedding present;” and he tore the diamond necklace from +his pocket. “A snake, you see; a good emblem! Away with it, its use is +gone!” +</p> + +<p> +The diamonds went flashing through the sunlight, and fell with a little splash +into the lake. +</p> + +<p> +“What! are you not sorry to see so much valuable property wasted? You +have a keen appreciation of property!” +</p> + +<p> +Angela sank down on her knees before him, like a broken lily. Her looks grew +faint and despairing. The stately head bowed itself to his feet, and all the +golden weight of hair broke loose. But he did not pause or spare her. He ground +his teeth. No one could have recognized in this maddened, passion-inspired man +the pleasant, easy-tempered Arthur of an hour before. His nature was stirred to +its depths, and they were deep. +</p> + +<p> +“You miserable woman! do not kneel to me. If it were not unmanly, I could +spurn you with my foot. Do you know, girl, you who swore to love me till time +had passed—yes, and for all eternity, you who do love me at this +moment—and therein lies your shame—that you have killed me? You +have murdered my heart. I trusted you, Angela, I trusted you, I gave you all my +life, all that was best in me; and now in reward— degraded as you +are—I must always love you as much as I despise you. Even now I feel that +I <i>cannot</i> hate you and forget you. I <i>must</i> love you, and I +<i>must</i> despise you.” +</p> + +<p> +She gazed up at him like a dumb beast at its butcher; she could not speak, her +voice had gone. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet, when I think of it, I have something to thank you for. You have +cleared my mind of illusions. You have taught me what a woman’s purity is +worth. You did the thing well, too! You did not crush me by inches with +platitudes, bidding me forget you and not think of you any more, as though +forgetfulness were possible, and thought a tangible thing that one could kill. +You struck home in silence, once and for all. Thank you for <i>that</i>, +Angela. What, are you crying? Go back to the brute whom you have chosen, the +brute whose passion or whose money you could prefer to me, tell him that they +are tears of happiness, and let him kiss them quite away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur—cruel—Arthur!” and nature gave way. She +fell fainting on the grass. +</p> + +<p> +Then, when he saw that she could not understand or feel any more, his rage +died, and he too broke down and sobbed, great, gasping sobs. And the frightened +dog crept up and licked first her face and then his hand. +</p> + +<p> +Kneeling down, Arthur raised her in his arms and strained her to his heart, +kissing her thrice upon the forehead—the lips he could not touch. Then he +placed her on the seat, leaning her weight against the tree, and, motioning +back the dog, he went his way. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap58"></a>CHAPTER LVIII.</h2> + +<p> +Arthur took the same path by which he had come—all paths were alike to +him now—but before he had gone ten yards he saw the figure of George +Caresfoot, who appeared to have been watching him. In George’s hand was a +riding-whip, for he had ridden from the scene of the fire, and was all begrimed +with smoke and dirt. But this Arthur did not notice. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo,” he began; “what——” and then he +hesitated; there was a look in Arthur’s eyes which he did not like. +</p> + +<p> +But, if George hesitated, Arthur did not. He sprang at him like a wild cat, and +in a second had him by the throat and shoulder. For a moment he held him there, +for in his state of compressed fury George was like a child in his hands. And +as he held him a fierce and almost uncontrollable desire took possession of him +to kill this man, to throw him down and stamp the life out of him. He conquered +it, however, and loosed the grip on his throat. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me go,” shrieked George, as soon as he could get breath. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur cut short his clamours by again compressing his wind-pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“Listen,” he said; “a second ago I was very near killing you, +but I remember now that, after all, it is she, not you, who are chiefly to +blame. You only followed your brutal nature, and nothing else can be expected +of a brute. Very likely you put pressure on her, like the cad that you are, but +that does not excuse her, for, if she could not resist pressure, she is a fool +in addition to being what she is. I look at you and think that soon <i>she</i> +will come down to <i>your</i> level, the level of my successful rival. To be +mated to a man like you would drag an angel down. That will be punishment +enough. Now go, you cur!” +</p> + +<p> +He swung him violently from him. His fall was broken by a bramble- bush. It was +not exactly a bed of roses, but George thought it safer to lie there till his +assailant’s footsteps had grown faint—he did not wish to bring him +back again. Then he crept out of the bush smarting all over. Indeed, his frame +of mind was altogether not of the most amiable. To begin with, he had just seen +his house—which, as luck would have it, was the only thing he had not +sold to Philip, and which was also at the moment uninsured, owing to the +confusion arising from the transfer of the property—entirely burnt down. +All its valuable contents too, including a fine collection of pictures and +private papers he by no means wished to lose, were irretrievably destroyed. +</p> + +<p> +Nor was his mood improved by the recollection of the events of the previous +night, or by the episode of the bramble-bush, illuminated as it was by +Arthur’s vigorous language; or by what he had just witnessed, for he had +arrived in time to see, though from a distance, the last act of the interview +between Arthur and Angela. +</p> + +<p> +He had seen him lift her in his arms, kiss her, and place her on the stone +seat, but he did not know that she had fainted. The sight had roused his evil +passions until they raged like the fire he had left. Then Arthur came out upon +him and he made acquaintance with the bramble-bush as already described. But he +was not going to be cheated out of his revenge; the woman was still left for +him to wreak it on. +</p> + +<p> +By the time he reached Angela, her faculties were reawakening; but, though +insensibility had yielded, sense had not returned. She sat upon the stone seat, +upright indeed, but rigid and grasping its angles with her hands. The dog had +gone. In the undecided way common to dogs, when two people to whom they are +equally attached separate, it had at that moment taken it into its head to run +a little way after Arthur. +</p> + +<p> +George marched straight up to her, livid with fury. +</p> + +<p> +“So this is how you go on when your husband is away, is it? I saw you +kissing that young blackguard, though I am not good enough for you. What, +won’t you answer? Then it is time that I taught you obedience.” +</p> + +<p> +“Swish!” went the heavy whip through the air, and fell across her +fair cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Will that wake you, eh, or must I repeat the dose?” +</p> + +<p> +The pain of the blow seemed to rouse her. She rose, her loosed hair falling +round her like a golden fleece, and a broad blue stripe across her ghastly +face. She stretched out her hands; she opened her great eyes, and in them +blazed the awful light of madness. +</p> + +<p> +He was standing, whip in hand, with his back to the lake; she faced him, a +breathing, beautiful vengeance, and in a whisper so intense that the air was +full of it, commenced a rambling prayer. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, God,” she said, “bless my dear Arthur! Oh, Almighty +Father, avenge our wrongs!” +</p> + +<p> +She paused and fixed her eyes upon him, and they held him so that he could not +stir. Then, in strange contrast to the hissing whisper, there broke from her +lips a ringing and unearthly laugh that chilled him to the marrow. So they +stood for some seconds. +</p> + +<p> +The sound of angry voices had brought the bulldog back at full speed, and, at +the sight of George’s threatening attitude, it halted. It had always +hated him, and now it straightway grew more like a devil than a dog. The innate +fierceness of the great brute awoke; it bristled with fury till each separate +hair stood out in knots against the skin, and saliva ran from its twitching +jaws. +</p> + +<p> +George did not know that it was near him, but Angela’s wild eye fell upon +it. Slowly raising her hand, she pointed at it. +</p> + +<p> +“Look behind you,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +The sound of her voice broke the spell that was upon him. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, give me no more of your nonsense,” he said, and then, as +much from vague fear and rampant brutality as from any other reason, again +struck her with the whip. +</p> + +<p> +Next second he was aware of a tremendous shock. The dog had seen the blow, and +had instantly launched itself, with all the blind courage of its race, straight +at the striker’s throat. It missed its aim, however, only carrying away a +portion of George’s under-lip. He yelled with pain, and struck at it with +the whip, and then began a scene which, in its grotesque horror, beggars all +description. Again and again the dog flew at him, its perfect silence +contrasting strangely with George’s shrieks of terror, and the shrill +peals of horrible laughter that came hurrying from Angela’s lips as she +watched the struggle. +</p> + +<p> +At last the dog gripped the man by the forearm, and, sinking its great teeth +into the flesh, hung its weight upon it. In vain did George, maddened by the +exquisite pain, dash himself and the dog against the ground: in vain did he +stagger round and round the glen, tearing at its throat with his uninjured +hand. The brute hung grimly on. Presently there came an end. As he reeled +along, howling for help and dragging his fierce burden with him, George +stumbled over a dead bough which lay upon the bank of the lake, and fell +backwards into the water, exactly at the spot where the foundations of the old +boat-house wall rose to within a few inches of the surface. His head struck +heavily against the stonework, and he and the dog, who would not loose his +grip, lay on it for a moment, then they rolled off together into the deep pool, +the man dragging the dog with him. There were a few ripples, stained with +little red filaments, a few air-bubbles that marked the exhalation of his last +breath, and George’s spirit had left its enclosing body, and +gone—whither? Ay, reader, whither had it gone? +</p> + +<p> +The outcry brought Philip and old Jakes running down to the lake. They found +Angela standing alone on the brink and laughing her wildest. +</p> + +<p> +“See,” she cried, as they came panting up, “the bridegroom +cometh from his chamber,” and at that moment some unreleased air within +the body brought it up for an instant to the surface, so that the torn and +ghastly face and head emerged for a second as though to look at them. Then it +sank again. +</p> + +<p> +“The brave dog holds him well—ha, ha, ha! He cannot catch me +now—ha, ha, ha! Nor you, Judas, who sold me. Judas! Judas! Judas!” +and, turning, she fled with the speed of the wind. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser had but just come down, and was walking in his garden, when he saw +this dreadful figure come flying towards him with streaming hair. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Betrayed</i>,” she cried, in a voice which rang like the wail +of a lost soul, and fell on her face at his feet. +</p> + +<p> +When she came back to life they found that she was mad. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap59"></a>CHAPTER LIX.</h2> + +<p> +The news of George Caresfoot’s tragic death was soon common property, and +following as it did so hard upon his marriage, which now was becoming known, +and within a few hours of the destruction of his house by fire, it caused no +little excitement. It cannot be said that the general feeling was one of very +great regret; it was not. George Caresfoot had commanded deference as a rich +man, but he certainly had not won affection. Still his fate excited general +interest and sympathy, though some people were louder in their regrets over the +death of such a plucky dog as Aleck, than over that of the man he killed, but +then these had a personal dislike of George. When, however, it came to be +rumoured that the dog had attacked George because George had struck the +dog’s mistress, general sympathy veered decidedly towards the dog. +By-and-by, as some of the true facts of the case came out, namely, that Angela +Caresfoot had gone mad, that her lover, who was supposed to be dead, had been +seen in Rewtham on the evening of the wedding, that the news of Mr. +Heigham’s death had been concocted to bring about the marriage, and last, +but not least, that the Isleworth estates had passed into the possession of +Philip Caresfoot, public opinion grew very excited, and the dog Aleck was well +spoken of. +</p> + +<p> +When Sir John Bellamy stepped out on the platform at Roxham on his return from +London that day, his practised eye saw at once that something unusual had +occurred. A group of county magistrates returning from quarter sessions were +talking excitedly together whilst waiting for their train. He knew them all +well, but at first they seemed inclined to let him pass without speaking to +him. Presently, however, one of them turned, and spoke to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you heard about this, Bellamy?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; what?” +</p> + +<p> +“George Caresfoot is dead; killed by a bulldog, or something. They say he +was thrashing the girl he married yesterday, his cousin’s daughter, with +a whip, and the dog made for him, and they both fell into the water together +and were drowned. The girl has gone mad.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens, you don’t say so!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I do, though; and I’ll tell you what it is, Bellamy, they say +that you and your wife went to Madeira and trumped up a story about her +lover’s death in order to take the girl in. I tell you this as an old +friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“What? I certainly went to Madeira, and I saw young Heigham there, but I +never trumped up any story about his death. I never mentioned him to Angela +Caresfoot for two reasons, first, because I have not come across her, and +secondly, because I understood that Philip Caresfoot did not wish it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I am glad to hear it, for your sake; but I have just seen Fraser, +and he tells me that Lady Bellamy told the girl of this young Heigham’s +death in his own presence, and, what is more, he showed me a letter they found +in her dress purporting to have been written by him on his death-bed which your +wife gave her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what Lady Bellamy has or has not said or done, I know nothing. I have +no control over her actions.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I should advise you to look into the business, because it will all +come out at the inquest,” and they separated. +</p> + +<p> +Sir John drove homewards, thoughtful, but by no means unhappy. The news of +George’s agonizing death was balm to him, he only regretted that he had +not been there—somewhere well out of the way of the dog, up a tree, for +instance—to see it. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as he got home, he sent a message to Lady Bellamy to say he wished to +speak to her. Then he seated himself at his writing-desk, and waited. Presently +he heard his wife’s firm step upon the stairs. He rubbed his dry hands, +and smiled a half frightened, wicked little smile. +</p> + +<p> +“At last,” he said. “And now for revenge.” +</p> + +<p> +She entered the room, looking rather pale, but calm and commanding as ever. +</p> + +<p> +“So you have come back,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. Have you heard the news? <i>Your flame</i>, George Caresfoot, is +dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew that he was dead. How did he die?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who told you he was dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one, I knew it; I told him he would die last night, and I felt him +die this morning. Did she kill him or did Arthur Heigham?” +</p> + +<p> +“Neither, that bulldog flew at him and he fell into the lake.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I suppose Angela set it on. I told him that she would win. You +remember the picture falling in the study at Isleworth. It has been a true +omen, you see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Angela is mad. The story is all over the country and travelling like +wild-fire. The letter you forged has been found. Heigham was down here this +morning and has gone again, and you, Lady Bellamy, are a disgraced and ruined +woman.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not flinch a muscle. +</p> + +<p> +“I know it, it is the result of pitting myself against that girl; but +pray, Sir John, what are you? Was it not you who devised the scheme?” +</p> + +<p> +“You are right, I did, to trap two fools. Anne, I have waited twenty +years, but you have met your master at last.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy made a slight exclamation and relapsed into silence. +</p> + +<p> +“My plot has worked well. Already one of you is dead, and for you a fate +is reserved that is worse than death. You are henceforth a penniless outcast, +left at forty-two to the tender mercies of the wide world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Explain yourself a little.” +</p> + +<p> +“With pleasure. For years I have submitted to your contumely, longing to +be revenged, waiting to be revenged. You thought me a fool, I know, and +compared with you I am; but you do not understand what an amount of hatred even +a fool is capable of. For twenty years, Lady Bellamy, I have hated you, you +will never know how much, though perhaps what I am going to say may give you +some idea. I very well knew what terms you were on with George Caresfoot, you +never took any pains to hide them from me, you only hid the proofs. I soon +discovered indeed that your marriage to me was nothing but a blind, that I was +being used as a screen forsooth. But your past I could never fathom. I +don’t look like a revengeful man, but for all that I have for years +sought many ways to ruin you both, yet from one thing and another they all +failed, till a blessed chance made that brute’s blind passion the +instrument of his own destruction, and put you into my hands. You little +thought when you told me all that story, and begged my advice, how I was +revelling in the sense that, proud woman as you are, it must have been an agony +of humiliation for you to have to tell it. It was an instructive scene that, it +assured me of what I suspected before that George Caresfoot must have you bound +to him by some stronger ties than those of affection, that he must hold you in +a grip of iron. It made me think, too, that if by any means I could acquire the +same power, I too should be able to torture you.” +</p> + +<p> +For the first time Lady Bellamy looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Am I tiring you,” he said, politely, “or shall I go +on?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go on.” +</p> + +<p> +“With your permission, I will ring for a glass of sherry—no, +claret, the day is too hot for sherry,” and he rang. +</p> + +<p> +The claret was brought and he drank a glass, remarking with an affectation of +coolness that it was a sound wine for a pound a dozen; then he proceeded. +</p> + +<p> +“The first thing I have to call your attention to is this Arthur Heigham +plot. At first it may appear that I am involved with you; I am not. There is +not, now that George Caresfoot is dead, one tittle of evidence against me +except your own, and who will believe <i>you?</i> You are inculpated up to the +eyes; you delivered the forged letter, I can prove that you cozened the ring +out of Heigham, and you told Philip: there is no escape for you, and I have +already taken an opportunity to renounce any responsibility for your acts. At +the inquest I shall appear to give evidence against you, and then I shall +abandon you to your fate.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, woman. <i>I have your letters!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +She sprang up with a little scream and stood over him with dilated eyes. Sir +John leaned back in his chair, rubbed his hands, and watched her tortured face +with evident satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you may well scream,” he said, “for I not only possess +them, but I have read and re-read them. I know all your story, the name of the +husband you deserted and of the child who died of your neglect. I have even +sent an agent to identify the localities. Yes, you may well scream, for I have +read them all, and really they are most instructive documents, and romantic +enough for a novel; such fire, such passionate invective, such wild despair. +But, since I learnt how and why you married me, I will tell you what I have +made up my mind to do. I am going after the inquest to turn you out of this +house, and give you a pittance to live on so long as you remain here. I wish +you to become a visible moral, a walking monument of disgrace in the +neighbourhood you ruled. Should you attempt to escape me, the payment will be +stopped; should you obtain employment, your character shall be exposed. At +every turn you shall be struck down till you learn to kiss the hand that +strikes you and beg for pity on your knees. My revenge, Anne, shall be to break +your spirit.” +</p> + +<p> +“And are you not perhaps afraid that I may turn upon you? You know me to +be a woman of strong will and many resources, some of which you do not even +understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am not afraid, because I still have a reserve force; I still hold +the letters that I stole two days ago; and, even should you murder me, I have +left directions that will ensure your exposure.” +</p> + +<p> +A pause ensued. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you nothing more to say?” he said, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Supposing, Anne, that I were to tell you that I have been trying to +frighten you, and that if you were to go down on your knees before me now, and +beg my forgiveness, I would forgive you—no, not forgive you, but let you +off with easier terms—would you do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, John, I would not. Once I went on my knees to a man, and I have not +forgotten the lesson he taught me. Do your worst.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you understand my terms, and accept them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Understand them! yes. I understand that you are a little-minded man, +and, like all little-minded men, cruel, and desirous of exacting the uttermost +farthing in the way of revenge, forgetting that you owe everything to me. I do +not wish to exculpate myself, mind you. Looking at the case from your point of +view, and in your own petty way, I can almost sympathize with you. But as for +accepting your terms—do you know me so little as to think that I could do +so? Have you not learnt that I may break, but shall never bend? And, if I chose +now to face the matter out, I should beat you, even now when you hold all the +cards in your hand; but I am weary of it all, especially weary of you and your +little ways, and I do not choose. You will injure me enough to make the great +success I planned for us both impossible, and I am tired of everything except +the success which crowns a struggle. Well, I have ways of escape you know +nothing of. Do your worst; I am not afraid of you;” and she leaned back +easily in her chair, and looked at him with wearied and indifferent eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Little Sir John ground his teeth, and twisted his pippen-like face into a scowl +that looked absurdly out of place on anything so jovial. +</p> + +<p> +“Curse you,” he said, “even now you dare to defy me. Do you +know, you woman fiend, that at this moment I almost think I love you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I know it. If you did not love me, you would not take all this +trouble to try to crush me. But this conversation is very long; shall we put an +end to it?” +</p> + +<p> +Sir John sat still a moment, thinking, and gazing at the splendid Sphinx-browed +creature before him with a mixture of hatred and respect. Then he rose, and +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Anne, you are a wonderful woman! I cannot do it, I cannot utterly ruin +you. You must be exposed—I could not help that, if I would—and we +must separate, but I will be generous to you; I will allow you five hundred a +year, and you shall live where you like. You shall not starve.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed a little as she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I am starving now: it is long past luncheon time. As for your five +hundred a year that you will give me out of the three or four thousand I have +given you, I care nothing for it. I tell you I am tired of it all, and I never +felt more superior to you than I do now in the moment of your triumph. It wants +a stronger hand than yours to humble me. I may be a bad woman, I daresay I am, +but you will find, too late, that there are few in the world like me. For years +you have shone with a reflected light; when the light goes out, you will go out +too. Get back into your native mud, the mental slime out of which I picked you, +contemptible creature that you are! and, when you have lost me, learn to +measure the loss by the depths to which you will sink. I reject your offers. I +mock at your threats, for they will recoil on your own head. I despise you, and +I have done with you. John Bellamy, good- bye;” and, with a proud +curtsey, she swept from the room. +</p> + +<p> +That evening it was rumoured that Sir John Bellamy had separated from his wife, +owing to circumstances which had come to his knowledge in connection with +George Caresfoot’s death. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap60"></a>CHAPTER LX.</h2> + +<p> +That same afternoon, Lady Bellamy ordered out the victoria with the fast +trotting horse, and drove to the Abbey House. She found Philip pacing up and +down the gravel in front of the grey old place, which had that morning added +one more to the long list of human tragedies its walls had witnessed. His face +was pale, and contorted by mental suffering, and, as soon as he recognized Lady +Bellamy, he made an effort to escape. She stopped him. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is here, Mr. Caresfoot?” +</p> + +<p> +“It! What?” +</p> + +<p> +“The body.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to see it.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip hesitated a minute, and then led the way to his study. The corpse had +been laid upon the table just as it had been taken from the water; indeed, the +wet still fell in heavy drops from the clothes on to the ground. It was to be +removed to Roxham that evening, to await the inquest on the morrow. The +shutters of the room had been closed, lest the light should strike too fiercely +on the ghastly sight; but even in the twilight Lady Bellamy could discern every +detail of its outline clearly marked by the wet patches on the sheet which was +thrown loosely over it. On a chair, by the side of the table, above the level +of which its head rose, giving it the appearance of being in the act of +climbing on to it, lay the carcass of the dog, its teeth still firmly set in +the dead man’s arm. They had been unable to unlock the savage grip +without hacking its jaws asunder, and this it was not thought advisable to do +till after the inquest. +</p> + +<p> +At the door Philip paused, as though he did not mean to enter. +</p> + +<p> +“Come in,” said Lady Bellamy; “surely you are not afraid of a +dead man.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear the dead a great deal more than I do the living,” he +muttered, but came in and shut the door. