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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/19802-8.txt b/19802-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..293166a --- /dev/null +++ b/19802-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12053 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cobwebs and Cables, by Hesba Stretton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Cobwebs and Cables + +Author: Hesba Stretton + +Release Date: November 13, 2006 [EBook #19802] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBWEBS AND CABLES *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +COBWEBS + +AND + +CABLES. + +BY + +HESBA STRETTON, + +AUTHOR OF "THROUGH A NEEDLE'S EYE," "IN PRISON AND OUT," "BEDE'S +CHARITY," ETC. + +NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. + + + + +_AUTHOR'S CARD._ + +_It is my wish that Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company alone should publish +this story in the United States, and I appeal to the generosity and +courtesy of other Publishers, to allow me to gain some benefit from my +work on the American as well as English side of the Atlantic._ + +_HESBA STRETTON._ + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +PART I. + +CHAPTER + +I. ABSCONDED + +II. PHEBE MARLOWE + +III. FELICITA + +IV. UPFOLD FARM + +V. A CONFESSION + +VI. THE OLD BANK + +VII. AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM + +VIII. THE SENIOR PARTNER + +IX. FAST BOUND + +X. LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH + +XI. OLD MARLOWE + +XII. RECKLESS OF LIFE + +XIII. SUSPENSE + +XIV. ON THE ALTAR STEPS + +XV. A SECOND FRAUD + +XVI. PARTING WORDS + +XVII. WAITING FOR THE NEWS + +XVIII. THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN + +XIX. AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER + +XX. A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF + +XXI. PLATO AND PAUL + +XXII. A REJECTED SUITOR + +XXIII. ANOTHER OFFER + +XXIV. AT HOME IN LONDON + +XXV. DEAD TO THE WORLD + + +PART II. + +CHAPTER + +I. AFTER MANY YEARS + +II. CANON PASCAL + +III. FELICITA'S REFUSAL + +IV. TAKING ORDERS + +V. A LONDON CURACY + +VI. OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS + +VII. AN OLD MAN'S PARDON + +VIII. THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG + +IX. THE LOWEST DEEPS + +X. ALICE PASCAL + +XI. COMING TO HIMSELF + +XII. A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE + +XIII. A LONDON GARRET + +XIV. HIS FATHER'S SIN + +XV. HAUNTING MEMORIES + +XVI. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD + +XVII. NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE + +XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT + +XIX. IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE + +XX. AS A HIRED SERVANT + +XXI. PHEBE'S SECRET + +XXII. NEAR THE END + +XXIII. THE MOST MISERABLE + +XXIV. FOR ONE MOMENT + +XXV. THE FINAL RESOLVE + +XXVI. IN LUCERNE + +XXVII. HIS OWN CHILDREN + +XXVIII. AN EMIGRATION SCHEME + +XXIX. FAREWELL + +XXX. QUITE ALONE + +XXXI. LAST WORDS + + + + +COBWEBS AND CABLES + + + + +PART I. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +ABSCONDED. + + +Late as it was, though the handsome office-clock on the chimney-piece +had already struck eleven, Roland Sefton did not move. He had not +stirred hand or foot for a long while now; no more than if he had been +bound fast by many strong cords, which no effort could break or untie. +His confidential clerk had left him two hours ago, and the undisturbed +stillness of night had surrounded him ever since he had listened to his +retreating footsteps. "Poor Acton!" he had said half aloud, and with a +heavy sigh. + +As he sat there, his clasped hands resting on his desk and his face +hidden on them, all his life seemed to unfold itself before him; not in +painful memories of the past only, but in terrified prevision of the +black future. + +How dear his native town was to him! He had always loved it from his +very babyhood. The wide old streets, with ancient houses still standing +here and there, rising or falling in gentle slopes, and called by quaint +old names such as he never heard elsewhere; the fine old churches +crowning the hills, and lifting up delicate tall spires, visible a score +of miles away; the grammar school where he had spent the happiest days +of his boyhood; the rapid river, brown and swirling, which swept past +the town, and came