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as her eyes had grown accustomed to the light, Lady Bellamy went up to +the body, and, drawing off the sheet, gazed long and steadily at the mutilated +face, on the lips of which the bloody froth still stood. +</p> + +<p> +“I told him last night,” she said presently to Philip, “that +we should never meet again alive, but I did not think to see him so soon like +this. Do you know that I once loved that thing, that shattered brain directed +the only will to which I ever bowed? But the love went out for ever last night, +the chain snapped, and now I can look upon this sight without a single sigh or +a regret, with nothing but loathing and disgust. There lies the man who ruined +me—did you know it? I do not care who knows it now—ruined me with +his eyes open, not caring anything about me; there lies the hard task-master +whom I served through so many years, the villain who drove me against my will +into this last crime which has thus brought its reward. The dog gave him his +just due; look, its teeth still hold him, as fast, perhaps, as the memories of +his crimes will hold him where he has gone. Regret him! sorrow for him! no, oh +no! I can curse him as he lies, villain, monster, devil that he was!” +</p> + +<p> +She paused, and even in the dim light Philip could see her bosom heave and her +great eyes flash with the fierceness of her excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“You should not talk so of the dead,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” she answered; “he has gone beyond the reach +of my words, but the thought of all the misery I have suffered at his hands +made me for a moment mad. Cover it up again, the vile frame which held a viler +soul; to the earth with the one, to undreamed of sorrow with the other, each to +its appointed place. How does it run?—‘The wages of sin is +death.’ Yes, that is right. He is dead; the blow fell first on him, that +was right, and I am about to die; and you—what will happen to you, the +Judas of the plot, eh? You do not think that you will enjoy your blood-money in +peace, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you mean?” asked Philip, nervously; her wild way +frightened him. +</p> + +<p> +“Mean! why, that you are the sorriest knave of all. This man was at least +led on to crime by passion; Bellamy entered into it to work out a secret +revenge, poor fool; I acted because I couldn’t help myself at first, and +then for the sake of the game itself, for when I take a thing in my hand, I +<i>will</i> succeed. But you, Philip Caresfoot, you sold your own flesh and +blood for money or money’s worth, and you are the worst of +all—worse than George, for even a brutal love is a nobler thing than +avarice like yours. Well, as the sin is, so will the punishment be.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie! I thought that he was dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“You thought that Arthur Heigham was dead!—then I read your +thoughts very wrongly when we met upon the road on Christmas Day. You wished to +think that he was dead, but you did not think it. Even now your conscience is +making a coward of you, and, as you said just now, for you the silence of the +dead is more terrible than the accusations of the living. I know a little about +you, Philip. Do you not see shadows on your walls, and do not departed voices +come to haunt you in your sleep? I know you do, and I will tell you +this—the <i>Things</i> which you have suffered from at times shall +henceforth be your continual companions. If you can pray, pray with all your +strength that your daughter may not die; for, if she does, her shadow will +always be there to haunt you with the rest. Why do you tremble so at the mere +mention of a spirit? Stand still, and I will show you one. I can if I +like.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip could stand it no longer. With a curse he burst out of the room. +Presently she followed him, and found him standing in front of the house, +wiping the cold perspiration from his forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“You accursed woman,” he said, “go, and never come near this +house again!” +</p> + +<p> +“I never shall come to this house again,” she answered. “Ah, +here is my carriage. Good-bye, Philip Caresfoot. You are a very wealthy man +now—worth I do not know how many thousands a year. You have been +singularly fortunate—you have accomplished your ends. Few people can do +that. May the accomplishment bring happiness with it! If you wish it to do so, +stifle your conscience, and do not let your superstitions affect you. But, by +the way, you know French, do you not? Then here is a maxim that, in parting, I +recommend to your attention—it has some truth in it: Il y a une page +effrayante dans le livre des destinees humaines: on y lit en tête ces mots +‘les desirs accomplis.’” And she was gone. +</p> + +<p> +“I owed him a debt for tempting George on in that business,” +thought Lady Bellamy to herself, as she rolled swiftly down the avenue of giant +walnuts; “but I think that I have repaid it. The thorn I have planted +will fester in his flesh till he dies of the sore. Superstition run wild in his +weak mind will make the world a hell for him, and that is what I wish.” +</p> + +<p> +Presently she stopped the carriage, and walked to the top of a little knoll +commanding what had been Isleworth Hall, but was now a black smoking blot on +the landscape. The white front of the house was still standing, though riven +from top to bottom, and through its empty window-places the westering sun +poured great streams of fire which looked like flame shining through the +eye-sockets of a gigantic skull. +</p> + +<p> +“I did that well,” she said; “and yet how blind I was! I +should have known that he spoke the truth when he said the letters were not +there. My skill failed me—it always does fail at need. I thought the fire +would reach them somehow.” +</p> + +<p> +When she arrived at Rewtham House, she found that Sir John had left, taking +luggage with him, and stating that he was going to put up at an inn at Roxham. +On the hall-table, too, lay a summons to attend the inquest on the body of +George Caresfoot, which was to take place on the morrow. She tore it across. +Then she went up and dressed herself for dinner with such splendour that her +maid thought it necessary to remind her that there was no company coming. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said, with a strange smile; “but I am going out +to-night. Give me my sapphire necklace.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat through dinner, and afterwards went into the drawing-room, and opening +a despatch-box, read and burnt a great number of papers. +</p> + +<p> +“There go the keys to my knowledge,” she said aloud, as they +flickered and fell into ashes. “No one shall reap the fruits of my +labours; and yet it is a pity—I was on the right track, and, though I +could never have succeeded, another might. I had the key, though I could not +find the lock. I must go through with it now. I cannot live deprived both of +success and of my secret power, and I could never begin and climb that stair +again.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, from a secret drawer in the despatch-box, she extracted a little phial, +tightly stoppered and sealing-waxed. She examined it closely, and looked at the +liquid in it against the light. +</p> + +<p> +“My medicine has taken no harm during this twenty years,” she +thought. “It still looks what it is—strong enough to kill a giant, +and subtle enough to leave little trace upon a child.” Then she shut up +the despatch-box and put it away, and, going to the open window, looked up at +the stars, and then down at the shadows flung by the clouds as they swept +across the moon. +</p> + +<p> +“Shadows,” she mused, “below, and gleams of light between the +shadows —that is like our life. Light above—pure, clear, +eternal—that is like the wider life. And between the two—the night, +and above them both—the stars. +</p> + +<p> +“In the immensity, where shall I find my place? Oh, that I might sleep +eternally! Yes, that would be best of all—to sink into sleep never +ending, unbroken, and unbreakable, to be absorbed into the cool vastness of the +night, and lie in her great arms for ever. Oh, Night! whom I have ever loved, +you bring your sleep to wearied millions— bring <i>me</i> sleep eternal. +But no, the stars are above the night, and above the stars is—what? Yes; +the hour I dread like every other mortal with my body, and yet dare to long for +with my spirit, has come. I am about to cast off Time, and pass into Eternity, +to spring from the giddy heights of Space into the uncertain arms of the +Infinite. Yet a few minutes, and my essence, my vital part, will start upon its +endless course, and passing far above those stars, will find the fount of that +knowledge of which it has already sipped, and drink and drink till it grows +like a God, and can look upon the truth and not be blinded. Such are my high +hopes. And yet—if there be a hell! My life has been evil, my sins many. +What if there be an avenging Power waiting, as some think, to grind me into +powder, and then endow each crushed particle with individual sense of endless +misery? What if there be a hell! In a few minutes, or what will seem but a few +minutes —for surely, to the disembodied spirit, time cannot exist; though +it sleep a billion years, it will be as a breath—I shall have solved the +problem. I shall know what all the panic-stricken millions madly ask, and ask +in vain! Yes, I shall know if <i>there is a hell!</i> Well, if there be, then I +shall rule there, for power is native to my soul. Let me hesitate no longer, +but go and solve the problem before I grow afraid. Afraid—I am not +afraid. ‘I have immortal longings in me.’ Who was it said that? Oh, +Cleopatra! Was Cleopatra more beautiful than I am, I wonder? I am sure that she +was not so great; for, had I been her, Antony should have driven Caesar out of +Egypt. Oh! if I could have loved with a pure and perfect love as other women +may, and intertwined my destiny with that of some <i>great</i> man—some +being of a nature kindred to my own—I should have been good and happy, +and he should have ruled this country. But Fate and Fortune, grown afraid of +what I should do, linked my life to a soulless brute! and, alas! like him I +have fallen—fallen irretrievably!” +</p> + +<p> +She closed the window, and, coming into the room, rang the bell. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring me some wine,” she said to the servant. “I do not feel +well.” +</p> + +<p> +“What wine, my lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“Champagne.” +</p> + +<p> +The wine was brought, and stood, uncorked, upon the table. +</p> + +<p> +“That will do,” she said. “Tell my maid not to sit up for me: +it will be late before I go to bed to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +The man bowed and went, and she poured out some of the sparkling wine, and +then, taking the little phial, opened it with difficulty, and emptied its +contents into the glass. The wine boiled up furiously, turned milk-white, and +then cleared again; but the poison had destroyed its sparkle—it was dead +as ditch-water. +</p> + +<p> +“That is strange,” she said, “I never saw that effect +before.” Next she took the phial and powdered it into a pinch of tiny +dust with a whale’s tooth that lay upon the table. The dust she took to +the window and threw out, a little at a time. Lady Bellamy wished to die as she +had lived, a mystery. Then she came and stood over the deadly draught she had +compounded, and thought sometimes aloud and sometimes to herself. +</p> + +<p> +“I have heard it said that suicides are cowards; let those who say it, +stand as I stand to-night, with death lying in the little circle of a glass +before them, and they will know whether they are cowards, or if they are +spirits of a braver sort than those who can bear to drudge to the bitter end of +life. It is not yet too late. I can throw that stuff away. I can leave this +place and begin life anew in some other country, my jewels will give me the +means, and, for the matter of that, I can always win as much money as I want. +But, no; then I must begin again, and for that I have not the patience or the +time. Besides, I long to <i>know</i>, to solve the mystery. Come, let me make +an end, I will chance it. Spirits like my own wear their life only while it +does not gall them; if it begins to fret, they cast it from them like a +half-worn dress, scorning to wrap it round them till it drops away in +rags.” +</p> + +<p> +She raised the glass. +</p> + +<p> +“How lonely this place is, and how still, and yet it may well be that +there are millions round me watching what I do. Why does he come into my mind +now, that good man, and the child I bore him? Shall I see them presently? Will +they crush me with their reproaches? And—have my nerves broken +down?—Is it fancy, or does that girl’s pale face, with warning in +her eyes, float between me and the wall? Well, I will drink to her, for her +mind could even overtop my own. She was, at least, my equal, and I have driven +her mad! Let me taste this stuff.” +</p> + +<p> +Lifting the glass to her lips, she drank a little, and set it down. The effect +was almost magical. Her eyes blazed, a new beauty bloomed upon her cheek, her +whole grand presence seemed to gain in majesty. The quick drug for a moment +burnt away the curtain between the seen and the unseen, and yet left her +living. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” she cried, in the silence of the room, “how it runs +along my veins; I hear the rushing of the stars, I see strange worlds, my soul +leaps through infinite spaces, the white light of immortality strikes upon my +eyes and blinds me. Come, life unending, I have conquered death.” +</p> + +<p> +Seizing the poison, she swallowed what remained of it, and dashed the glass +down beside her. Then she fell heavily on her face, once she struggled to her +knees, then fell again, and lay still. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap61"></a>CHAPTER LXI.</h2> + +<p> +After throwing George Caresfoot into the bramble-bush, Arthur walked steadily +back to the inn, where he arrived, quite composed in manner, at about half-past +seven. Old Sam, the ostler, was in the yard, washing a trap. He went up to him, +and asked when the next train started for London. +</p> + +<p> +“There is one as leaves Roxham at nine o’clock, sir, and an +uncommon fast one, I’m told. But you bean’t a-going yet, be you, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, have the gig ready in time to catch the train.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir. Been to the fire, I suppose sir?” he went on, +dimly perceiving that Arthur’s clothes were torn. “It wore a fine +place, it wore, and it did blaze right beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“No; what fire?” +</p> + +<p> +“Bless me, sir, didn’t you see it last night?—why, Isleworth +Hall, to be sure. It wore burnt right out, and all as was in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! How did it come to get burnt?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can’t say, sir, but I did hear say how as Lady Bellamy was +a-dining there last night along with the squire; the squire he went out +somewhere, my lady she goes home, and the footman he goes to put out the lamp +and finds the drawing-room a roaring fiery furnace, like as parson tells us on. +But I don’t know how that can be, for I heard how as the squire was +a-dying, so ‘taint likely that he was a-going out. But, lord, sir, folk +in these parts do lie that uncommon, ‘taint as it be when I was a boy. As +like as no, he’s no more dying than you are. Anyhow, sir, it all burned +like tinder, and the only thing, so I’m told, as was saved was a naked +stone statty of a girl with a chain round her wrists, as Jim Blakes, our +constable, being in liquor, brought out in his arms, thinking how as it was +alive, and tried to rewive it with cold water.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment Sam’s story was interrupted by the arrival of a +farmer’s cart. +</p> + +<p> +“How be you, Sam?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I thank yer, for seventy-two, that is, not particular ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you a gentleman of the name of Heigham staying here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am he,” said Arthur, “do you want me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, only the station-master at Roxham asked me to drop this here as +it was marked immediate,” and he handed Arthur a box. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur thanked him, and, taking it, went up to his room, leaving old Sam +delighted to find a new listener to his story of the fire. +</p> + +<p> +It was from the florist, and contained the bouquet he had meant to give Angela +on her wedding-day. It had cost him a good deal of thought that bouquet, to say +nothing of five guineas of the coin of the realm, and he felt a certain +curiosity to look at it, though to do so gave him something of the same +sensation that we experience in reading a letter written by some loved hand +which we know grew cold before the lines it traced could reach us. He took the +box to his room and opened it. The bouquet was a lovely thing, and did credit +even to Covent Garden, and the masses of stephanotis and orange-bloom, relieved +here and there by rising sprays of lilies-of-the-valley, filled the whole room +with fragrance. +</p> + +<p> +He drew it from the zinc-well in which it was packed in moss and cotton-wool, +and wondered what he should do with it. He could not leave such a thing about, +nor would he take it away. Suddenly an idea struck him, and he repacked it in +its case as carefully as he could in the original moss and cotton-wool, and +then looked about for the sheet of tissue-paper that should complete the +covering. He had destroyed it, and had to search for a substitute. In so doing +his eye fell upon a long envelope on his dressing-table and he smiled. It +contained his marriage licence, and he bethought him that it was a very fair +substitute for tissue-paper, and quite as worthless. He extracted it, and, +placing it over the flowers, closed up the box. Then he carefully directed it +to “Mrs. George Caresfoot, Abbey House,” and, ringing the bell, +desired the boots to find a messenger to take it over. +</p> + +<p> +When he had done all this, he sat down and wondered what could have come to him +that he could take pleasure in doing a cruel action only worthy of a jealous +woman. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps of all the bitter cups which are held to our lips in this sad world +there is none more bitter than that which it was his lot to drink of now. To +begin with, the blow fell in youth, when we love or hate, or act, with an +ardour and an entire devotion that we give to nothing in after-life. It is then +that the heart puts forth its most tender and yet its most lusty shoots, and if +they are crushed the whole plant suffers, and sometimes bleeds to death. Arthur +had, to an extent quite unrealized by himself until he lost her, centred all +his life in this woman, and it was no exaggeration to say, as he had said to +her, that she had murdered his heart, and withered up all that was best in it. +She had done more, she had inflicted the most cruel injury upon him that a +woman can inflict upon a man. She had shaken his belief in her sex at large. +</p> + +<p> +He felt, sitting there in his desolation, that now he had lost Angela he could +never be the same man he would otherwise have been. Her cruel desertion had +shattered the tinted glass through which youth looks at the world, and he now, +before his day, saw it as it is, grim and hard, and full of coarse realities, +and did not yet know that time would again soften down the sharpest of the +rough outlines, and throw a garment of its own over the nakedness of life. He +was a generous- hearted man and not a vain one, and had he thought that Angela +had ceased to care for him and loved this other man, he could have found it in +his heart to forgive her, and even to sympathize with her; but he could not +think this. Something told him that it was not so. She had contracted herself +into a shameful, loveless marriage, and, to gain ends quite foreign to all +love, had raised a barrier between them which had no right to exist, and yet +one that in this world could, he thought, never be removed. +</p> + +<p> +Misfortunes rain upon us from every quarter of the sky, but so long as they +come from the sky we can bear them, for they are beyond the control of our own +volition, and must be accepted, as we accept the gale or the lightning. It is +the troubles which spring from our own folly and weakness, or from that of +those with whom our lives are intertwined, which really crush us. Now Arthur +knew enough of the world to be aware that there is no folly to equal that of a +woman who, of her own free will, truly loving one man whom she can marry if she +wills it, deliberately gives herself to another. It is not only a folly, it is +a crime, and, like most crimes, for this life, an irretrievable mistake. +</p> + +<p> +Long before he got back to London, the first unwholesome exaltation of mind +that always follows a great misfortune, and which may perhaps be compared with +the excitement that for awhile covers the shameful sense of defeat in an army, +had evaporated, and he began to realize the crushing awfulness of the blow +which had fallen on him, and to fear lest it should drive him mad. He looked +round his little horizon for some straw of comfort at which to catch, and could +find none; nothing but dreadful thoughts and sickening visions. +</p> + +<p> +And then suddenly, just as he was sinking into the dulness of despair, there +came, like the first gleam of light in chaotic darkness, the memory of Mildred +Carr. Truly she had spoken prophetically. His idol had been utterly cast down +and crushed to powder by a hand stronger than his own. He would go to her in +his suffering; perhaps she could find means to comfort him. +</p> + +<p> +When he reached town he took a hansom and went to look for some rooms; he would +not return to those he had left on the previous afternoon, for the sympathetic +landlord had helped him to pack up the wedding clothes and had admired the +wedding gift. Arthur felt that he could not face him again. He found some to +suit him in Duke Street, St. James, and left his things there. Thence he drove +to Fenchurch Street and took a passage to Madeira. The clerk, the same one who +had given him his ticket about a year before, remembered him perfectly, and +asked him how he got on with Mrs. Carr. But when his passage was taken he was +disgusted to find that the mail did not sail for another five days. He looked +at his watch, it was only half-past one o’clock. He could scarcely +believe what had happened had only occurred that morning, only seven hours ago. +It seemed to him that he had stood face to face with Angela, not that morning, +but years ago, and miles away, on some desolate shore which lay on the other +side of a dead ocean of pain. And yet it was only seven hours! If the hours +went with such heavy wings, how would the days pass, and the months, and the +years? +</p> + +<p> +What should he do with himself? In his condition perpetual activity was as +necessary to him as air, he must do something to dull the sharp edge of his +suffering, or the sword of madness which hung over him by such a slender thread +would fall. Suddenly he bethought him of a man whom he had known slightly up at +Cambridge, a man of wealth and evil reputation. This man would, he felt, be +able to put him in a way of getting through his time. He knew his address and +thither he drove. +</p> + +<p> +Four days later, a figure, shrunk, shaky, and looking prematurely old, with the +glaze of intoxication scarcely faded from his eye, walked into Mr. +Borley’s office. That respectable gentleman looked and looked again. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heavens,” he said at length; “it isn’t Arthur +Heigham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is, though,” said an unequal voice; “I’ve come +for some money. I’ve got none left and I am going to Madeira +to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear boy, what has happened to you? You look so very strange. I have +been expecting to see your marriage in the paper. Why, it’s only a few +days ago that you left to be married.” +</p> + +<p> +“A few days, a few years, you mean. I’ve been jilted, that’s +all, nothing to speak of, you know, but I had rather not talk about it, if you +don’t mind. I’m like a nag with a flayed back, don’t like the +sight of the saddle at present,” and poor Arthur, mentally and physically +exhausted, put his head down on his arm and gulped. +</p> + +<p> +The old lawyer took in the situation at a glance. +</p> + +<p> +“Hard hit,” he said to himself; “and gone on to the +burst,” and then aloud, “well, well, that has happened to many a +man, in fact, you mightn’t believe it, but it once happened to me, and I +don’t look much the worse, do I? But we won’t talk about it. The +less said of a bad business the better, that’s my maxim. And so you are +going abroad again. Have you got any friends at Madeira?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“And you want some more money. Let me see, I sent you 200 pounds last +week.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was for my wedding tour. I’ve spent it now. You can guess how +I have spent it. Pleasant contrast, isn’t it? Gives rise to moral +reflections.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, come, Heigham, you must not give way like that. These things +happen to most men in the course of their lives, and if they are wise it +teaches them that gingerbread isn’t all gilt, and to set down women at +their proper value, and appreciate a good one if it pleases Providence to give +them one in course of time. Don’t you go making a fool of yourself over +this girl’s pretty face. Handsome is as handsome does. These things are +hard to bear, I know, but you don’t make them any better by pitching your +own reputation after a girl’s want of stability.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that you are quite right, and I am much obliged to you for your +kind advice, but we won’t say anything more about it. I suppose that you +can let me have some money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, if you want it, though I think we shall have to overdraw. What +do you want? Two hundred? Here is the cheque.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am anxious about that young fellow,” said Mr. Borley to himself, +in the pause between Arthur’s departure and the entry of the next client. +“I hope his disappointment won’t send him to the dogs. He is not of +the sort who take it easy, like I did, for instance. Dear me, that is a long +while ago now. I wonder what the details of his little affair were, and who the +girl married. Captain Shuffle! yes, show him in.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap62"></a>CHAPTER LXII.</h2> + +<p> +Next morning Arthur cashed his cheque, and started on his travels. He had no +very clear idea why he was going back to Madeira, or what he meant to do when +he got there; but then, at this painful stage of his existence, none of his +ideas could be called clear. Though he did not realize it, what he was +searching for was sympathy, female sympathy of course; for in trouble members +of either sex gravitate instinctively to the other for comfort. Perhaps they do +not quite trust their own, or perhaps they are afraid of being laughed at. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur’s was not one of those natures that can lock their griefs within +the bosom, and let them lie there till in process of time they shrivel away. +Except among members of the peerage, as pictured in current literature, these +stern, proud creatures are not common. Man, whether he figures in the world as +a peer or a hedge-carpenter, is, as a matter of fact, mentally as well as +physically, gregarious, and adverse to loneliness either in his joys or +sorrows. +</p> + +<p> +Decidedly, too, the homoeopathic system must be founded on great natural facts, +and there is philosophy, born of the observation of human nature, in the +somewhat vulgar proverb that recommends a “hair of the dog that bit +you.” Otherwise, nine men out of every ten who have been badly treated, +or think that they have been badly treated, by a woman, would not at once rush +headlong for refuge to another, a proceeding which also, in nine cases out of +ten, ends in making confusion worse confounded. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur, though he was not aware of it, was exemplifying a natural law that has +not yet been properly explained. But, even if he had known it, it is doubtful +if the knowledge would have made him any happier; for it is irritating to +reflect that we are the slaves of natural laws, that our action is not the +outcome of our own volition, but of a vague force working silently as the Gulf +Stream—since such knowledge makes a man measure his weakness, and so +strikes at his tenderest point, his vanity. +</p> + +<p> +But, whilst we have been reflecting together, my reader and I, Arthur was +making his way to Madeira, so we may as well all come to a halt off Funchal. +</p> + +<p> +Very shortly after the vessel had dropped her anchor, Arthur was greeted by his +friend, the manager of “Miles’ Hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Glad to see you, sir, though I can’t say that you look well. I +scarcely expected to find anybody for us at this time of year. Business is very +slack in the summer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I suppose that Madeira is pretty empty.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nobody here at all, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mrs. Carr gone, then?” asked Arthur, in some alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“No; she is still here. She has not been away this year. But she has been +very quiet; no parties or anything, which makes people think that she has lost +money.” +</p> + +<p> +By this time the boat was rising on the roll of the last billow, to be caught +next moment by a dozen hands, and dragged up the shingle. It was evening, or +rather, verging that way, and from under the magnolia- trees below the +cathedral there came the sound of the band summoning the inhabitants of Funchal +to congregate, chatter, and flirt. +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” said Arthur, “that I will ask you to take my +things up to the hotel. I will come by-and-by. I should like the same room I +had before, if it is empty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, Mr. Heigham. You will have the place nearly all to yourself +now.” +</p> + +<p> +Having seen his baggage depart, Arthur turned, and resisting the importunities +of beggars, guides, and parrot-sellers, who had not yet recognized him as an +old hand, made his way towards the Quinta Carr. How well he knew the streets +and houses, even to the withered faces of the women who sat by the doors, and +yet he seemed to have grown old since he had seen them. Ten minutes of sharp +walking brought him to the gates of the Quinta, and he paused before them, and +thought how, a few months ago, he had quitted them, miserable at the grief of +another, now to re-enter them utterly crushed by his own. +</p> + +<p> +He walked on through the beautiful gardens to the house. The hall-door stood +open. He did not wait to ring, but, driven by some impulse, entered. After the +glare of the sun, which at that time of the year was powerful even in its +decline, the carefully shaded hall seemed quite dark. But by degrees his eyes +adapted themselves to the altered light, and began to distinguish the familiar +outline of the furniture. Next they travelled to the door of the drawing-room, +where another sight awaited them. For there, herself a perfect picture, +standing in the doorway for a frame, her hands outstretched in welcome, and a +loving smile upon her lips, was Mildred. +</p> + +<p> +“I was waiting for you,” she said, gently. “I thought that +you would come.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, my idol has been cast down, and, as you told me to do, I have +come back to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear,” she answered, “you are very welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +And then came Miss Terry, pleased with all her honest heart to see him, and +utterly ignorant of the fierce currents that swept under the smooth surface of +their little social sea. Miss Terry was not by nature a keen observer. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear me, Mr. Heigham, who would have thought of seeing you again so +soon? You <i>are</i> brave to cross the bay so often” (her thoughts ran a +great deal on the Bay of Biscay); “but I don’t think you look quite +well, you have such black lines under your eyes, and, I declare, there’s +a grey hair!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I assure you your favourite bay was enough to turn anybody’s +hair grey, Miss Terry.” +</p> + +<p> +And so, talking cheerfully, they went in to the pleasant little dinner, Mildred +leaning over so slightly on his arm, and gazing into his sad face with full and +happy eyes. After all that he had gone through, it seemed to Arthur as though +he had dropped into a haven of rest. +</p> + +<p> +“See here,” said Mildred, when they rose from table, “a +wonder has come to pass since you deserted us. Look, sceptic that you +are!” and she led him to the window, and, lifting a glass shade which +protected a flower-pot, showed him a green spike peeping from the soil. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?—why, it is the mummy hyacinth which you declared that +we should never see blossom in this world. It has budded; whether or not it +will blossom, who can say?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is an omen,” he said, with a little laugh; and for the first +time that evening their eyes met. +</p> + +<p> +“Come into the garden, and you can smoke on the museum verandah; it is +pleasant there these hot nights.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is dangerous, your garden.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed softly. “You have proved yourself superior to danger.” +</p> + +<p> +Then they passed out together. The evening was still and very sultry. Not a +breath stirred the silence of the night. The magnolia, the moon- flower, and a +thousand other blooms poured out their fragrance upon the surrounding air, +where it lay in rich patches, like perfume thrown on water. A thin mist veiled +the sea, and the little wavelets struck with a sorrowful sound against the rock +below. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me all about it, Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +She had settled herself upon a long low chair, and as she leant back the +starlight glanced white upon her arms and bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“There is not much to tell. It is a common story—at least, I +believe so. She threw me over, and the day before I should have married her, +married another man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I saw her the morning following her marriage. I do not remember +what I said, but I believe I spoke what was in my mind. She fainted, and I left +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, you spoke harshly, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“Spoke harshly! Now that I have had time to think of it, I wish that I +could have had ten imaginations to shape my thoughts, and ten tongues to speak +them with! Do you understand what this woman has done? She has sold herself to +a brute—oh, Mildred, such a brute—she has deserted me for a man who +is not even a gentleman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps she was forced into it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Forced!—nonsense; we are not in the Middle Ages. A good woman +should have been forced to drown herself before she consented to commit such a +sacrilege against herself as to marry a man she hated. But she, ‘my love, +my dove, my undefiled’—she whom I thought whiter than the snow +—she could do this, and do it deliberately. I had rather have seen her +dead, and myself dead with her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you take a rather exaggerated view, Arthur? Don’t you +think, perhaps, that some of the fault lies with you for overrating women? +Believe me, so far as my experience goes, and I have seen a good many, the +majority of them do not possess the exalted purity of mind you and many very +young men attribute to them. They are, on the contrary, for the most part quite +ready to exercise a wise discretion in the matter of marriage, even when the +feeble tendencies which represent their affections point another way. A little +pressure goes a long way with them; they are always glad to make the most of +it; it is the dust they throw up to hide their retreat. Your Angela, for +instance, was no doubt, and probably still is, very fond of you. You are a +charming young man, with nice eyes and a taking way with women, and she would +very much have liked to marry you; but then she also liked her cousin’s +estates. She could not have both, and, being forced to choose, she chose the +latter. You should take a common-sense view of the matter; you are not the +first who has suffered. Women, especially young women, who do not understand +the value of affection, must be very much in love before they submit to the +self-sacrifice that is supposed to be characteristic of them, and what men talk +of as stains upon them they do not consider as such. They know, if they know +nothing else, that a good income and an establishment will make them perfectly +clean in the opinion of their own small world—a little world of shams and +forms that cares nothing for the spirit of the moral law, provided the letter +is acted up to. It is by this that they mark their standard of personal +virtues, not by the high rule you men imagine for them. There is no social +fuller’s soap so effectual as money and position.” +</p> + +<p> +“You speak like a book, and give your own sex a high character. Tell me, +then, would you do such a thing?” +</p> + +<p> +“I, Arthur? How can you ask me? I had rather be torn to pieces by wild +horses. I spoke of the majority of the women, not of them all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, and yet she could do it, and I thought her better than you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think that you should speak bitterly of her, Arthur; I think +that you should be sorry for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry for her? Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because from what I have gathered about her, she is not quite an +ordinary young woman: however badly she may have treated you, she is a person +of refined feelings and susceptibilities. Is it not so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Without a doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, you should pity her, because she will bitterly expiate her +mistake. For myself, I do not pity her much, because I will not waste my +sympathy on a fool; for, to my mind, the woman who could do what she has done, +and deliberately throw away everything that can make life really worth living +to us women, is a most contemptible fool. But you love her, and, therefore, you +should be sorry for her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she is a woman who at one-and-twenty has buried all the higher +part of life, who has, of her own act, for ever deprived herself of joys that +nothing else can bring her. Love, true love, is almost the only expression, of +which we women are capable, of all the nobler instincts and vague yearnings +after what is higher and better than the things we see and feel around us. When +we love most, and love happily, then we are at our topmost bent, and soar +further above the earth than anything else can carry us. Consequently, when a +woman is faithless to her love, which is the purest and most honourable part of +her, the very best thing to which she can attain, she clips her wings, and can +fly no more, but must be tossed, like a crippled gull, hither and thither upon +the stormy surface of her little sea. Of course, I speak of women of the higher +stamp. Many, perhaps most, will feel nothing of all this. In a little while +they will grow content with their dull round and the alien nature which they +have mated with, and in their children, and their petty cares and dissipations, +will forget that they possess a higher part, if indeed they do possess it. Like +everything else in the world, they find their level. But with women like your +Angela it is another thing. For them time only serves to increasingly unveil +the Medusa-headed truth, till at last they see it as it is, and their hearts +turn to stone. Backed with a sick longing to see a face that is gone from them, +they become lost spirits, wandering everlastingly in the emptiness they have +chosen, and finding no rest. Even her children will not console her.” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur uttered a smothered exclamation. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t start, Arthur; you <i>must</i> accustom yourself to the fact +that that woman has passed away from you, and is as completely the personal +property of another man, as that chair is mine. But, there, the subject is a +painful one to you; shall we change it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is one that you seem to have studied pretty deeply.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, because I have realized its importance to a woman. For some years I +have longed to be able to fall in love, and when at last I did so, +Arthur,” and here her voice grew very soft, “it was with a man who +could care nothing for me. Such has been my unlucky chance. That a woman, +herself beloving and herself worthily beloved, could throw her blessed +opportunity away is to me a thing inconceivable, and that, Arthur, is what your +Angela has done.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap63"></a>CHAPTER LXIII.</h2> + +<p>“Then you will not marry now, Mildred?” said Arthur, after a +pause. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +“No one?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one, Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +He rose, and, leaning over the railing of the verandah, looked at the sea. The +mist that hid it was drifting and eddying hither and thither before little +puffs of wind, and the clear sky was clouding up. +</p> + +<p> +“There is going to be a storm,” he said, presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think so, the air feels like it.” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated a while, and looked down at her. She seemed very lovely in the +half lights, as indeed she was. She, too, looked up at him inquiringly. At last +he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, you said just now that you would not marry anybody. Will you +make an exception?—will you marry me?” +</p> + +<p> +It was her turn to pause now. +</p> + +<p> +“You are very good,” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am not at all good. You know how the case stands. You know that I +still love Angela, and that I shall in all probability always love her. I +cannot help that. But if you will have me, Mildred, I will try to be a good +husband to you, and to make you happy. Will you marry me, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? Have you, then, ceased to care for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, dear. I love you more than ever. You cannot dream how much I do love +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why will you not marry me? Is it because of this business?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” and raising herself in the low chair, she looked at him with +intense earnestness, “that is not the reason. I will not marry you, +because I have become a better woman since you went away, because I do not wish +to ruin your life. You ask me to do so now in all sincerity, but you do not +know what you ask. You come from the scene of as bitter a disappointment as can +befall a man, and you are a little touched by the contrasting warmth of your +reception here, a little moved by my evident interest, and perhaps a little +influenced by my good looks, though <i>they</i> are nothing much. Supposing +that I consented, supposing I said, ‘Arthur, I will put my hand in yours +and be your wife,’ and that we were married to-morrow, do you think, when +the freshness of the thing had worn off, that you would be happy with me? I do +not. You would soon get horribly tired of me, Arthur, for the little leaven +that leavens the whole lump is wanting. You do not love me; and the redundance +of my affection would weary you, and, for my part, I should find it difficult +to continually struggle against an impalpable rival, though, indeed, I should +be very willing to put up with that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry you think so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Arthur, I do think so; but you do not know what it costs me to say +it. I am deliberately shutting the door which bars me from my heaven; I am +throwing away the chance I strove so hard to win. That will tell you how much I +think it. Do you know, I must be a strange contradiction. When I knew you were +engaged to another woman, I strained my every nerve to win you from her. While +the object was still to be gained, I felt no compunction; I was fettered by no +scruples. I wanted to steal you from her and marry you myself. But now that all +this is changed, and that you of your own free will come and offer to make me +your wife, I for the first time feel how wrong it would be of me to take +advantage of you in a moment of pique and disappointment, and bind you for life +to a nature which you do not really understand, to a violent and a jealous +woman. Too late, when your life was hampered and your future spoiled, you would +discover that you hated me. Arthur dear, I will not consent to bind you to me +by any tie that cannot be broken.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Mildred! you should not say such things about yourself. If you are +as violent and jealous as you say, you are also a very noble- hearted woman, +for none other would so sacrifice herself. Perhaps you are right; I do not +know. But, whether you are right or wrong, I cannot tell you how you have made +me respect you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dear, those are the most comfortable words I have ever heard; after what +has passed between us, I scarcely thought to win your respect.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you will not marry me, Mildred?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is your fixed determination?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well!” he sighed, “I suppose that I had better +‘top my boom’ again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do what?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean I had better leave Madeira.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should you leave Madeira?” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated a little before replying. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, because if I do not marry you, and still come here, people will +talk. They did before, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you afraid of being talked about, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I? Oh! dear no. What can it matter to me now?” +</p> + +<p> +“And supposing I were to tell you that what ‘people’ say, +with or without foundation, is as much a matter of indifference to me as the +blowing of next summer’s breezes, would you still consider it necessary +to leave Madeira?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +He again rose and leant over the verandah rail. +</p> + +<p> +“It is going to be a wild night,” he said, presently. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; the wind will spoil all the magnolias. Pick me that bud; it is too +good to be wasted.” +</p> + +<p> +He obeyed, and, just as he stepped back on to the verandah, a fierce rush of +wind came up from the sea, and went howling away behind them. +</p> + +<p> +“I love a storm,” she murmured, as he brought the flower to her. +“It makes me feel so strong,” and she stretched out her perfect +arms as though to catch the wind. +</p> + +<p> +“What am I to do with this magnolia?” +</p> + +<p> +“Give it to me. I will pin it in my dress—no, do you fasten it for +me.” +</p> + +<p> +The chair in which she was lounging was so low that, to do as she bade him, +Arthur was forced to kneel beside her. Kneeling thus, the sweet, upturned face +was but just beneath his own; the breath from the curved lips played amongst +his hair, and again there crept over him that feeling of fascination, of utter +helplessness, that he had once before resisted. But this time he did not +attempt to resist, and no vision came to save him. Slowly drawn by the beauty +of her tender eyes, he yielded to the spell, and soon her lips were pressed +upon his own, and the white arms had closed around his neck, whilst the crushed +magnolia bloom shed its perfume round them. +</p> + +<p> +Fiercer swept the storm, the lightning flashed, and the gale catching the +crests of the rising waves dashed them in spray to where they sat. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear,” he said presently, “you must not stop here, the spray +is wetting you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish that it would drown me,” she answered, almost fiercely, +“I shall never be so happy again. You think that you love me now; I +should like to die before you learn to hate me. Come, let us go in!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap64"></a>CHAPTER LXIV.</h2> + +<p> +When Mildred received Lady Bellamy’s telegram, she was so sure that it +would prove the forerunner of Arthur’s arrival at Madeira that she had at +once set about making arrangements for his amusement. +</p> + +<p> +It so happened that there was at the time a very beautiful sea-going steam +yacht of about two hundred and fifty tons burden lying in the roadstead. She +belonged to a nobleman who was suddenly recalled to England by mail-steamer, +and, through a series of chances, Mildred was enabled to buy her a bargain. The +crew of the departed nobleman also continued in her service. +</p> + +<p> +The morning after the storm broke sweet and clear, and, except that the flowers +were somewhat shattered, all Nature looked the fresher for its violent +visitation. Arthur, who had come up early to the Quinta, Mildred, and Miss +Terry were all seated at breakfast in a room that looked out to the sea, which, +although the wind had died away, still ran rather high. They made a pretty +picture as they sat round the English-looking breakfast-table, with the light +pouring in upon them from the open windows, Miss Terry, with her usual +expression of good- humoured solemnity, pouring out the tea, and Mildred and +Arthur, who sat exactly opposite to each other, drinking it. Never had the +former looked more lovely than she did that morning. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said Agatha to her, “what have you done to +yourself? You look beautiful.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do I, dear? Then it is because I am happy.” +</p> + +<p> +Agatha was quite right, thought Arthur, she did look beautiful, there was such +depth and rest in her clear eyes, such a wealth of happy triumph written on her +features. She might have sat that morning as a study of the “Venus +Victrix.” Her talk, too, was as bright as herself. She laughed and shone +and sparkled like the rain-drops on the bamboo sprays that rocked in the +sunshine, and whenever she addressed herself to Arthur, which was often enough, +every sentence seemed wrapped in tender meaning. Her whole life went out +towards him, a palpable thing; she waited on his words and basked in his smile. +Mildred Carr did nothing by halves. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur was the least cheerful of the three, though at times he tried his best +to join in Mildred’s merriment. Any one who knew him well could have told +that he was suffering from one of his fits of constitutional melancholy, and a +physiognomist, looking at the somewhat dreamy eyes and pensive face, would +probably have added that he neither was nor ever would be an entirely happy +man. +</p> + +<p> +By degrees, however, he seemed to get the better of his thoughts, whatever they +might be. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Arthur, if you are quite awake,” began, or rather went on, +Mildred, “perhaps you will come to the window. I have something to show +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here I am at your service; what may it be?” +</p> + +<p> +“Good. Now look; do you see that little vessel in the bay beneath there +to the right of Leeuw Rock?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and uncommonly pretty she is; what of her?” +</p> + +<p> +“What of her? Why, she is my yacht.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your yacht?” +</p> + +<p> +“Goodness gracious, Mildred, you don’t mean to say that +you’ve been buying a yacht and told me nothing about it? Just think! +Well, I call that sly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear Agatha, I have; a yacht and a ready-made crew, and the very +prettiest saloon in the world, and sleeping-cabins that you will think it an +honour to be sea-sick in, and a cook’s galley with bright copper +fittings, and a cook with a white cap, and steam-steering gear if you care to +use it, and——” +</p> + +<p> +“For goodness sake, don’t overwhelm us; and what are you going to +do with your white elephant, now that you have got it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do with it? why, ride on it, of course. ‘Ladies and +gentlemen,’ or rather ‘lady and gentleman.’ Attention! You +will both be in marching, or rather in sailing, order by four this afternoon, +for at five we start for the Canaries. Now, no remarks; I’m a skipper, +and I expect to be obeyed, or I’ll put you in irons.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve done that already,” said Arthur, <i>sotto voce</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, I won’t go, and that’s flat.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, you mean that you are afraid of being flat. But, Agatha, +seriously, you must come; nobody is sick in those semi-tropical waters, and, if +you won’t, I suppose it would not be quite the thing for Arthur and I to +go alone. And then, my dear, just think what a splendid place the Canaries must +be for insects.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” asked Agatha, solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“Because of all the little birds it has to support.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I thought they lived on hemp-seed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no—not in their native land.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I suppose I must go; but I really believe that you will kill me +with your mania for sea-voyages, Mildred. I suppose you will take to ballooning +next.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is by no means a bad idea; I should like to see you in a balloon, +Agatha.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, I know where to draw the line. Into a balloon I will never go. +I have been into a Madeira sledge, and that is quite enough for me. I always +dream about it twice a week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, my dear, I promise never to ask you when I want to go ballooning; +Arthur and I will go by ourselves. It would be a grand opportunity for a +tête-à-tête. And now go and see about getting the things +ready—there’s a dear; and, Arthur, do you send John down to +Miles’ for your portmanteau.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hadn’t I better go and see about it myself?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not; I want you to help me, and come down and talk to the +skipper, for he will be under your orders, you know. He is such a delightful +sailor-man, perfect down to his quid, and always says, ‘Ay, ay,’ in +the orthodox fashion. Certainly you must not go; I will not trust you out of my +sight—you might run away and leave me alone, and then what should I +do?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur laughed and acquiesced. Sitting down, he wrote a note asking the manager +of the hotel to send his things up to the Quinta Carr, together with his +account, as he was leaving Madeira for the present. +</p> + +<p> +The rest of the morning was spent by everybody in busy preparation. Boxes were +packed and provisions shipped sufficient to victual an Arctic expedition. At +last everything was ready, and at a little after three they went down the steps +leading to the tiny bay, and, embarking on the smart boat that was waiting for +them, were conveyed in safety to the <i>Evening Star</i>, for such was the +yacht’s name. Arthur suggested that it should be changed to the +<i>Mildred Carr</i>, and got snubbed for his pains. +</p> + +<p> +The <i>Evening Star</i> was a beautiful craft, built on fine lines, but for all +that a wonderful boat in a heavy sea. She was a three-masted schooner, +square-rigged forward, of large beam. Her fittings below were perfect down to +the painted panels after Watteau in the saloon and the electric bells, and she +was rigged either to sail or steam as might be most convenient. On the present +occasion, as there was not the slightest hurry and no danger of a lee-shore, it +was determined that they should not avail themselves of the steam-power, so the +propeller was hoisted up and everything got ready for that most delightful +thing, a long cruise under canvas. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur was perfectly charmed with everything he saw, and so was Agatha Terry, +until they got under way, when she discovered that a mail- steamer was a joke +compared with the yacht in the matter of motion. In short, the unfortunate +Agatha was soon reduced to her normal condition of torpor. Mildred always +declared that she hibernated on board ship like a dormouse or a bear. She was +not very sea-sick, she simply lay and slept, eating very little and thinking +not at all. +</p> + +<p> +“By the way,” said Arthur, as they sailed out of the bay, “I +never gave any directions about my letters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! that will not matter,” answered Mildred, carelessly, for they +were leaning over the taffrail together; “they will keep them for you at +‘Miles’ Hotel.’ But, my dear boy, do you know what time it +is? Ten minutes to seven; that dreadful bell will be going in a minute, and the +soup will be spoiled. Run and get ready, do.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap65"></a>CHAPTER LXV.</h2> + +<p> +When dinner was over—Miss Terry would have none—they went and sat +upon the moonlit deck. The little vessel was under all her canvas, for the +breeze was light, and skimmed over the water like a gull with its wings spread. +In the low light Madeira was nothing but a blot on the sky-line. The crew were +forward, with the solitary exception of the man steering the vessel from his +elevated position on the bridge; and sitting as they were, abaft the +deck-cabin, the two were utterly alone between the great silence of the stars +and of the sea. She looked into his face, and it was tender towards +her—that night was made for lovers—and tears of happiness stood in +her eyes. She took his hand in hers, and her head nestled upon his breast. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to sail on for ever so, quite alone with you. I never +again wish to see the land or the sun, or any other sea than this, or any other +eyes than yours, to hear any more of the things that I have known, to learn to +know any fresh things. If I could choose, I would ask that I might now glide +gently from your arms into those of eternal sleep. Oh! Arthur, I am so happy +now—so happy that I scarcely dare to speak, for fear lest I should break +the spell, and I feel so good—so much nearer heaven. When I think of all +my past life, it seems like a stupid dream full of little nothings, of which I +cannot recall any memory except that they were empty and without meaning. But +the future is worse than the past, because it looks fair, and snakes always +hide in flowers. It makes me afraid. How do I know what the future will bring? +I wish that the present—the pleasant, certain present that I hold with my +hand—could last for ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who does know, Mildred? If the human race could see the pleasant +surprises in store for it individually, I believe that it would drown itself +<i>en masse</i>. Who has not sometimes caught at the skirt of to-day and cried, +‘Stay a little—do not let to-morrow come yet!’ You know the +lines— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘O temps suspends ton vol, et vous heures propices<br/> +Suspendez votre cours,<br/> +Laissez nous savourer les rapides delices<br/> +Des plus beaux de nos jours.’ +</p> + +<p> +“Lamartine only crystallized a universal aspiration when he wrote +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Arthur, I tell you of love and happiness wide as the great sea round +us, and you talk of ‘universal aspirations.’ It is the first cold +breath from that grey-skied future that I fear. Oh! dear, I wonder—you do +not know how I wonder—if, should you ask me again, I shall ever with a +clear conscience be able to say, ‘Arthur, I will marry you.’” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, I asked you to be my wife last night, and what I said then I +say again now. In any case, until you dismiss me, I consider myself bound to +you; but I tell you frankly that I should myself prefer that you would marry me +for both our sakes.” +</p> + +<p> +“How cold and correct you are, how clearly you realize the position in +which I am likely to be put, and in what a gentlemanlike way you assure me that +your honour will always keep you bound to me! That is a weak thread, Arthur, in +matters of the heart. Let Angela reappear as my rival—would honour keep +you to my side? Honour, forsooth! it is like a nurse’s bogey in the +cupboard—it is a shibboleth men use to frighten naughty women with, which +for themselves is almost devoid of meaning. Even in this light I can see your +face flush at her name. What chance shall I ever have against her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do not speak of her, Mildred; let her memory be dead between us. She who +belonged to me before God, and whom I believed in as I believe in my God, she +offered me the most deadly insult that a woman can offer to a man she +loves—she sold herself. What do I care what the price was, whether it +were money, or position, or convenience, or the approbation of her +surroundings? The result is the same. Never mention her name to me again; I +tell you that I hate her.” +</p> + +<p> +“What a tirade! There is warmth enough about you now. I shall be careful +how I touch on the subject again; but your very energy shows that you are +deceiving yourself. I wish I could hear you speak of me like that, because then +I should know you loved me. Oh! if she only knew it—she has her revenge +for all your bitter words. You are lashed to her chariot-wheels, Arthur. You do +<i>not</i> hate her; on the contrary, you still long to see her face; it is +still your secret and most cherished hope that you will meet her again either +in this or another world. You love her as much as ever. If she were dead, you +could bear it; but the sharpest sting of your suffering lies in the humiliating +sense that you are forced to worship a god you know to be false, and to give +your own pure love to a woman whom you see debased.” +</p> + +<p> +He put his hands to his face and groaned aloud. +</p> + +<p> +“You are right,” he said. “I would rather have known her dead +than know her as she is. But there is no reason why I should bore you with all +this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur, you are nothing if not considerate, and I do not pretend that +this is a very pleasant conversation for me; but I began it, so I suppose I +must endure to see you groaning for another woman. You say,” she went on, +with a sudden flash of passion, “that you should like to see her dead. I +say that I should like to kill her, for she has struck me a double +blow—she has injured you whom I love, and she has beggared me of your +affection. Oh! Arthur,” she continued, changing her voice and throwing a +caressing arm about his neck, “have you no heart left to give <i>me?</i> +is there no lingering spark that <i>I</i> can cherish and blow to flame? I will +never treat you so, dear. Learn to love me, and I will marry you and make you +happy, make you forget this faithless woman with the angel face. I +will——” here her voice broke down in sobs, and in the +starlight the great tears glistened upon her coral-tinted face like dew-drops +on a pomegranate’s blushing rind. +</p> + +<p> +“There, there, dear, I will try to forget; don’t cry,” and he +touched her on the forehead with his lips. +</p> + +<p> +She stopped, and then said, with just the faintest tinge of bitterness in her +voice: “If it had been Angela who cried, you would not be so cold, you +would have kissed away her tears.” +</p> + +<p> +Who can say what hidden chord of feeling those words touched, or what memories +they awoke? but their effect upon Arthur was striking. He sprang up upon the +deck, his eyes blazing, and his face white with anger. +</p> + +<p> +“How often,” he said, “must I forbid you to mention the name +of that woman to me? Do you take a pleasure in torturing me? Curse her, may she +eat out her empty heart in solitude, and find no living thing to comfort her! +May she suffer as she makes me suffer, till her life becomes a +hell——” +</p> + +<p> +“Be quiet, Arthur, it is shameful to say such things.” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, and after the sharp ring of his voice, that echoed like the cry +wrung from a person in intense pain, the loneliness and quiet of the night were +very deep. And then an answer came to his mad, unmanly imprecations. For +suddenly the air round them was filled with the sound of his own name uttered +in such wild, despairing accents as, once heard, were not likely to be +forgotten, accents which seemed to be around them and over them, and heard in +their own brains, and yet to come travelling from immeasurable distances across +the waste of waters. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Arthur! Arthur!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +The sound that had sprung from nothing died away into nothingness again, and +the moonlight glanced, and the waters heaved, and gave no sign of the place of +its birth. It had come and gone, awful, untraceable, and in the place of its +solemnity reigned silence absolute. +</p> + +<p> +They looked at each other with scared eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>As I am a living man that voice was Angela’s!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +This was all he said. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap66"></a>CHAPTER LXVI.</h2> + +<p> +Dr. Williamson was a rising young practitioner at Roxham, and what is more, a +gentleman and a doctor of real ability. +</p> + +<p> +On the night that Lady Bellamy took the poison he sat up very late, till the +dawn, in fact, working up his books of reference with a view to making himself +as much the master as possible of the symptoms and most approved treatment in +such cases of insanity as appeared to resemble Angela Caresfoot’s. He had +been called in to see her by Mr. Fraser, and had come away intensely interested +from a medical point of view, and very much puzzled. +</p> + +<p> +At length he shut up his books with a sigh—for, like most books, though +full of generalities, they did not tell him much—and went to bed. Before +he had been asleep very long, however, the surgery bell was violently rung, +and, having dressed himself with the rapidity characteristic of doctors and +schoolboys, he descended to find a frightened footman waiting outside, from +whom he gathered that something dreadful had happened to Lady Bellamy, who had +been found lying apparently dead upon the floor of her drawing-room. Providing +himself with some powerful restoratives and a portable electric battery he +drove rapidly over to Rewtham House. +</p> + +<p> +Here he found the patient laid upon a sofa in the room where she had been +found, and surrounded by a mob of terrified and half-dressed servants. At first +he thought life was quite extinct, but presently he fancied that he could +detect a faint tremor of the heart. He applied the most powerful of his +restoratives and administered a sharp current from the battery, and, after a +considerable time, was rewarded by seeing the patient open her eyes—but +only to shut them again immediately. Directing his assistant to continue the +treatment, he tried to elicit some information from the servants as to what had +happened, but all he could gather was that the maid had received a message not +to sit up. This made him suspicious of an attempt at suicide, and just then his +eye fell upon a wineglass that lay upon the floor, broken at the shank. He took +it up; in the bowl there was still a drop or two of liquid. He smelt it, then +dipped his finger in and tasted it, with the result that his tongue was burnt +and became rough and numb. Then his suspicions were confirmed. +</p> + +<p> +Presently Lady Bellamy opened her eyes again, and this time there was +intelligence in them. She gazed round her with a wondering air. Next she spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Where am I?” +</p> + +<p> +“In your own drawing-room, Lady Bellamy. Be quiet now, you will be better +presently.” +</p> + +<p> +She tried first to move her head, then her arm, then her lower limbs, but they +would not stir. By this time her faculties were wide awake. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you the doctor?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Lady Bellamy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then tell me why cannot I move my arms.” +</p> + +<p> +He lifted her hand; it fell again like a lump of lead—and Dr. Williamson +looked very grave. Then he applied a current of electricity. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you feel that?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Why cannot I move? Do not trifle with me, tell me quick.” +</p> + +<p> +Dr. Williamson was a young man, and had not quite conquered nervousness. In his +confusion, he muttered something about “paralysis.” +</p> + +<p> +“How is it that I am not dead?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have brought you back to life, but pray do not talk.” +</p> + +<p> +“You fool, why could you not let me die? You mean that you have brought +my mind to life, and left my body dead. I feel now that I am quite +paralysed.” +</p> + +<p> +He could not answer her, what she said was only too true, and his look told her +so. She gazed steadily at him for a moment as he bent over her, and realized +all the horrors of her position, and for the first time in her life her proud +spirit absolutely gave way. For a few seconds she was silent, and then, without +any change coming over the expression of her features—for the wild gaze +with which she had faced eternity was for ever frozen there—she broke out +into a succession of the most heart-rending shrieks that it had ever been his +lot to listen to. At last she stopped exhausted. +</p> + +<p> +“Kill me!” she whispered, hoarsely, “kill me!” +</p> + +<p> +It was a dreadful scene. +</p> + +<p> +As the doctors afterwards concluded, rightly or wrongly, a very curious thing +had happened to Lady Bellamy. Either the poison she had taken—and they +were never able to discover what its exact nature was, nor would she enlighten +them—had grown less deadly during all the years that she had kept it, or +she had partially defeated her object by taking an overdose, or, as seemed more +probable, there was some acid in the wine in which it had been mixed that had +had the strange effect of rendering it to a certain degree innocuous. Its +result, however, was, as she guessed, to render her a hopeless paralytic for +life. +</p> + +<p> +At length the patient sank into the coma of exhaustion, and Dr. Williamson was +able to leave her in the care of a brother practitioner whom he had sent for, +and in that of his assistant. Sir John had been sent for, but had not arrived. +It was then eleven o’clock, and at one the doctor was summoned as a +witness to attend the inquest on George Caresfoot. He had, therefore, two hours +at his disposal, and these he determined to utilise by driving round to see +Angela, who was still lying at Mr. Fraser’s vicarage. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser heard him coming, and met him in the little drive. He briefly told +him what he had just seen, and what, in his opinion, Lady Bellamy’s fate +must be—one of living death. The clergyman’s remark was +characteristic. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet,” he said, “there are people in the world who say +that there is no God.” +</p> + +<p> +“How is Mrs. Caresfoot?” asked the doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“She had a dreadful fit of raving this morning, and we had to tie her +down in bed. She is quieter now, poor dear. There, listen!” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment, through the open window of the bedroom, they heard a sweet +though untrained voice beginning to sing. It was Angela’s, and she was +singing snatches of an old-fashioned sailor-song, one of several which Arthur +had taught her: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Fare ye well, and adieu to all you Spanish ladies,<br/> +Fare ye well, and adieu to ye, ladies of Spain,<br/> +For we’ve received orders to return to Old England,<br/> +But we hope in a short time to see you again.<br/> +<br/> +* * *<br/> +<br/> +“We hove our ship to with the wind at sou’west, my boys;<br/> +We hove our ship to for to strike soundings clear;<br/> +It was forty-five fathom and a grey sandy bottom;<br/> +Then we filled our main topsail, and up channel did steer.<br/> +<br/> +* * *<br/> +<br/> +“The signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor,<br/> +All in the Downs that night for to meet;<br/> +So cast off your shank-painter, let go your cat’s-topper,<br/> +Hawl up your clew-garnets, let fly tack and sheet.” +</p> + +<p> +Without waiting to hear any more, they went up the stairs and entered the +bedroom. The first person they saw was Pigott, who had been sent for to nurse +Angela, standing by the side of the bed, and a trained nurse at a little table +at the foot mixing some medicine. On the bed itself lay Angela, shorn of all +her beautiful hair, her face flushed as with fever, except where a blue weal +bore witness to the blow from her husband’s cruel whip, her head thrown +back, and a strange light in her wild eyes. She was tied down in the bed, with +a broad horse-girth stretched across her breast, but she had wrenched one arm +free, and with it was beating time to her song on the bed-clothes. She caught +sight of Mr. Fraser at once, and seemed to recognize him, for she stopped her +singing and laughed. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s a pretty old song, isn’t it?” she said. +“Somebody taught it me —who was it? Somebody—a long while +ago. But I know another—I know another. You’ll like it; you are a +clergyman, you know.” And she began again: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Says the parson one day as I cursed a Jew,<br/> +Now do you not know that that is a sin?<br/> +Of you sailors I fear there are but a few<br/> +That St. Peter to heaven will ever let in.<br/> +<br/> +“Says I, Mr. Parson, to tell you my mind,<br/> +Few sailors to knock were ever yet seen;<br/> +Those who travel by land may steer against wind<br/> +But we shape a course for Fiddler’s Green.” +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly she stopped, and her mind wandered off to the scene of two days +previous with Arthur by the lake, and she began to quote the words wrung from +the bitterness of his heart. +</p> + +<p> +“‘You miserable woman, do you know what you are? Shame upon you! +Were you not married yesterday?’ It is quite true, Arthur—oh, yes, +quite true! Say what you like of me, Arthur—I deserve it all; but oh! +Arthur, I love you so. Don’t be hard upon me—I love you so, dear! +Kill me if you like, dear, but don’t talk to me so. I shall go +mad—I shall go mad!” and she broke into a flood of weeping. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor dear, she has been going on like that, off and on, all night. It +clean broke my heart to see it, and that’s the holy truth,” and +Pigott looked very much as though she were going to cry herself. +</p> + +<p> +By this time Angela had ceased weeping, and was brooding sullenly, with her +face buried in the pillow. +</p> + +<p> +“There is absolutely nothing to be done,” said the doctor. +“We can only trust to her fine constitution and youth to pull her +through. She has received a series of dreadful mental shocks, and it is very +doubtful if she will ever get over them. It is a pity to think that such a +splendid creature may become permanently insane, is it not? You must be very +careful, Pigott, that she does not do herself an injury; she is just in the +state that she may throw herself out of the window or cut her throat. And now I +must be going; I will call in again to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser accompanied him down to the gate, where he had left his trap. Before +they got out of the front door, Angela had roused herself again, and they could +hear her beginning to quote Homer, and then breaking out into snatches of her +sailor-songs. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘High aloft amongst the rigging<br/> +Sings the loud exulting gale.’ +</p> + +<p> +“That’s like me. I sing too,” and then followed peal upon +peal of mad laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“A very sad case! She has a poor chance, I fear.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser was too much affected to answer him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap67"></a>CHAPTER LXVII.</h2> + +<p> +Public feeling in Marlshire was much excited about the Caresfoot tragedy, and, +when it became known that Lady Bellamy had attempted to commit suicide, the +excitement was trebled. It is not often that the dullest and most highly +respectable part of an eminently dull and respectable county gets such a chance +of cheerful and interesting conversation as these two events gave rise to. We +may be sure that the godsend was duly appreciated; indeed, the whole story is +up to this hour a favourite subject of conversation in those parts. +</p> + +<p> +Of course the members of the polite society of the neighbourhood of Roxham were +divided into two camps. The men all thought that Angela had been shamefully +treated, the elder and most intensely respectable ladies for the most part +inclined to the other side of the question. It not being their habit to look at +matters from the same point of view in which they present themselves to a +man’s nicer sense of honour, they could see no great harm in George +Caresfoot’s stratagems. A man so rich, they argued, was perfectly +entitled to buy his wife. The marriage had been arranged, like their own, on +the soundest property basis, and the woman who rose in rebellion against a +husband merely because she loved another man, or some such romantic nonsense, +deserved all she got. Gone mad, had she?—well, it was a warning! And +these aristocratic matrons sniffed and turned up their noses. They felt that +Angela, by going mad and creating a public excitement, had entered a mute +protest against the recognized rules of marriage sale- and-barter as practised +in this country—and Zululand. Having daughters to dispose of, they +resented this, and poor Angela was for years afterwards spoken of among them as +that “immoral girl.” +</p> + +<p> +But the lower and more human strata of society did not sympathize with this +feeling. On the contrary, they were all for Angela and the dog Aleck who was +supposed to have chocked that “carroty warmint,” George. +</p> + +<p> +The inquest on George’s body was held at Roxham, and was the object of +the greatest possible interest. Indeed, the public excitement was so great that +the coroner was, perhaps insensibly, influenced by it, and allowed the inquiry +to travel a little beyond its professed object of ascertaining the actual cause +of death, with the result that many of the details of the wicked plot from +which Angela had been the principal sufferer became public property. Needless +to say that they did not soothe the feelings of an excited crowd. When Philip, +after spending one of the worst half-hours of his life in the witness-box, at +length escaped with such shreds of reputation as he had hitherto possessed +altogether torn off his back, his greeting from the mob outside the court may +fairly be described as a warm one. As the witnesses’ door closed behind +him, he found himself at one end of a long lane, that was hedged on both sides +by faces not without a touch of ferocity about them, and with difficulty kept +clear by the available force of the five Roxham policemen. +</p> + +<p> +“Who sold his daughter?” shouted a great fellow in his ear. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me come, there’s a dear man, and have a look at Judas,” +said a skinny little woman with a squint, to an individual who blocked her +view. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd caught at the word. “Judas!” it shouted, “go and +hang yourself! Judas! Judas!” +</p> + +<p> +How Philip got out of that he never quite knew, but he did get out somehow. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Sir John Bellamy was being examined in court, and, notwithstanding +the almost aggressive innocence of his appearance, he was not having a very +good time. It chanced that he had fallen into the hands of a rival lawyer, who +hated him like poison, and had good reason to hate him. It is wonderful, by the +way, how enemies do spring up round a man in trouble like dogs who bite a +wounded companion to death, and on the same principle. He is defenceless. This +gentleman would insist on conducting the witnesses’ examination on the +basis that he knew all about the fraud practised with reference to the supposed +death of Arthur Heigham. Now, it will be remembered that Sir John, in his last +interview with Lady Bellamy, had declared that there was no tittle of evidence +against him, and that it would be impossible to implicate him in the exposure +that must overtake her. To a certain extent he was right, but on one point he +had overshot himself, for at that very inquest Mr. Fraser stated on oath that +he (Mr. Fraser) had spoken of Arthur Heigham’s death in the presence of +Sir John Bellamy, and had not been contradicted. +</p> + +<p> +In vain did Sir John protest that Mr. Fraser must be mistaken. Both the jury +and the public looked at the probabilities of the matter, and, though his +protestations were accepted in silence, when he left the witness-box there was +not a man in court but was morally certain that he had been privy to the plot, +and, so far as reputation was concerned, he was a ruined man. And yet legally +there was not a jot of evidence against him. But public opinion required that a +scapegoat should be found, and it was now his lot to figure as that unlucky +animal. +</p> + +<p> +By the time he reached the exit into the street, the impression that he had had +a hand in the business had, in some mysterious way, communicated itself to the +mob outside, many a member of which had some old grudge to settle with +“Lawyer Bellamy,” if only chance put an opportunity in their way. +As he stepped through the door, utterly ignorant of the greeting which awaited +him, his ears were assailed by an awful yell, followed by a storm of hoots and +hisses. +</p> + +<p> +Sir John turned pale, and looked for a means of escape; but the policeman who +had let him out had locked the door behind him, and all round him was the angry +mob. +</p> + +<p> +“Here comes the —— that started the swim,” roared a +voice, as soon as there was a momentary lull. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen——” piped Sir John, with all the pippin hue +gone from his cheeks, and rubbing his white hands together nervously. +</p> + +<p> +“Yah! he poisoned his own poor wife!” shouted a woman with a baby. +</p> + +<p> +“Ladies——” went on Sir John, in agonized tones. +</p> + +<p> +“Pelt him!” yelled a sweet little boy of ten or so, suiting the +action to the word, and planting a rotten egg full upon Sir John’s +imposing brow. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no,” said the woman who had nicknamed Philip +“Judas.” “Why don’t you drop him in the pond? +There’s only two feet of water, and it’s soft falling on the mud. +You can pelt him <i>afterwards</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +The idea was received with acclamation, and notwithstanding his own efforts to +the contrary, backed as they were by those of the five policemen, before he +knew where he was, Sir John found himself being hustled by a lot of sturdy +fellows towards the filthy duck-pond, like an aristocrat to the guillotine. +They soon arrived, and then followed the most painful experience of all his +life, one of which the very thought would ever afterwards move him most +profoundly. Two strong men, utterly heedless of his yells and lamentations, +took him by the heels, and two yet stronger than they caught him by his plump +and tender wrists, and then, under the directions of the woman with the squint, +they began to swing him from side to side. As soon as the lady directress +considered that the impetus was sufficient, she said, “Now!” and +away he went like a swallow, only to land, when his flying powers were +exhausted, plump in the middle of the duck-pond. +</p> + +<p> +Some ten seconds afterwards, a pillar of slimy mud arose and staggered towards +the bank, where a crowd of little boys, each holding something offensive in his +right hand, were eagerly awaiting its arrival. The squint-eyed woman +contemplated the figure with the most intense satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +“He sold me up once,” she murmured; “but we’re quits +now. That’s it, lads, let him have it.” +</p> + +<p> +But we will drop a veil over this too painful scene. Sir John Bellamy was +unwell for some days afterwards; when he recovered he shook the dust of Roxham +off his shoes for ever. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap68"></a>CHAPTER LXVIII.</h2> + +<p> +A fortnight or so afterwards, when the public excitement occasioned by the +Caresfoot tragedy had been partially eclipsed by a particularly thrilling +child-murder and suicide, a change for the better took place in Angela’s +condition. One night, after an unusually violent fit of raving, she suddenly +went to sleep about twelve o’clock, and slept all that night and all the +next day. About half-past nine on the following evening, the watchers in her +room—namely, Pigott, Mr. Fraser, and Dr. Williamson, who was trying to +make out what this deep sleep meant— were suddenly astonished at seeing +her sit up in her bed in a listening attitude, as though she could hear +something that interested her intensely, for the webbing that tied her down had +been temporarily removed, and then cry, in a tone of the most living anguish, +and yet with a world of passionate remonstrance in her voice, +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Arthur, Arthur!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +Then she sank down again for a few minutes. It was the same night that Mildred +and Arthur sat together on the deck of the <i>Evening Star</i>. Presently she +opened her eyes, and the doctor saw that there was no longer any madness in +them, only great trouble. Her glance first fell upon Pigott. +</p> + +<p> +“Run,” she said, “run and stop him; he cannot have gone far. +Bring him back to me; quick, or he will be gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who do you mean, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur, of course—Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush, Angela!” said Mr. Fraser, “he has been gone a long +time; you have been very ill.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not say anything, but turned her face to the pillow and wept, +apparently as much from exhaustion as from any other cause, and then dropped +off to sleep again. +</p> + +<p> +“Her reason is saved,” said Dr. Williamson, as soon as they were +outside the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks be to Providence and you, doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks to Providence alone. It is a case in which I could do little or +nothing. It is a most merciful deliverance. All that you have to do now is to +keep her perfectly quiet, and, above all, do not let her father come near her +at present. I will call in and tell him. Lady Bellamy? Oh! about the same. She +is a strange woman; she never complains, and rarely speaks—though twice I +have heard her break out shockingly. There will never be any alteration in her +case till the last alteration. Good-bye; I will look round to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +After this, Angela’s recovery was, comparatively speaking, rapid, though +of course the effects of so severe a shock to the nervous system could not be +shaken off in a day. Though she was no longer mad, she was still in a disturbed +state of mind, and subject to strange dreams or visions. One in particular that +visited her several nights in succession, made a great impression upon her. +</p> + +<p> +First, it would seem to her that she was wide awake in the middle of the night, +and there would creep over her a sense of unmeasured space, infinite silence, +and intense solitude. She would think that she was standing on a dais at the +end of a vast hall, down which ran endless rows of pillars supporting an inky +sky which was the roof. There was no light in the hall, yet she could clearly +see; there was no sound, but she could hear the silence. Only a soft radiance +shone from her eyes and brow. She was not afraid, though lonely, but she felt +that something would presently come to make an end of solitude. And so she +stood for many years or ages—she could not tell which—trying to +fathom the mystery of that great place, and watching the light that streamed +from her forehead strike upon the marble floor and pillars, or thread the +darkness like a shooting star, only to reveal new depths of blackness beyond +those it pierced. At length there came, softly falling from the sky-roof which +never stirred to any passing breeze, a flake of snow larger than a dove’s +wing; but it was blood-red, and in its centre shone a wonderful light that made +its passage through the darkness a track of glory. As it passed gently +downwards without sound, she thought that it threw the shadow of a human face. +It lit upon the marble floor, and the red snow melted there and turned to +blood, but the light that had been its heart shone on pure and steady. +</p> + +<p> +Looking up again, she saw that the vault above her was thick with thousands +upon thousands of these flakes, each glowing like a crimson lamp, and each +throwing its own shadow. One of the shadows was like George, and she shuddered +as it passed. And ever as they touched the marble pavement, the flakes melted +and became blood, and some of the lights went out, but the most part burnt on, +till at length there was no longer any floor, but a dead-sea of blood on which +floated a myriad points of fire. +</p> + +<p> +And then it all grew clear to her, for a voice in her mind spoke and said that +this was one of God’s storehouses for human souls; that the light was the +soul, and the red in the snow which turned to blood was the sin which had, +during its earthly passage, stained its first purity. The sea of blood before +her was the sum of the scarlet wickedness of her age; from every soul there +came some to swell its awful waters. +</p> + +<p> +At length the red snow ceased to fall, and a sound that was not a voice, but +yet spoke, pealed through the silence, asking if all were ready. The voice that +had spoken in her mind answered, “No, he has not come who is to +see.” Then, looking upwards, she saw, miles on miles away, a bright being +with half-shut wings flashing fast towards her, and she knew that it was +Arthur, and the loneliness left her. He lit a breathing radiance by her side, +and again the great sound pealed, “Let in the living waters, and cleanse +away the sins of this generation.” +</p> + +<p> +It echoed and died away, and there followed a tumult like the flow of an angry +sea. A mighty wind swept past her, and after it an ocean of molten crystal came +rushing through the illimitable hall. The sea and the wind purged away the +blood and put out the lamps, leaving behind them a glow of light like that upon +her brow, and where the lamps had been stood myriads of seraphic beings, whilst +from ten thousand tongues ran forth a paean of celestial song. +</p> + +<p> +Then everything vanished, and deep gloom, that was not, however, dark to her, +settled round them. Taking Arthur by the hand, she spread her white wings and +circled upwards. Far, far they sailed, till they reached a giant peak that +split space in twain. Here they alighted, and watched the masses of cloud +tearing through the gulfs on either side of them, and, looking beyond and +below, gazed upon the shining worlds that peopled space beneath them. +</p> + +<p> +From the cloud-drifts to the right and left came a noise as of the soughings of +many wings; but they did not know what caused it, till presently the vapours +lifted, and they saw that alongside of and beneath them two separate streams of +souls were passing on outstretched pinions: one stream, that to their left, +proceeding to their earthly homes, and one, that to the right, returning from +them. Those who went wore grief upon their shadowy faces, and had sad- coloured +wings; but those who returned seemed for the most part happy, and their wings +were tipped with splendour. +</p> + +<p> +The never-ending stream that came flowed from a far-off glory, and that which +returned, having passed the dividing cliff on which they stood, was changed +into a multitude of the red snow-flakes with the glowing hearts, and dropped +gently downwards. +</p> + +<p> +So they stood, in happy peace, never tiring, from millennium to millennium. +They watched new worlds collecting out of chaos, they saw them speed upon their +high aerial course till, grown hoary, their foundation-rocks crumbling with +age, they wasted away into the vastness whence they had gathered, to be +replaced by fresh creations that in their turn took form, teemed with life, +waxed, waned, and vanished. +</p> + +<p> +At length there came an end, and the soughing of wings was silent for ever; no +more souls went downwards, and none came up from the earths. Then the distant +glory from which the souls had come moved towards them with awful mutterings +and robed in lightning, and space was filled with spirits, one of whom, +sweeping past them, cried with a loud voice, “Children, Time is dead; now +is the beginning of knowledge.” And she turned to Arthur, who had grown +more radiant than the star which gleamed upon his forehead, and kissed him. +</p> + +<p> +Then she would wake. +</p> + +<p> +Time passed on, and gradually health and strength came back to Angela, till at +last she was as powerful in mind, and—if that were possible— except +that she was shorn of her lovely hair, more beautiful in body than she had been +before her troubles overwhelmed her. Of Arthur she thought a great +deal—indeed, she thought of little else; but it was with a sort of +hopelessness that precluded action. Nobody had mentioned his name to her, as it +was thought wiser not to do so, though Pigott and Mr. Fraser had, in as gentle +terms as they could command, told her of the details of the plot against her, +and of the consequences to the principal actors in it. Nor had she spoken of +him. It seemed to her that she had lost him for good, that he could never come +back to her after what had passed, that he must hate her too much. She supposed +that, in acting as he did, he was aware of all the circumstances of her +marriage, and could find no excuses for her. She did not even know where he +was, and, in her ignorance of the uses of private detectives and +advertisements, had no idea how to find out. And so she suffered in silence, +and only saw him in her dreams. +</p> + +<p> +She still stopped at the vicarage with Pigott; nor had there as yet been any +talk of her returning to the Abbey House. Indeed, she had not seen her father +since the day of her marriage. But, now that she had recovered, she felt that +something must be done about it. Wondering what it should be, she one afternoon +walked to the churchyard, where she had not been since her illness, and, once +there, made her way naturally to her mother’s grave. She was moving very +quietly, and had almost reached the tree under which Hilda Caresfoot lay, when +she became aware that there was already somebody kneeling by the grave, with +his head rested against the marble cross. +</p> + +<p> +It was her father. Her shadow falling upon him, he turned and saw her, and they +stood looking at each other. She was shocked at the dreadful alteration in his +face. It was now that of an old man, nearly worn out with suffering. He put his +hand before his eyes, and said, +</p> + +<p> +“Angela, how can I face you, least of all here?” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment the memory of her bitter wrongs swelled in her heart, for she now +to a great extent understood what her father’s part in the plot had been, +and she regarded him in silence. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” she said, presently, “I have been in the hands of +God, and not in yours, and though you have helped to ruin my life, and have +very nearly driven me into a madhouse, I can still say, let the past be the +past. But why do you look so wretched? You should look happy; you have got the +land—my price, you know,” and she laughed a little bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do I look wretched? Because I am given over to a curse that you +cannot understand, and I am not alone. Where are those who plotted against you? +George dead, Bellamy gone, Lady Bellamy paralysed hand and foot, and +myself—although I did not plot, I only let them be— accursed. But, +if you can forget the past, why do you not come back to my house? Of course I +cannot force you; you are free and rich, and can suit yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will come for a time if you wish—if I can bring Pigott with +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may bring twenty Pigotts, for all I care—so long as you will +pay for their board,” he added, with a touch of his old miserliness. +“But what do you mean ‘for a time’?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think I shall stop here long; I think that I am going into a +sisterhood.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! well, you are your own mistress, and must do as you choose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I will come to-morrow,” and they parted. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap69"></a>CHAPTER LXIX.</h2> + +<p> +And so on the following day Angela and Pigott returned to the Abbey House, but +they both felt that it was a sad home-coming. Indeed, if there had been no +other cause for melancholy, the sight of Philip’s face was enough to +excite it in the most happy-minded person. Not that Angela saw much of him, +however, for they still kept to their old habit of not living together. All day +her father was shut up in his room transacting business that had reference to +the accession of his property and the settlement of George’s affairs; for +his cousin had died intestate, so he took his personalty and wound up the +estate as heir-at-law. At night, however, he would go out and walk for miles, +and in all weathers—he seemed to dread spending the dark hours at home. +</p> + +<p> +When Angela had been back about a month in the old place, she accidentally got +a curious insight into her father’s mental sufferings. +</p> + +<p> +It so happened that one night, finding it impossible to sleep, and being much +oppressed by sorrowful thoughts, she thought that she would read the hours +away. But the particular book she wanted to find was downstairs, and it was two +o’clock in the morning, and chilly in the passages. However, anything is +better than sleeplessness, and the tyranny of sad thoughts and empty longings; +so, throwing on her dressing-gown, she took a candle, and set off, thinking as +she went how she had in the same guise fled before her husband. +</p> + +<p> +She got her book, and was returning, when she saw that there was still a light +in her father’s study, and that the door was ajar. At that moment it so +happened that an unusually sharp draught coming down one of the passages of the +rambling old house, caught her candle and extinguished it. Making her way to +the study-door, she pushed it open to see if anybody was there previous to +asking for a light. At first she could see nobody. On the table, which was +covered with papers, there stood two candles, a brandy-bottle, and a glass. She +was just moving to the candle to get a light, when her eye fell on what she at +first believed to be a heap of clothes huddled together on the floor in the +corner of the room. Further examination showed that it was a man—she +could distinctly see the backs of his hands. Her first ideas was that she had +surprised a thief, and she stopped, feeling frightened and not knowing what to +do. Just then the bundle straightened itself a little and dropped its hands, +revealing to her wondering gaze her own father’s face, which wore the +same awful look of abject fear which she had seen upon it when he passed +through the hall beneath her just before Isleworth broke into flame on the +night of her marriage. The eyes appeared to be starting from the sockets in an +effort to clearly realize an undefinable horror, the hair, now daily growing +greyer, was partially erect, and the pallid lips, half- opened, as though to +speak words that would not come. He saw her too, but did not seem surprised at +her presence. Covering up his eyes again with one hand, he shrank further back +into his corner, and with the other pointed to a large leather arm-chair in +which Pigott had told her her grandfather had died. +</p> + +<p> +“Look there,” he whispered, hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“Where, father? I see nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“There, girl, in the chair—look how it glares at me!” +</p> + +<p> +Angela stood aghast. She was alarmed, in defiance of her own reason, and began +to catch the contagion of superstition. +</p> + +<p> +“This is dreadful,” she said; “for heaven’s sake tell +me what is the matter.” +</p> + +<p> +Philip’s ghastly gaze again fixed itself on the chair, and his teeth +began to chatter. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Great God,</i>” he said, “<i>it is coming.</i>” +</p> + +<p> +And, uttering a smothered cry, he fell on his face in a half faint. The +necessity for action brought Angela to herself. Seizing the water-bottle, she +splashed some water into her father’s face. He came to himself almost +instantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Where am I?” he said. “Ah! I remember; I have not been quite +well. You must not think anything of that. What are you doing down here at this +time of night? Pass me that bottle,” and he took nearly half a tumbler of +raw brandy. “There, I am quite right again now; I had a bad attack of +indigestion, that is all. Good night.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela went without a word. She understood now what her father had meant when +he said that he was “accursed;” but she could not help wondering +whether the brandy had anything to do with his “indigestion.” +</p> + +<p> +On the following day the doctor came to see her. It struck Angela that he came +oftener than was necessary, the fact being that he would gladly have attended +her gratis all year round. A doctor does not often get the chance of visiting +such a patient. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not look quite so well to-day,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she answered, with a little smile; “I had bad dreams +last night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! I thought so. You should try to avoid that sort of thing; you are +far too imaginative already.” +</p> + +<p> +“One cannot run away from one’s dreams. Murder will out in +sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I have a message for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who from?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Bellamy. You know that she is paralysed?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she wants you to go and see her. Shall you go?” +</p> + +<p> +Angela thought a little, and answered, +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think so.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must be prepared for some bitter language if she speaks at all. Very +likely she will beg you to get her some poison to kill herself with. I have +been obliged to take the greatest precautions to prevent her from obtaining +any. I am not very sensitive, but once or twice she has positively made me +shiver with the things she says.” +</p> + +<p> +“She can never say anything more dreadful to me than she has said +already, Dr. Williamson.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps not. Go if you like. If you were revengeful—which I am +sure you are not—you would have good reason to be satisfied at what you +will see. Medically speaking, it is a sad case.” +</p> + +<p> +Accordingly, that every afternoon, Angela, accompanied by Pigott, started off +for Rewtham House, where Lady Bellamy still lived, or rather existed. It was +her first outing since the inquest on George Caresfoot had caused her and her +history to become publicly notorious, and, as she walked along, she was +surprised to find that she was the object of popular sympathy. Every man she +met touched or took off his hat, according to his degree, and, as soon as she +had passed, turned round and stared at her. Some fine folks whom she did not +know— indeed, she knew no one, though it had been the fashion to send and +“inquire” during her illness—drove past in an open carriage +and pair, and she saw a gentleman on the front seat whisper something to the +ladies, bringing round their heads towards her as simultaneously as though they +both worked on a single wire. Even the children coming out of the village +school set up a cheer as she passed. +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious, Pigott, what is it all about?” she asked, at last. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you see, miss, they talk of you in the papers as the ‘Abbey +House heroine’—and heroines is rare in these parts.” +</p> + +<p> +Overwhelmed with so much attention, Angela was thankful when at last they +reached Rewtham House. +</p> + +<p> +Pigott went into the housekeeper’s room, and Angela was at once shown up +into the drawing-room. The servant announced her name to a black- robed figure +lying on a sofa, and closed the door. +</p> + +<p> +“Come here, Angela Caresfoot,” said a well-known voice, “and +see how Fate has repaid the woman who tried to ruin you.” +</p> + +<p> +She advanced and looked at the deathly face, still as darkly beautiful as ever, +on which was fixed that strange look of wild expectancy that it had worn when +its owner took the poison. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, look at me; think what I was, and then what I am, and learn how the +Spirit of evil pays those who serve him. I thought to kill myself, but death +was denied me, and now I live as you see me. I am an outcast from the society +of my kind—not that I ever cared for that, except to rule it. I cannot +stir hand or foot, I cannot write, I can scarcely read, I cannot even die. My +only resource is the bitter sea of thought that seethes eternally in this +stricken frame like fire pent in the womb of a volcano. Yes, Angela Caresfoot, +and like the fire, too, sometimes it overflows, and then I can blaspheme and +rave aloud till my voice fails. That is the only power which is left to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela uttered an exclamation of pity. +</p> + +<p> +“Pity—do not pity me; I will not be pitied by you. Mock me if you +will; it is your turn now. You prophesied that it would come; now it is +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate, you are still comfortable in your own house,” said +Angela, nervously, anxious to change the subject, and not knowing what to say. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! yes, I have money enough, if that is what you mean. My husband +threatened to leave me destitute, but fear of public opinion—and I hear +that he has run away, and is not well thought of now—or perhaps of +myself, cripple as I am, caused him to change his mind. But do not let us talk +of that poor creature. I sent for you here for a purpose. Where is your +lover?” +</p> + +<p> +Angela turned pale and trembled. +</p> + +<p> +“What, do you not know, or are you tired of him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Tired of him! I shall never be tired of him; but he has gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I tell you where to find him?” +</p> + +<p> +“You would not if you could; you would deceive me again.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, oddly enough, I shall not. I have no longer any object in doing so. +When I was bent upon marrying you to George Caresfoot, I lashed myself into +hating you; now I hate you no longer, I respect you— indeed, I have done +so all along.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, why did you work me such a bitter wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I was forced to. Believe me or not as you will, I am not going +to tell you the story—at any rate, not now. I can only repeat that I was +forced to.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“In Madeira. Do you remember once telling me that you had only to lift +your hand—so—ah! I forgot, I cannot lift mine—to draw him +back to you, that no other woman in the world could keep him from you if you +chose to bid him come?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I remember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, if you wish to get him back, you had better exercise your power, +for he has gone to another woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is she? What is she like?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is a young widow—a Mrs. Carr. She is desperately in love with +him—very beautiful and very rich.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beautiful! How do you mean? Tell me exactly what she is like.” +</p> + +<p> +“She has brown eyes, brown hair, a lovely complexion, and a perfect +figure.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela glanced rapidly at her own reflection in the glass and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I fear that I shall have no chance against her—none!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a fool! if you were alone in the same room with her, nobody +would see her for looking at you.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela sighed again, this time from relief. +</p> + +<p> +“But there is worse than that; very possibly he has married her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! then it is all over!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? If he loves you as much as you think, you can bring him back to +you, married or unmarried.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps. Yes, I think I could; but I would not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? If he loves you and you love him, you have a right to him. Among +all the shams and fictions that we call laws, there is only one true— the +law of Nature, by virtue of which you belong to each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, there is a higher law—the law of duty, by means of which we +try to curb the impulses of Nature. The woman who has won him has a right to +consideration.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, to gratify a foolish prejudice, you are prepared to lose him +forever?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Lady Bellamy; if I thought that I was to lose him for ever, I might +be tempted to do what is wrong in order to be with him for a time; but I do not +think that. I only lose him for a time that I may gain him for ever. In this +world he is separated from me, in the worlds to come my rights will assert +themselves, and we shall be together, and never part any more.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy looked at her wonderingly, for her eyes could still express her +emotions. +</p> + +<p> +“You are a fine creature,” she said, “and, if you believe +that, perhaps it will be true for you, since Faith must be the measure of +realization. But, after all, he may not have married her. That will be for you +to find out.” +</p> + +<p> +“How can I find out?” +</p> + +<p> +“By writing to him, of course—to the care of Mrs. Carr, Madeira. +That is sure to find him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you. How can I thank you enough?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems to me that you owe me few thanks. You are always foolish about +what tends to secure your own happiness, or you would have thought of this +before.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pause, and then Angela rose to go. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you going. Yes, go. I am not fit company for such as you. Perhaps we +shall not meet again; but, in thinking of all the injuries that I have done +you, remember that my punishment is proportionate to my sin. They tell me that +I may live for years.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela gazed at the splendid wreck beneath her, and an infinite pity swelled in +her gentle heart. Stooping, she kissed her on the forehead. A wild astonishment +filled Lady Bellamy’s great, dark eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Child, child, what are you doing? you do not know what I am, or you +would not kiss me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Lady Bellamy,” she said, quietly, “I do, that is, I +know what you have been; but I want to forget that. Perhaps you will one day be +able to forget it too. I do not wish to preach, but perhaps, after all, this +terrible misfortune may lead you to something better. Thank God, there is +forgiveness for us all.” +</p> + +<p> +Her words touched some forgotten chord in the stricken woman’s heart, and +two big tears rolled down the frozen cheeks. They were the first Anne Bellamy +had wept for many a day. +</p> + +<p> +“Your voice,” she said, “has a music that awakes the echoes +from a time when I was good and pure like you, but that time has gone for +ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, Lady Bellamy, the heart that can remember it can also strive to +reach another like it. If you have descended the cliff whence those echoes +spring, into a valley however deep, there is still another cliff before you +that you may climb.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is easy to descend, but we need wings to climb. Look at me, Angela; +my body is not more crippled and shorn of power than my dark spirit is of +wings. How can <i>I</i> climb?” +</p> + +<p> +Angela bent low beside her and whispered a few words in her ear, then rose with +a shy blush upon her face. Lady Bellamy shut her eyes. Presently she opened +them again. +</p> + +<p> +“Do not speak any more of this to me now,” she said. “I must +have time. The instinct of years cannot be brushed away in a day. If you knew +all the sins I have committed, perhaps you would think too that for such as I +am there is no forgiveness and no hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“Whilst there is life there is hope, and, as I once heard Mr. Fraser say, +the real key to forgiveness is the desire to be forgiven.” +</p> + +<p> +Again Lady Bellamy shut her eyes and thought, and, when she drew up their heavy +lids, Angela saw that there was something of a peaceful look about them. +</p> + +<p> +“Stand so,” she said to Angela, “there where the light falls +upon your face. That will do; now shall I tell you what I read there? On your +forehead sit resolute power to grasp, and almost measureless capacity to +imagine; in your eyes there is a sympathy not to be guessed by beings of a +coarser fibre; those eyes could look at Heaven and not be dazzled. Your whole +face speaks of a purity and single-mindedness which I can read but cannot +understand. Your mind rejects the glittering bubbles that men follow, and seeks +the solid truth. Your spirit is in tune with things of light and air; it can +float to the extremest heights of our mental atmosphere, and thence can almost +gaze into the infinite beyond. Pure, but not cold, thirsting for a wider +knowledge, and at times breathing the air of a higher world; resolute, but +patient; proud, and yet humble to learn; holy, but aspiring; conscious of gifts +you do not know how to use, girl, you rise as near to what is divine as a +mortal may. I have always thought so, now I am sure of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lady Bellamy!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! I have a reason for what I say. I do not ask you to waste time by +listening to senseless panegyrics. Listen: I will tell you what I have never +told to a living soul before. For years I have been a student of a lore almost +forgotten in this country—a lore which once fully acquired will put the +powers that lie hid in Nature at the command of its possessor, that will even +enable him to look beyond Nature, and perhaps, so far as the duration of +existence is concerned, for awhile to triumph over it. That lore you can learn, +though it baffled me. My intellect and determination enabled me to find the +cues to it, and to stumble on some of its secrets, but I could not follow them; +too late I learnt that only the good and pure can do that. Much of the result +of years of toil I destroyed the other night, but I still know enough to +empower you to reconstruct what I annihilated; you can learn more in one year +than I learnt in ten. I am grateful to you, and, if you wish it, I will show +you the way.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela listened, open-eyed. Lady Bellamy was right, she was greedy of knowledge +and the power that springs from knowledge. +</p> + +<p> +“But would it not be wrong?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“There can be nothing wrong in what the ruling Wisdom allows us to +acquire without the help of what is evil. But do not be deceived, such +knowledge and power as this is not a thing to be trifled with. To obtain a +mastery over it, you must devote your life to it; you must give it +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“‘Allegiance whole, not strained to suit desire,’ +</p> + +<p> +“No earthly passion must come to trouble the fixed serenity of your +aspirations; that was one, but only one, of the reasons of my failure. You must +leave your Arthur to Mrs. Carr, and henceforward put him as much out of your +mind as possible; and this, that you may be able to separate yourself from +earthly bonds and hopes and fears. Troubled waters reflect a broken +image.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must, then, choose between this knowledge and my love?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and you will do well if you choose the knowledge; for, before you +die—if, indeed, you do not in the end, for a certain period, overcome +even death—you will be more of an angel than a woman. On the one hand, +then, this proud and dizzy destiny awaits you; on the other, every-day joys and +sorrows shared by all the world, and an ordinary attachment to a man against +whom I have, indeed, nothing to say, but who is not your equal, and who is, at +the best, full of weaknesses that you should despise.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Lady Bellamy, his weaknesses are a part of himself, and I love him +all, just as he is; weakness needs love more than what is strong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps; but, in return for your love, I offer you no empty cup. I do +not ask you to follow fantastic theories—of that I will soon convince +you. Shall I show you the semblance of your Arthur and Mrs. Carr as they are at +this moment?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Lady Bellamy, no, I have chosen. You offer, after years of devotion, +to make me <i>almost like an angel</i>. The temptation is very great, and it +fascinates me. But I hope, if I can succeed in living a good life, to become +altogether an angel when I die. Why, then, should I attempt to filch fragments +of a knowledge that will one day be all my own?—if, indeed, it is right +to do so. Whilst I am here, Arthur’s love is more to me than such +knowledge can ever be. If he is married, I may learn to think differently, and +try to soothe my mind by forcing it to run in these hidden grooves. Till then, +I choose Arthur and my petty hopes and fears; for, after all, they are the +natural heritage of my humanity.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Bellamy thought for awhile, and answered, +</p> + +<p> +“I begin to think that the Great Power who made us has mixed even His +most perfect works with an element of weakness, lest they should soar too high, +and see too far. The prick of a pin will bring a balloon to earth, and an +earthly passion, Angela, will prevent you from soaring to the clouds. So be it. +You have had your chance. It is only one more disappointment.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap70"></a>CHAPTER LXX.</h2> + +<p> +Angela went home very thoughtful. The next three days she spent in writing. +First, she wrote a clear and methodical account of all the events that had +happened since Arthur’s first departure, more than a year ago, and +attached to it copies of the various documents that had passed between herself +and George, including one of the undertaking that her husband had signed before +the marriage. This account was in the form of a statement, which she signed, +and, taking it to Mr. Fraser, read it to him, and got him to sign it too. It +took her two whole days to write, and, when it was done, she labelled it +“to be read first.” On the third day she wrote the following letter +to go with the statement: +</p> + +<p> +“For the first time in my life, Arthur, I take up my pen to write to you, +and in truth the difficulty of the task before me, as well as my own want of +skill, tends to bewilder me, and, though I have much upon my mind to say, I +scarcely know if it will reach you—if, indeed, this letter is ever +destined to lie open in your hands—in an intelligible form. +</p> + +<p> +“The statement that I enclose, however, will—in case you do not +already know them—tell you all the details of what has happened since you +left me more than a year ago. From it you will learn how cruelly I was deceived +into marrying George Caresfoot, believing you dead. Oh, through all eternity, +never shall I forget that fearful night, nor cease to thank God for my merciful +escape from the fiend whom I had married. And then came the morning, and +brought you—the dead—alive before my eyes. And whilst I stood in +the first tumult of my amaze— forgetful of everything but that it was +you, my own, my beloved Arthur, no spirit, but you in flesh and +blood—whilst I yet stood thus, stricken to silence by the shock of an +unutterable joy—you broke upon me with those dreadful words, so that I +choked, feeling how just they must seem to you, and could not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet it sometimes fills me with wonder and indignation to think of +them; wonder that you could believe me so mad as to throw away the love of my +life, and indignation that you could deem me so lost as to dishonour it. They +drove me mad, those words, and from that moment forward I remember nothing but +a chaos of the mind heaving endlessly like the sea. But all this has passed, +and I am thankful to say that I am quite well again now. +</p> + +<p> +“Still I should not have written to you, Arthur; I did not even know +where you were, and I never thought of recovering you. After what has passed, I +looked upon you as altogether lost to me for this world. But a few days ago I +went at her own request to see Lady Bellamy. All she said to me I will not now +repeat, lest I should render this letter too wearisome to read, though a great +deal of it was strange enough to be well worth repetition. In the upshot, +however, she said that I had better write to you, and told me where to write. +And so I write to you, dear. There was also another thing that she told me of +sad import for myself, but which I must not shrink to face. She said that there +lived at Madeira, where you are, a lady who is in love with you, and is herself +both beautiful and wealthy, to whom you would have gone for comfort in your +trouble, and in all probability have married. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Arthur, I do not know if this is the case, but, if so, I hasten to +say that I do not blame you. You smarted under what must have seemed to you an +intolerable wrong, and you went for consolation to her who had it to offer. In +a man that is perhaps natural, though it is not a woman’s way. If it be +so, I say from my heart, be as happy as you can. But remember what I told you +long ago, and do not fall into any delusions on the matter; do not imagine +because circumstances have shaped themselves thus, therefore I am to be put out +of your mind and forgotten, for this is not so. I cannot be forgotten, though +for a while I may be justly discarded; it is possible that for this world you +have passed out of my reach, but in the next I shall claim you as my own. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Arthur, I have made up my mind to lose you for this life as a +fitting reward for my folly. But do not think that I do so without a pang, for, +believe me, since my mind emerged stronger and clearer from the storms through +which it has passed, bringing back to me the full life and strength of my +womanhood, I have longed for you with an ever- increasing longing. I am not +ashamed to own that I would give worlds to feel your arms about me and your +kiss upon my lips. Why should I be? Am I not yours, body and soul? +</p> + +<p> +“But, dear, it has been given to me, perhaps as a compensation for all I +have undergone and that is still left for me to undergo, to grasp a more +enduring end than that of earthly ecstasy: for I can look forward with a +confident assurance to the day when we shall embrace upon the threshold of the +Infinite. Do not call this foolish imagination, or call it imagination, if you +will—for what is imagination? Is it not the connecting link between us +and our souls, and recalling memories of our home. Imagination, what would our +higher life be without it? It is what the mind is to the body, it is the +soul’s <i>thought</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“So in my imagination—since I know no better term—I foresee +that heavenly hour, and I am not jealous for the earthly moment. Nor, indeed, +have I altogether lost you, for at times, in the stillness of the night, when +the earthly part is plunged in sleep and my spirit is released from the +thraldom of the senses, it, at indefinite periods, has the power to summon your +beloved form to its presence, and in this communion Nature vindicates her +faithfulness. Thus, through the long night rest comes upon me with your +presence. +</p> + +<p> +“And at last there will come a greater rest; at last—having lived +misunderstood—we shall die, alone, and then the real life or lives will +begin. It is not always night, for the Dawn is set beyond the night, and +through the gates of Dawn we shall journey to the day. It is not always night; +even in the womb of darkness throbs the promise of the morning. I often wonder, +Arthur, how and what this change will be. Shall we be even as we are, but +still, through unnumbered ages, growing slowly on to the Divine, or, casting +off the very semblance of mortality, shall we rise at one wide sweep to the +pinnacle of fulfilled time, there to learn the purposes and mark the measure of +all Being. +</p> + +<p> +“How can I know? But this I believe, that whatever the change, however +wide and deep the darkness which stretches between what is and what is not yet, +we cannot lose ourselves therein. Identity will still be ours, and memory, the +Janus-headed, will still pursue us, calling to our minds the enacted evil and +that good which, having been, must always be. For we are immortal, and though +we put off the mortal dress —yes, though our forms become as variable as +the clouds, and assume proportions of which we cannot dream—yet shall +memory companion us and identity remain. For we are each fashioned apart for +ever, and built about with such an iron wall of individual life that all the +force of time and change cannot so much as shake it. And while I am myself, and +yet in any shape endure, of this be certain—the love that is a part of me +will endure also. Oh, herein is set my hope—nay, not my hope, for hope +upon the tongue whispers doubt within the heart, but the most fixed unchanging +star of all my heaven. It is not always night, for the Dawn is set beyond the +night; and oh, my heart’s beloved, at daybreak we shall meet again! +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Arthur, even now I long for the purer air and flashing sympathies of +that vast Hereafter, when the strong sense of knowledge shall scarcely find a +limit ere it overleaps it; when visible power shall radiate from our being, and +living on together through countless Existences, Periods, and Spheres, we shall +progress from majesty to ever-growing majesty! Oh, for the day when you and I, +messengers from the Seat of Power, shall sail high above these darkling worlds, +and, seeing into each other’s souls, shall learn what love’s +communion is! +</p> + +<p> +“Do not think me foolish, dear, for writing to you thus. I do not wish to +make you the victim of an outburst of thought that you may think hysterical. +But perhaps I may never be able to write to you again in this way; your wife, +if you are married, may be jealous, or other things may occur to prevent it. I +feel it, therefore, necessary to tell you my inmost thoughts now whilst I can, +so that you may always remember them during the long coming years, and +especially when you draw near to the end of the journey. I hope, dearest +Arthur, that nothing will ever make you forget them, and also that, for the +sake of the pure love you will for ever bear me, you will always live up to +your noblest and your best, for in this way our meeting will be made more +perfect. +</p> + +<p> +“Of course it is possible that you may still be free, and, after you know +that I am not quite so much to blame as you may have thought, still willing to +give your name to me. It is a blessed hope, but I scarcely dare to dwell upon +it. +</p> + +<p> +“The other day I was reading a book Mr. Fraser lent me, which took my +fancy very much, it was so full of contradictions. The unexpected always +happened in it, and there was both grief and laughter in its pages. It did not +end quite well or quite badly, or, rather it had <i>no</i> end, and deep down +underneath the plotless story, only peeping up now and again when the actors +were troubled, there ran a vein of real sorrow and sad, unchanging love. There +was a hero in this odd book which was so like life—who, by the way, was +no hero at all, but a curious, restless creature who seemed to have missed his +mark in life, and went along looking for old truths and new ideas with his eyes +so fixed upon the stars that he was always stumbling over the pebbles in his +path, and thinking that they were rocks. He was a sensitive man, too, and as +weak as he was sensitive, and often fell into pitfalls and did what he should +not, and yet, for all that, he had a quaint and gentle mind, and there was +something to like in him—at least, so thought the women in that book. +There was a heroine, too, who was all that a heroine should be, very sweet and +very beautiful, and she really had a heart, only she would not let it beat. And +of course the hero and heroine loved each other: of course, too, they both +behaved badly, and things went wrong, or there would have been no book. +</p> + +<p> +“But I tell you this story because once, in a rather touching scene, this +hero who made such a mess of things set forth one of the ideas that he had +found, and thought new, but which was really so very old. He told the heroine +that he had read in the stars that happiness has only one key, and that its +name is ‘Love,’ that, amidst all the mutabilities and disillusions +of our life, the pure love of a man and woman alone stands firm and beautiful, +alone defies change and disappointment; that it is the heaven-sent salve for +all our troubles, the remedy for our mistakes, the magic glass reflecting only +what is true and good. But in the end her facts overcame his theories, and he +might have spared himself the trouble of telling. And, for all his star-gazing, +this hero had no real philosophy, but in his grief and unresting pain went and +threw himself into the biggest pitfalls that he could find, and would have +perished there, had not a good angel come and dragged him out again and brushed +the mud off his clothes, and, taking him by the hand, led him along a safer +path. And so for awhile he drops out of the story, which says that, when he is +not thinking of the lost heroine, he is perhaps happier than he deserves to be. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Arthur, I think that this foolish hero was right, and the sensible +heroine he worshipped so blindly, wrong. +</p> + +<p> +“If you are still unmarried, and still care to put his theories to the +test, I believe that we also can make as beautiful a thing of our lives as he +thought that he and his heroine could, and, ourselves supremely happy in each +other’s perfect love, may perhaps be able to add to the happiness of some +of our fellow-travellers. That is, I think, as noble an end as a a man and +woman can set before themselves. +</p> + +<p> +“But if, on the other hand, you are tied to this other woman who loves +you by ties that cannot be broken, or that honour will not let you break; or if +you are unforgiving, and no longer wish to marry me as I wish to marry you, +then till that bright hour of immortal hope— farewell. Yes, Arthur, +farewell till the gate of Time has closed for us—till, in the presence of +God our Father, I shall for ever call you mine. +</p> + +<p> +“Alas! I am so weak that my tears fall as I write the word. Perhaps I may +never speak or write to you again, so once more, my dearest, my beloved, my +earthly treasure and my heavenly hope, farewell. May the blessing of God be as +constantly around you as my thoughts, and may He teach you that these are not +foolish words, but rather the faint shadow of an undying light! +</p> + +<p> +“I send back the ring that was used to trick me with. Perhaps, whatever +happens, you will wear it for my sake. It is, you know, a symbol of Eternity. +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Angela Caresfoot.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap71"></a>CHAPTER LXXI.</h2> + +<p> +Just as Angela was engaged in finishing her long letter to Arthur— surely +one of the strangest ever written by a girl to the man she loved—Mr. +Fraser was reading an epistle which had reached him by that afternoon’s +post. We will look over his shoulder, and see what was in it. +</p> + +<p> +It was a letter dated from the vicarage of one of the poorest parishes in the +great Dock district in the east of London. It began— +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Dear Sir,<br/> + +“I shall be only too thankful to entertain your proposal for an exchange +of livings, more especially as, at first sight, it would seem that all the +advantage is on my side. The fact is, that the incessant strain of work here +has at last broken down my health to such a degree, that the doctors tell me +plainly I must choose between the comparative rest of a country parish, or the +certainty of passing to a completer quiet before my time. Also, now that my +children are growing up, I am very anxious to remove them from the sights and +sounds and tainted moral atmosphere of this poverty- stricken and degraded +quarter.<br/> + +“But, however that may be, I should not be doing my duty to you, if I did +not warn you that this is no parish for a man of your age to undertake, unless +for strong reasons (for I see by the Clergy List that you are a year or so +older than myself). The work is positively ceaseless, and often of a most +shocking and thankless character; and there are almost no respectable +inhabitants; for nobody lives in the parish, except those who are too poor to +live elsewhere. The stipend, too, is, as you are aware, not large. However, if, +in face of these disadvantages, you still entertain the idea of an exchange, +perhaps we had better meet. . . .” +</p> + +<p> +The letter then entered into details. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that will suit me very well,” said Mr. Fraser, aloud to +himself, as he put it down. “It will not greatly matter if my health does +break down; and I ought to have gone long ago. ‘Positively +ceaseless,’ he says the work is. Well, ceaseless work is the only thing +that can stifle thought. And yet it will be hard, coming up by the roots after +all these years. Ah me! this is a queer world, and a sad one for some of us! I +will write to the bishop at once.” +</p> + +<p> +From which it will be gathered that things had not been going well with Mr. +Fraser. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Angela put her statement and the accompanying letter into a large +envelope. Then she took the queer emerald ring off her finger, and, as there +was nobody looking, she kissed it, and wrapped it up in a piece of cotton-wool, +and stowed it away in the letter, and sealed it up. Next she addressed it, in +her clear miniature handwriting, to +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +“Arthur P. Heigham, Esq.,<br/> +“Care of Mrs. Carr,<br/> +“Madeira,” +</p> + +<p> +as Lady Bellamy had told her; and, calling to Pigott to come with her, started +off to the post-office to register and post her precious packet, for the +Madeira mail left Southampton on the morrow. +</p> + +<p> +She had just time to reach the office, affix the three shillings’ worth +of stamps that the letter took, and register it, when the postman came up, and +she saw it stamped and bundled into his bag with the others, just as though it +were nothing, instead of her whole life depending on it; and away it went on +its journey, as much beyond recall as yesterday’s sins. +</p> + +<p> +“And so you have been a-writing to him, Miss?” said Pigott, as soon +as they were out of the office. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Pigott,” and she told her what Lady Bellamy had said. She +listened attentively, with a shrewd twinkle in her eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m thinking, dearie, that it’s a pity you didn’t post +yourself, that’s the best letter; it can’t make no mistakes, nor +fall into the hands of them it isn’t meant for.” +</p> + +<p> +“What can you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m thinking, miss, that change of air is a wonderful good thing +after sickness, especially sea-air,” answered Pigott, oracularly. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t in the least understand you. Really, Pigott, you drive me +wild with your parables.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, dear, for all you’re so clever you never could see half an +inch into a brick wall, and that with my meaning as clear as a haystick in a +thunderstorm.” +</p> + +<p> +This last definition quite finished Angela. Why, she wondered, should a +haystack be clearer in a thunderstorm than at any other time. She looked at her +companion helplessly, and was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Bless me, what I have been telling, as plain as plain can be, is, why +don’t you go to this Mad—Mad—what’s the name?—I +never can think of them foreign names. I’m like Jakes and the flowers: he +says the smaller and ‘footier’ they are, the longer the name they +sticks on to them, just to puzzle a body who——” +</p> + +<p> +“Madeira,” suggested Angela, with the calmness of despair. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, that’s it—Madeiry. Well, why don’t you go to +Madeiry along with your letter to look after Mr. Arthur? Like enough he is in a +bit of a mess there. So far as I know anything about their ways, young men +always are, in a general sort of way, for everlasting a-caterwauling after some +one or other, for all the world like a tom on the tiles, more especial if they +are in love with somebody else. But, dear me, a sensible woman don’t +bother her head about that. She just goes and hooks them out of it, and then +she knows where they are, and keeps them there.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Pigott, never mind all these reflections, though I’m sure I +don’t know how you can think of such things. The idea of comparing poor +dear Arthur with a tom-cat! But tell me, how can I go to Madeira? Supposing +that he is married?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then you would learn all about it for yourself, and no gammoning; +and there’d be an end to it, one way or the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“But would it be quite modest, to run after him like that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Modest, indeed! And why shouldn’t a young lady travel for her +health? I have heard say that this Madeiry is a wonderful place for the +stomach.” +</p> + +<p> +“The lungs, Pigott—the lungs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then, the lungs. But it don’t matter; they ain’t far +off each other.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Pigott, who could I go with? I could not go alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go with? Why, me, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can hardly fancy you at sea, Pigott.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why not, miss? I dare say I shall do as well as other folks there; +and if I do go to the bottom, as seems likely, there’s plenty of room for +a respectable person there, I should hope. Look here, dear. You’ll never +be happy unless you marry Mr. Arthur; so don’t you go and throw away a +chance, just out of foolishness, and for fear of what folks say. That’s +how dozens of women make a mess of it. Folks say one thing to-day and another +to-morrow, but you’ll remain you for all that. Maybe he’s married; +and, if so, it’s a bad business, and there’s an end of it; but +maybe, too, he isn’t. As for that letter, as likely as not the other one +will put it in the fire. I should, I doubt, if I were in her shoes. So +don’t you lose any time, for, if he isn’t married, it’s like +enough he soon will be.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela felt that there was sense in what her old nurse said, though the idea +was a new one to her, and it made her thoughtful. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll think about it,” she said, presently. “I wonder +what Mr. Fraser would say about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps one thing, and perhaps another. He’s good and kind, but he +hasn’t got much head for these sort of things, he’s always thinking +of something else. Just look what a fool Squire George (may he twist and turn +in his grave) made of him. You ask him, if you like; but you be guided by +yourself, dearie. Your head is worth six Reverend Fraser’s when you bring +it to a thing. But I must be off, and count the linen.” +</p> + +<p> +That evening, after tea, Angela went down to Mr. Fraser’s. He was +directing an envelope to the Lord Bishop of his diocese when she entered; but +he hurriedly put it away in the blotting-paper. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Angela, did you get your letter off?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Fraser, it was just in time to catch the mail to-morrow. But, +do you know, that is what I want to speak to you about. Pigott thinks that, +under all the circumstances”—here Angela hesitated a +little—“she and I had better go to Madeira and find out how things +stand, and I almost think that she is right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” answered Mr. Fraser, rising and looking out of the +window. “You have a great deal at stake.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not think that it would be immodest?” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear Angela, when in such a case as this a woman goes to seek the man +she loves, and whom she believes loves her, I do not myself see where there is +room for immodesty.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, nor do I, and I do love him so very dearly; he is all my life to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser winced visibly. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter? have you got a headache?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, only a twinge here,” and he pointed to his heart. +</p> + +<p> +Angela looked alarmed; she took a womanly interest in anybody’s ailments. +</p> + +<p> +“I know what it is,” she said. “Widow James suffers from it. +You must take it in hand at once, or it will become chronic after meals, as +hers is.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Fraser smiled grimly as he answered: +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that I have neglected it too long—it has become +chronic already. But about Madeira; have you, then, made up your mind to +go?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think that I shall go. If he—is married, you know—I +can always come back again, and perhaps Pigott is right; the letter might +miscarry, and there is so much at stake.” +</p> + +<p> +“When shall you go, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“By the next steamer, I suppose. They go every week, I think. I will tell +my father that I am going to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! you will want money, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I believe that I have plenty of money of my own now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! yes, under your marriage settlement, no doubt. Well, my dear, I am +sure I hope that your journey will not be in vain. Did I tell you I have also +written to Mr. Heigham by this mail, and told him all I knew about the +matter?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is very kind and thoughtful of you; it is just like you,” +answered Angela, gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, not at all; but you have never told me how you got on with +Lady Bellamy—that is, except what she told you about Mr. Heigham.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! it was a strange interview. What do you think she wanted to teach +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not the faintest idea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Magic.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, she did; she told me that she could read all sorts of things in my +face, and offered, if I would give myself up to it, to make me more than +human.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pshaw! it was a bit of charlatanism; she wanted to frighten you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I think she believed what she said, and I think that she has some +sort of power. She seemed disappointed when I refused, and, do you know it, if +it had not been for Arthur, I do not think that I should have refused. I love +power, or rather knowledge; but then I love Arthur more.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why is he incompatible with knowledge?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know; but she said that, to triumph over the mysteries she +wished to teach me, I must free myself from earthly love and cares. I told her +that, if Arthur is married, I would think of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Angela, to be frank, I do not believe in Lady Bellamy’s +magic, and, if its practice brings people to what she is, I think it is best +left alone; indeed, I expect that the whole thing is a delusion arising from +her condition. But I think she is right when she told you that to become a +mistress of her art—or, indeed, of any noble art— you must separate +yourself from earthly passions. I owe your Arthur a grudge as well as Lady +Bellamy. I hoped, Angela, to see you rise like a star upon this age of +insolence and infidelity. I wanted you to be a great woman; but that dream is +all over now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mr. Fraser?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because, my dear, both history and observation teach us that great gifts +like yours partake of the character of an accident in a woman; they are not +natural to her, and she does not wear such jewels easily —they put her +outside of her sex. It is something as though a man were born into the world +with wings. At first he would be very proud of them, and go sailing about in +the sky to the admiration of the crowds beneath him; but by-and-by he would +grow tired of flying alone, and after all, it is not necessary to fly to +transact the ordinary business of the world. And perhaps at last he would learn +to love somebody without wings, somebody who could not fly, and he would always +want to be with her down on the homely earth, and not alone up in the heavenly +heights. If a woman had all the genius of Plato or all the learning of Solomon, +it would be forgotten at the touch of a baby’s fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, we cannot fight against human nature, and I daresay that in +a few years you will forget that you can read Greek as well as you can English, +and were very near finding out a perfect way of squaring the circle. Perhaps it +is best so. Lady Bellamy may have read a great many fine things in your face. +Shall I tell you what I read there? I read that you will marry your Arthur, and +become a happy wife and a happier mother; that your life will be one long story +of unassuming kindness, and that, when at last you die, you will become a +sacred memory in many hearts. That is what I read. The only magic you will ever +wield, Angela, will be the magic of your goodness.” +</p> + +<p> +“Who knows? We cannot read the future,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“And so you are going to Madeira next week. Then, this will be the last +time that we shall meet—before you go, I mean—for I am off to +London to-morrow, for a while, on some business. When next we meet, if we do +meet again, Angela, you will be a married woman. Do not start, dear; there is +nothing shocking about that. But, perhaps, we shall not meet any more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mr. Fraser! why do you say such dreadful things?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is nothing dreadful about it, Angela. I am getting on in life, and +am not so strong as I was; and you are both young and strong, and must in the +ordinary course of things outlive me for many years. But, whatever happens, my +dear, I know that you always keep a warm corner in your memory for your old +master; and, as for me, I can honestly say, that to have known and taught you +has been the greatest privilege of a rather lonely life.” +</p> + +<p> +Here Angela began to cry. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t cry, my dear. There is, thank God, another meeting-place +than this, and, if I reach the shore of that great future before you, I +shall—but there, my dear, it is time for you to be going home. You must +not stop here to listen to this melancholy talk. Go home, Angela, and think +about your lover. I am busy to-night. Give me a kiss, dear, and go.” +</p> + +<p> +Presently, she was gone, and he heard the front-door close behind her. He went +to the window, and watched the tall form gradually growing fainter in the +gloaming, till it vanished altogether. +</p> + +<p> +Then he came back, and, sitting down at his writing-table, rested his grizzled +head upon his hand and thought. Presently he raised it, and there was a sad +smile flickering round the wrinkles of the nervous mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“And now for ‘hard labour at the London docks,’” he +said, aloud. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap72"></a>CHAPTER LXXII.</h2> + +<p> +Nothing occurred to mar the prosperity of the voyage of the <i>Evening +Star</i>. That beautiful little vessel declined to simplify the course of this +history by going to the bottom with Mildred and Arthur, as the imaginative +reader may have perhaps expected. She did not even get into a terrific storm, +in order to give Arthur the opportunity of performing heroic feats, and the +writer of this history the chance of displaying a profound knowledge of the +names of ropes and spars. On the contrary, she glided on upon a sea so still +that even Miss Terry was persuaded to arouse herself from her torpor, and come +upon deck, till at last, one morning, the giant peak of Teneriffe, soaring high +above its circling clouds, broke upon the view of her passengers. +</p> + +<p> +Here they stopped for a week or so, enjoying themselves very much in their new +surroundings, till at length Arthur grew tired of the islands, which was of +course the signal for their departure. So they returned, reaching Madeira after +an absence of close upon a month. As they dropped anchor in the little bay, +Mildred came up to Arthur, and, touching him with that gentle deference which +she always showed towards him, asked him if he was not glad to be home again. +</p> + +<p> +“Home!” he said. “I have no home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur;” she answered, “why do you try to pain me? Is +not my home yours also?” +</p> + +<p> +So soon as they landed, he started off to “Miles’ Hotel,” to +see if any letters had come for him during his absence, and returned, looking +very much put out. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter, Arthur?” asked Miss Terry, once again happy at +feeling her feet upon solid soil. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, those idiots at the hotel have returned a letter sent to me by my +lawyer. They thought that I had left Madeira for good, and the letter was +marked, ‘If left, return to Messrs. Borley and Son,’ with the +address. And the mail went out this afternoon into the bargain, so it will be a +month before I can get it back again.” +</p> + +<p> +Had Arthur known that this letter contained clippings of the newspaper reports +of the inquest on George Caresfoot, of whose death even he was in total +ignorance, he would have had good reason to be put out. +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, Arthur,” said Mildred’s clear voice at his +elbow—she was rarely much further from him than his shadow; +“lawyers’ letters are not, as a rule, very interesting. I never yet +had one that would not keep. Come and see if your pavilion—isn’t +that a grand name?—is arranged to your liking, and then let us go to +dinner, for Agatha here is dying of hunger—she has to make up for her +abstinence at sea.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was always told,” broke in that lady, “that yachting was +charming, but I tell you frankly I have never been more miserable in my life +than I was on board your <i>Evening Star</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind, dear, you shall have a nice long rest before we start for +the coast of Spain.” +</p> + +<p> +And so Arthur soon settled down again into the easy tenor of Madeira life. He +now scarcely made a pretence of living at the hotel, since, during their +cruise, Mildred had had a pavilion which stood in the garden luxuriously set up +for his occupation. Here he was happy enough in a dull, numb way, and, as the +days went on, something of the old light came back to his eyes, and his +footfall again grew quick and strong as when it used to fall in the corridors +of the Abbey House. Of the past he never spoke, nor did Mildred ever allude to +Angela after that conversation at sea which had ended so strangely. She +contented herself with attempting to supplant her, and to a certain extent she +was successful. No man could have for very long remained obdurate to such +beauty and such patient devotion, and it is not wonderful that he grew in a way +to love her. +</p> + +<p> +But there was this peculiarity about the affair—namely, that the +affection which he bore her was born more of her stronger will than of his own +feelings, as was shown by the fact that, so long as he was actually with her +and within the circle of her influence, her power over him was predominant; +but, the moment that he was out of her sight, his thoughts would fall back into +their original channels, and the old sores would begin to run. However much, +too, he might be successful in getting the mastery of his troubles by day, at +night they would assert themselves, and from the constant and tormenting dreams +which they inspired he could find no means of escape. +</p> + +<p> +For at least four nights out of every seven, from the moment that he closed his +eyes till he opened them again in the morning, it would seem to him that he had +been in the company of Angela, under every possible variety of circumstance, +talking to her, walking with her, meeting her suddenly or unexpectedly in +crowded places or at dinner-parties— always her, and no one +else—till at last poor Arthur began to wonder if his spirit took leave of +his body in sleep and went to seek her, and, what is more, found her. Or was it +nothing but a fantasy? He could not tell; but, at any rate, it was a fact, and +it would have been hard to say if it distressed or rejoiced him most. +</p> + +<p> +Occasionally, too, he would fall into a fit of brooding melancholy that would +last him for a day or two, and which Mildred would find it quite impossible to +dispel. Indeed, when he got in that way, she soon discovered that the only +thing to do was to leave him alone. He was suffering acutely, there was no +doubt about that, and when any animal suffers, including man, it is best left +in solitude. A sick or wounded beast always turns out of the herd to recover or +die. +</p> + +<p> +When Mildred saw him in this state of mental desolation, she would shake her +head and sigh, for it told her that she was as far as ever from the golden gate +of her Eldorado. As has been said, hers was the strongest will, and, even if he +had not willed it, she could have married him any day she wished; but, odd as +it may seem, she was too conscientious. She had determined that she would not +marry him unless she was certain that he loved her, and to this resolution, as +yet, she firmly held. Whatever her faults may have been, Mildred Carr had all +the noble unselfishness that is so common in her sex. For herself and her own +reputation she cared, comparatively speaking, nothing; whilst for +Arthur’s ultimate happiness she was very solicitous. +</p> + +<p> +One evening—it was one of Arthur’s black days, when he had got a +fit of what Mildred called “Angela fever”—they were walking +together in the garden, Arthur in silence, with his hands in his pockets and +his pipe in his mouth, and Mildred humming a little tune by way of amusing +herself, when they came to the wall that edged the precipice. Arthur leant over +it and gazed at the depths below. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t, dear, you will tumble over,” said Mildred, in some +alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it would be a good thing if I did,” he answered, moodily. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you, then, so tired of the world—and me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, dear, I am not tired of you; forgive me, Mildred, but I am +dreadfully miserable. I know that it is very ungracious and ungrateful of me, +but it is the fact.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are thinking of <i>her</i> again, Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have got a fit of it. I suppose that she has not been out of my +mind for an hour altogether during the last forty-eight hours. Talk of being +haunted by a dead person, it is infinitely worse being haunted by a living +one.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry for you, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you suppose, Mildred, that this will go on for all my life, that I +shall always be at the mercy of these bitter memories and thoughts?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, Arthur. I hope not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I were dead—I wish I were dead,” he broke out, +passionately. “She has destroyed my life, all that was happy in me is +dead, only my body lives on. I am sure I don’t know, Mildred, how you can +care for anything so worthless.” +</p> + +<p> +She kissed him, and answered, +</p> + +<p> +“Dearest, I had rather love you as you are than any other man alive. Time +does wonders; perhaps in time you will get over it. Oh! Arthur, when I think of +what she has made you, and what you might have been if you had never known her, +I long to tell that woman all my mind. But you must be a man, dear; it is weak +to give way to a mad passion, such as this is now. Try to think of something +else; work at something.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no heart for it, Mildred, I don’t feel as though I could +work; and, if you cannot make me forget, I am sure I do not know what +will.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred sighed, and did not answer. Though she spoke hopefully about it to him, +she had little faith in his getting over his passion for Angela now. Either she +must marry him as he was, or else let him go altogether; but which? The +struggle between her affection and her idea of duty was very sore, and as yet +she could come to no conclusion. +</p> + +<p> +One thing there was that troubled her considerably, and this was that, though +Madeira was almost empty, there were enough people in it to get up a good deal +of gossip about herself and Arthur. Now, it would have been difficult to find +anybody more entirely careless of the judgments of society than Mildred, more +especially as her great wealth and general popularity protected her from +slights. But, for all her oddities, she was a thorough woman of the world; and +she knew, none better, that, in pursuance of an almost invariable natural law, +there is nothing that lowers a woman so much in the estimation of a man as the +knowledge that she is talked about, even though he himself is the cause of the +talk. This may be both illogical and unjust, but it is, none the less, true. +</p> + +<p> +But, if Mildred still hesitated, Arthur did not. He was very anxious that they +should be married; indeed, he almost insisted on it. The position was one that +was far from being agreeable to him, for all such intimacies must, from their +very nature, necessitate a certain amount of false swearing. They are +throughout an acted lie; and, when the lie is acted, it must sometimes be +spoken. Now, this is a state of affairs that is repugnant to an honourable man, +and one that not unfrequently becomes perfectly intolerable. Many is the +love-affair that comes to a sudden end because the man finds it impossible to +permanently constitute himself a peregrinating falsehood. But, oddly enough, it +has been found difficult to persuade the other contracting party of the +validity of the excuse, and, however unjust it may be, one has known of men who +have seen their defection energetically set down to more vulgar causes. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur was no exception to this rule. He found himself in a false position, and +he hated it. Indeed, he determined before long he would place it before Mildred +in the light of an alternative, that he should either marry her, or that an end +should be put to their existing relations. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap73"></a>CHAPTER LXXIII.</h2> + +<p> +As the autumn came on, a great south-west gale burst over Madeira, and went +sweeping away up the Bay of Biscay. It blew for three days and nights, and was +one of the heaviest on record. When it first began, the English mail was due; +but when it passed there were still no signs of her, and prophets of evil were +not wanting who went to and fro shaking their heads, and suggesting that she +had probably foundered in the Bay. +</p> + +<p> +Two more days went by, and there were still no signs of her, though the +telegraph told them that she had left Southampton Docks at the appointed time +and date. By this time, people in Madeira could talk of nothing else. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Arthur, no signs of the <i>Roman?</i>” said Mildred, on the +fifth day. +</p> + +<p> +“No, the <i>Garth Castle</i> is due in to-day. Perhaps she may have heard +something of her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Miss Terry, absently; “she may have fallen in +with some of the wreckage.” +</p> + +<p> +“I must say that is a cheerful suggestion,” answered Arthur. +“She is an awful old tub, and, I daresay, ran before the gale for Vigo, +that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us hope so,” said Mildred, doubtfully. “What is it, +John?” +</p> + +<p> +“The housemaid wishes to speak to you, please, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, I will come.” +</p> + +<p> +It has been hinted that Agatha Terry was looking absent on the morning in +question. There was a reason for it. For some time past there had been growing +up in the bosom of this excellent lady a consciousness that things were not +altogether as they should be. Miss Terry was not clever, indeed it may be said +that she was dense, but still she could not but see that there was something +odd in the relations between Arthur and Mildred. For instance, it struck her as +unusual that two persons who were not married, nor even, so far as she knew, +engaged, should habitually call each other “dear,” and even +sometimes “dearest.” +</p> + +<p> +But on the previous evening, when engaged in a search after that species of +beetle that loves the night, she chanced to come across the pair standing +together on the museum verandah, and, to her horror, she saw, even in that +light, that Mildred’s arm was round Arthur’s neck, and her head was +resting on his heart. Standing aghast, she saw more; for presently Mildred +raised her hand, and, drawing Arthur’s head down to the level of her own, +kissed him upon the face. +</p> + +<p> +There was no doubt about it, it was a most deliberate kiss—a kiss without +any extenuating circumstances. He was not even going away, and Agatha could +only come to one conclusion, that they were either going to be married—or +“they ought to be.” +</p> + +<p> +She sought no more beetles that evening, but on the following morning, when +Mildred departed to see the housemaid, leaving Arthur and herself together on +the verandah, she thought it was her “duty” to seek a little +information. +</p> + +<p> +“Arthur,” she said, with a beating heart, “I want to ask you +something. Are you engaged to Mildred?” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated, and then answered. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I suppose not, Miss Terry.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor married to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“No; why do you ask?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because I think you ought to be.” +</p> + +<p> +“I quite agree with you. I suppose that you have noticed +something?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have. I saw her kissing you, Arthur.” +</p> + +<p> +He blushed like a girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur,” she went on, bursting into tears, “don’t +let this sort of thing go on, or poor Mildred will lose her reputation; and you +must know what a dreadful thing that is for any woman. Why don’t you +marry her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Because she refused to marry me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet—and yet she kisses you—like that!” added Miss +Terry, as the peculiar fervour of the embrace in question came back to her +recollection. “Ah, I don’t know what to think.” +</p> + +<p> +“Best not think about it at all, Miss Terry. It won’t bear +reflection.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur, how could you?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked very uncomfortable as he answered— +</p> + +<p> +“I know that I must seem a dreadful brute to you. I daresay I am; but, +Miss Terry, it would, under all the circumstances, be much more to the point, +if you insisted on Mildred’s marrying me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare not. You do not know Mildred. She would never submit to it from +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I must; and, what is more, I will do it now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Arthur, thank you. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no need to be grateful to the author of this mischief.” +</p> + +<p> +“And supposing she refuses—what will you do then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I think that I shall go away at once. Hush! here she comes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Arthur, what are you and Agatha plotting together? You both look +serious enough.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, Mildred—that is, only another sea-voyage.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred glanced at him uneasily. She did not like the tone in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a bit of bad news for you, Arthur. That fool, that idiot, +Jane”—and she stamped her little foot upon the +pavement—“has upset the mummy hyacinth-pot and broken the flower +off just as it was coming into bloom. I have given her a quarter’s wages +and her passage back to England, and packed her off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Mildred,” remonstrated Miss Terry, “what a fuss to make +about a flower!” +</p> + +<p> +She turned on her almost fiercely. +</p> + +<p> +“I had rather have broken my arm, or anything short of my neck, than that +she should have broken that flower. Arthur planted it, and now the clumsy girl +has destroyed it,” and Mildred looked as though she were going to cry. +</p> + +<p> +As there was nothing more to be said, Miss Terry went away. As soon as she was +gone, Mildred turned to Arthur and said— +</p> + +<p> +“You were right, Arthur; we shall never see it bloom in this +world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind about the flower, dear; it cannot be helped. I want to speak +to you of something more important. Miss Terry saw you kiss me last night, and +she not unnaturally is anxious to know what it all means.” +</p> + +<p> +“And did you tell her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +It was Mildred’s turn to blush now. +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, you must listen to me. This cannot go on any more; either you +must marry me, or——” +</p> + +<p> +“Or what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Or I must go away. At present our whole life is a lie.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you really wish me to marry you, Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“I not only wish it, I think it necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you nothing more to say than that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have to say that I will do my best to make you a good and +faithful husband, and that I am sure you will make me a good wife.” +</p> + +<p> +She dropped her face upon her hands and thought. +</p> + +<p> +Just then Miss Terry came hurrying up. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Arthur!” she said, “just think, the <i>Roman</i> is in, +after all, but all her boats are gone, and they say that half of her passengers +and crew are washed overboard; do go down and see about it.” +</p> + +<p> +He hesitated a little. +</p> + +<p> +“Go, dear,” whispered Mildred. “I want time to think. I will +give you my answer this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred sat still on the verandah thinking, but she had not been there many +minutes before a servant came with her English letters that had been brought by +the unfortunate <i>Roman</i>, and at the same time informed her that the +<i>Garth Castle</i> had been sighted, and would anchor in a few hours. Mildred +reflected that it was not often they got two English mails in one day. She +began idly turning over the packet before her. Of late letters had lost much of +their interest for Mildred. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, however, her hand made a movement of almost electric swiftness, and +the colour left her face as she seized a stout envelope directed in a hand of +peculiar delicacy to “Arthur Heigham, Esq., care of Mrs. Carr, +Madeira.” Mildred knew the handwriting, she had seen it in Arthur’s +pocket-book. It was Angela Caresfoot’s. Next to it there was another +letter addressed to Arthur in a hand that she did not know, but bearing the +same postmarks, “Bratham” and “Roxham.” She put them +both aside, and then took up the thick letter and examined it. It had two +peculiarities—first, it was open, having come unsealed in transit, and +been somewhat roughly tied up with a piece of twine; and secondly, it contained +some article of jewellery. Indeed, by dint of a little pressing on the outside +paper, she was able to form a pretty accurate opinion as to what it was. It was +a ring. If she had turned pale before when she saw the letter, she was paler +still now. +</p> + +<p> +“Heavens,” she thought, “why does she send him a ring? Has +anything happened to her husband? If she is a free woman, I am lost.” +</p> + +<p> +Mildred looked at the letter lying open before her, and a terrible temptation +took possession of her. She took it up and put it down again, and then again +she took it up, wiping the cold perspiration from her forehead. +</p> + +<p> +“My whole life is at stake,” she thought. +</p> + +<p> +Then she hesitated no longer, but, taking the letter, slipped off the piece of +twine, and drew its contents from the envelope. The first thing to fall out, +wrapped in a little cotton-wool, was the ring. She looked at it, and recognized +it as Arthur’s engagement ring, the same that Lady Bellamy had taken with +her. Then, putting aside the statement, she deliberately unfolded the letter, +and read it. +</p> + +<p> +Do not think too hardly of her, my reader. The temptation was very sore. But, +when one yields to temptation, retribution is not unfrequently hard upon its +track, and it would only have been necessary to watch Mildred’s face to +see that, if she had sinned, the sin went hand in hand with punishment. In +turn, it took an expression of astonishment, grief, awe, and despair. She read +the letter to the last word, then she took the statement, and glanced through +it, smiling once or twice as she read. Next she replaced everything in the +envelope, and, taking it, together with the other letter addressed to Arthur, +unbuttoned the top of her loose-bodied white dress, and placed them in her +bosom. +</p> + +<p> +“It is over,” she said to herself. “I can never marry him +now. That woman is as far above me as the stars, and, sooner or later, he would +find it all out. He must go, ah, God! he must go to marry <i>her</i>. Why +should I not destroy these letters, and marry him to-morrow? bind him to me by +a tie that no letters can ever break? What! purchase his presence at the price +of his daily scorn? Oh, such water is too bitter for me to drink! I have sinned +against you, Arthur, but I will sin no more. Good-bye, my dear, +good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +And she laid her throbbing head upon the rail of the verandah, and wept +bitterly. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap74"></a>CHAPTER LXXIV.</h2> + +<p> +About three o’clock that afternoon Arthur returned to the Quinta, having +lunched on board the <i>Roman</i>. He found Mildred sitting in her favourite +place on the museum verandah. She was very pale, and, if he had watched her, he +would have seen that she was trembling all over, but he did not observe her +particularly. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he said, “it is all nonsense about half the crew +being drowned; only one man was killed, by the fall of a spar, poor chap. They +ran into Vigo, as I thought. The other mail is just coming in— but what +is the matter, Mildred? You look pale.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, dear; I have a good deal to think of, that is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, yes! Well, my love, have you made up your mind?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did I refuse to marry you before; for your sake, or mine, +Arthur?” +</p> + +<p> +“You said—absurdly, I thought—for mine!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what I said I meant, and what I meant, I mean. Look me in the face, +dear, and tell me, upon your honour as a gentleman, that you love me, really +love me, and I will marry you to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very fond of you, Mildred, and I will make you a good and true +husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely; that is what I expected, but it is <i>not</i> enough for me. +There was a time when I thought that I could be well satisfied if you would +only look kindly upon me, but I suppose that <i>l’appetit vient en +mangeant</i>, for, now you do that, I am not satisfied. I long to reign alone. +But that is not all. I will not consent to tie you, who do not love me, to my +apron-strings for life. Believe me, the time is very near when you would curse +me, if I did. You say”—and she rose and stretched out her +arm—“that you will either marry me or go. I have made my choice. I +will not beat out my heart against a stone. I will <i>not</i> marry you. Go, +Arthur, go!” +</p> + +<p> +A great anxiety came into his face. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you fully understand what you are saying, Mildred? Such ties as exist +between us cannot be lightly broken.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I will break them, and my own heart with them, before they become +chains so heavy that you cannot bear them. Arthur”—and she came up +to him, and put her hands upon his shoulders, looking, with wild and sorrowful +eyes, straight into his face—“tell me now, dear—do not +palter, or put me off with any courteous falsehood—tell me as truly as +you will speak upon the judgment-day, do you still love Angela Caresfoot as +much as ever?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, you should not ask me such painful questions; it is not right +of you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is right; and you will soon know that it is. Answer me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, if you must have it, <i>I do</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Her face became quite hard. Slowly she took her hands from his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“And you have the effrontery to ask me to marry you with one breath, and +to tell me this with the next. Arthur, you had better go. Do not consider +yourself under any false obligation to me. Go, and go quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake, think what you are doing, Mildred!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! I have thought—I have thought too much. There is nothing left +but to say good-bye. Yes, it is a very cruel word. Do you know that you have +passed over my life like a hurricane, and wrenched it up by the roots?” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Mildred, you mystify me. I don’t understand you. What can +be the meaning of all this?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him for a few seconds, and then answered, in a quiet, +matter-of-fact voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I forgot, Arthur; here are your English letters;” and she drew +them from her bosom and gave them to him. “Perhaps they will explain +things a little. Meanwhile, I will tell you something. Angela Caresfoot’s +husband is dead; indeed, she was never <i>really</i> married to him.” And +then she turned, and slowly walked towards the entrance of the museum. In the +boudoir, however, her strength seemed to fail her, and she sank on a chair. +</p> + +<p> +Arthur took the letter, written by the woman he loved, and warm from the breast +of the woman he was about to leave, and stood speechless. His heart stopped for +a moment, and then sent the blood bounding through his veins like a flood of +joy. The shock was so great that for a second or two he staggered, and nearly +fell. Presently, however, he recovered himself, and another and very different +thought overtook him. +</p> + +<p> +Putting the letters into his pocket, he followed Mildred into the boudoir. She +was sitting, looking very faint, upon a chair, her arms hanging down helplessly +by her side. +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred,” he said, hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +She looked up with a faint air of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“What, are you not gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mildred, beyond what you have just said I know nothing of the contents +of these letters; but whatever they may be, here and now, before I read them, I +again offer to marry you. I owe it to you and to my own sense of what is right +that I should marry you.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke calmly, and with evident sincerity. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that I read your letter just now, and had half a mind to +burn it; that I am little better than a thief?” +</p> + +<p> +“I guessed that you had read it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you understand that your Angela is unmarried, that she was never +really married at all—and that she asks nothing better than to marry +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you still offer to make me your wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do. What do you say?” +</p> + +<p> +A flood of light filled Mildred’s eyes as she rose and confronted him. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Arthur, that you are a very noble gentleman, and, that though +from this day I must be a miserable woman, I shall always be proud to have +loved you. Listen, my dear. When I read that letter, I felt that your Angela +towered over me like the Alps, her snowy purity stained only by the reflected +lights of heaven. I felt that I could not compete with such a woman as this, +that I could never hope to hold you from one so calmly faithful, so dreadfully +serene, and I knew that she had conquered, robbing me for Time, and, as I fear, +leaving me beggared for Eternity. In the magnificence of her undying power, in +the calm certainty of her command, she flings me your life as though it were +nothing. ‘Take it,’ she says; ‘he will never love +you—he is mine; but I can afford to wait. I shall claim him before the +throne of God.’ But now, look you, Arthur, if you can behave like the +generous- hearted gentleman you are, I will show you that I am not behind you +in generosity. I will <i>not</i> marry you. I have done with you; or, to be +more correct,” and she gave a hard little laugh, “you have done +with me. Go back to Angela, the beautiful woman with inscrutable grey eyes, who +waits for you, clothed in her eternal calm, like a mountain in its snows. I +shall send her that tiara as a wedding-present; it will become her well. Go +back, Arthur; but sometimes, when you are cloyed with unearthly virtue and +perfection, remember that a <i>woman</i> loved you. There, I have made you +quite a speech; you will always think of me in connection with fine words. Why +don’t you go?” +</p> + +<p> +Arthur stood utterly confused. +</p> + +<p> +“And what will you do, Mildred?” +</p> + +<p> +“I!” she answered, with the same hard laugh. “Oh, don’t +trouble yourself about me. I shall be a happy woman yet. I mean to see life +now—go in for pleasure, power, ritualism, whatever comes first. Perhaps, +when we meet again, I shall be Lady Minster, or some other great lady, and +shall be able to tell you that I am very, very happy. A woman always likes to +tell her old lover that, you know, though she would not like him to believe it. +Perhaps, too”—and here her eyes grew soft, and her voice broke into +a sob—“I shall have a consolation you know nothing of.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not know what she meant; indeed, he was half-distracted with grief and +doubt. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment more they stood facing each other in silence, and then suddenly +she flung her arms above her head, and uttering a low cry of grief, turned, and +ran swiftly down the stone passage into the museum. Arthur hesitated for a +while, and then followed her. +</p> + +<p> +A painful sight awaited him in that silent chamber; for there— stretched +on the ground before the statue of Osiris, like some hopeless sinner before an +inexorable justice, with her brown hair touched to gold by a ray of sunlight +from the roof—lay Mildred, as still as though she were dead. He went to +her, and tried to raise her, but she wrenched herself loose, and, in an +abandonment of misery, flung herself upon the ground again. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought it was over,” she said, “and that you were gone. +Go, dear, or this will drive me mad. Perhaps, sometimes, you will write +me.” +</p> + +<p> +He knelt beside her and kissed her, and then he rose and went. +</p> + +<p> +But for many a year was he haunted by that scene of human misery enacted in the +weird chamber of the dead. Never could he forget the sight of Mildred lying in +the sunlight, with the marble face of mocking calm looking down upon her, and +the mortal frames of those who, in their day, had suffered as she suffered, and +ages since had found the rest that she in time would reach, scattered all +around—fit emblems of the fragile vanity of passions which suck their +strength from earth alone. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap75"></a>CHAPTER LXXV.</h2> + +<p> +When Arthur got out of the gates of the Quinta Carr, he hurried to the hotel, +with the intention of reading the letters Mildred had given him, and, passing +through the dining-room, seated himself upon the “stoep” which +overlooked the garden in order to do so. At this time of year it was, generally +speaking, a quiet place enough; but on this particular day scarcely had Arthur +taken the letter from his pocket, and—having placed the ring that it +contained upon his trembling finger, and repudiating the statement, marked +“to be read first,” on account of its business-like +appearance—glanced at the two first lines of Angela’s own letter, +when the sound of hurrying feet and many chattering voices reminded him that he +could expect no peace anywhere in the neighbourhood of the hotel. The second +English mail was in, and all the crowd of passengers, who were at this time +pouring out to the Cape to escape the English winter, had come, rejoicing, +ashore, to eat, drink, be merry, and buy parrots and wicker chairs while the +vessel coaled. +</p> + +<p> +He groaned and fled, in his hurry leaving the statement on the bench on which +he was seated. +</p> + +<p> +Some half-mile or so away, to the left of the town, where the sea had +encroached a little upon the shore of the island, there was a nook of peculiar +loveliness. Here the giant hand of Nature had cleft a ravine in the mountains +that make Madeira, down which a crystal streamlet trickled to the patch of +yellow sand that edged the sea. Its banks sloped like a natural terrace, and +were clothed with masses of maidenhair ferns interwoven with feathery grasses, +whilst up above among the rocks grew aloes and every sort of flowering shrub. +</p> + +<p> +Behind, clothed in forest, lay the mass of mountains, varied by the rich green +of the vine-clad valleys, and in front heaved the endless ocean, broken only by +one lonely rock that stood grimly out against the purpling glories of the +evening sky. This spot Arthur had discovered in the course of his rambles with +Mildred, and it was here that he bent his steps to be alone to read his +letters. Scarcely had he reached the place, however, when he discovered, to his +intense vexation, that he had left the enclosure in Angela’s letter upon +the verandah at the hotel. But, luckily, it chanced that, within a few yards of +the spot where he had seated himself, there was a native boy cutting +walking-sticks from the scrub. He called to him in Portuguese, of which he had +learnt a little, and, writing something on a card, told him to take it to the +manager of the hotel, and to bring back what he would give him. Delighted at +the chance of earning sixpence, the boy started at a run, and at last he was +able to begin to read his letter. +</p> + +<p> +Had Arthur not been in quite such a hurry to leave the hotel, he might have +seen something which would have interested him, namely, a very lovely +woman—so lovely, indeed, that everybody turned their heads to look at her +as she passed, accompanied by another woman clad in a stiff black gown, not at +all lovely, and rather ancient, but, for all that, well-favoured and pleasant +to look on, being duly convoyed to their room in the hotel by his friend the +manager. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, thank my stars, here we be at last,” said the elderly stout +person, with a gasp, as the door of the room closed upon the pair; “and +it’s my opinion that here I shall stop till my dying day, for, as for +getting on board one of those beastly ships again, I couldn’t do it, and +that’s flat. Now look here, dearie, don’t you sit there and look +frightened, but just set to and clean yourself up a bit. I’m off +downstairs to see if I can find out about things; everybody’s sure to +know everybody else’s business in a place like this, because, you see, +the gossip can’t get out of a bit of an island, it must travel round and +round till it ewaporates. I shall soon know if he is married or not, and if he +is, why, what’s done can’t be undone, and it’s no use crying +over spilt milk, and we’ll be off home, though I doubt I +sha’n’t live to get there, and if he isn’t why so much the +better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! nurse, do stop talking, and go quickly; can’t you see that I +am in an agony of suspense? I must get it over one way or the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hurry no man’s cattle, my dear, or I shall make a mess of it. Now, +Miss Angela, just you keep cool, it ain’t no manner of use flying into a +state. I’ll be back presently.” +</p> + +<p> +But, as soon as she was gone, poor Angela flew into a considerable state; for, +flinging herself upon her knees by the bed, she broke into hysterical prayers +to her Maker that Arthur might not be taken from her. Poor girl! alternately +racked by sick fears and wild hopes, hers was not a very enviable position +during the apparently endless ten minutes that followed. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, Pigott had descended to the cool hall, round which were arranged +rows of hammocks, and was looking out for some one with whom to enter into +conversation. A Portuguese waiter approached her, but she majestically waved +him away, under the impression that he could not speak English, though as a +matter of fact his English was purer than her own. +</p> + +<p> +Presently a pretty little woman, leading a baby by the hand, came up to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Pray, do you want anything? I am the wife of the manager.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, ma’am. I want a little information—at least, +there’s another that does. Did you ever happen to hear of a Mr. +Heigham?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Heigham? Indeed, yes; I know him well. He was here a few minutes +since.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then perhaps, ma’am, you can tell me if he is married to a Mrs. +Carr that lives on this island?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not that I know of,” she answered, with a little smile; “but +there is a good deal of talk about them—people say that, though they are +not married, they ought to be, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the best bit of news I have heard for many a day. As for +the talk, I don’t pay no manner of heed to that. If he ain’t +married to her, he won’t marry her now, I’ll go bail. Thank you +kindly, ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment they were interrupted by the entrance of a little ragged boy +into the hall, who timidly held out a card to the lady to whom Pigott was +talking. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you want to find Mr. Heigham?” she said. “Because if so, +this boy will show you where he is. He has sent here for a paper that he left. +I found it on the verandah just now, and wondered what it was. Perhaps you +would take it to him if you go. I don’t like trusting this boy—as +likely as not he will lose it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That will just suit. Just you tell the boy to wait while I fetch my +young lady, and we will go with him. Is this the paper? And in her writing, +too! Well, I never! There, I’ll be back in no time.” +</p> + +<p> +Pigott went upstairs far too rapidly for a person of her size and years, with +the result that when she reached their room, where Angela was waiting half dead +with suspense, she could only gasp. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Angela, “be quick and tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lord! them stairs!” gasped Pigott. +</p> + +<p> +“For pity’s sake, tell me the worst!” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, miss, <i>do</i> give a body time, and don’t be a +fool—begging pardon for——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Pigott, you are torturing me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, miss, you muddle me so—but I am coming to it. I went down +them dratted stairs, and there I see a wonderful nice-looking party with a +baby.” +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake tell me—<i>is Arthur married?</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, no, dearie—of course not. I was just a-going to +say——” +</p> + +<p> +But whatever valuable remark Pigott was going to make was lost to the world for +ever, for Angela flung her arms round her neck and began kissing her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, oh! thank God—thank God! Oh, oh, oh!” +</p> + +<p> +Whereupon Pigott, being a very sensible person, took her by the shoulders and +tried to shake her, but it was no joke shaking a person of her height. Angela +stood firm, and Pigott oscillated—that was the only visible result. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, then, miss,” she said, giving up the shaking as a bad job, +“no highstrikes, <i>if</i> you please. Just you put on your hat and come +for a bit of a walk in this queer place with me. I haven’t brought you up +by hand this two-and-twenty year or thereabouts, to see you go off in +highstrikes, like a housemaid as has seen a ghost.” +</p> + +<p> +Angela stopped, and did as she was bid. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap76"></a>CHAPTER LXXVI.</h2> + +<p> +Arthur read his letter, and his heart burnt with passionate love of the true +woman he had dared to doubt. Then he flung himself upon the grass and looked at +the ocean that sparkled and heaved before him, and tried to think; but as yet +he could not. The engines of his mind were reversed full speed, whilst his mind +itself, with quick shudders and confusion, still forged ahead upon its former +course. He rose, and cast upon the scene around him that long look we give to +the place where a great happiness has found us. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was sinking fast behind the mountains, turning their slabbed sides and +soaring pinnacles to giant shields and spears of fire. Beneath their mass, +shadows—forerunners of the night—crept over the forests and the +crested rollers, whilst further from him the ocean heaved in a rosy glow. +Above, the ever-changing vault of heaven was of a beauty that no brush could +paint. On a ground-work of burning red were piled, height upon height, deep +ridges of purples and of crimsons. Nearer the horizon the colours brightened to +a dazzling gold, till at length they narrowed to the white intensity of the +half- hidden eye of the sun vanishing behind the mountains; whilst underlying +the steady splendour of the upper skies flushed soft and melting shades of rose +and lilac. Blue space above him was broken up by fantastic clouds that floated +all on fire, and glowed like molten metal. The reflection, too, of all these +massed and varied lights in the azure of the eastern skies was full of sharp +contrasts and soft surprises, and a travelling eagle, sailing through space +before them, seemed to gather all their tints upon his vivid wings, and, as he +passed away, to leave a rainbow track of broken light. +</p> + +<p> +But such a glory was too bright to last. The sun sank swiftly, the celestial +fires paled, the purples grew faint and died, and, where they had been, night +trailed her sombre plumes across the sea and sky. +</p> + +<p> +But still the quiet glow of evening lingered, and presently a line of light was +shot athwart it, cutting a track of glory across the shadowed sea, so weird and +sudden, that it might well have been the first ray of a resurrection morn +breaking in upon the twilight of the dead. +</p> + +<p> +He gazed almost in awe, till the majestic sight stilled the tumult of his +heart, and his thoughts went up in thanks to the Creator for the pure love he +had found again, and which had not betrayed him. Then he looked up, and there, +stately and radiant, standing out clear against the shadows, her face illumined +by that soft, yet vivid light, her trembling arms outstretched to clasp +him—was his lost Angela. +</p> + +<p> +He saw her questioning glances fall upon him, and the red blood waver on her +cheek; he saw the love-lights gather in her eyes; and then he saw no more, for +she was in his arms, murmuring sweet broken words. +</p> + +<p> +Happy are those who thus shall find their Angela, whether it be here +or—on the further shore of yonder solemn sea! +</p> + +<p> +And Mildred? She lay there before the stone symbol of inexorable judgment, and +sobbed till the darkness covered her, and her heart broke in the silence. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10892 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + |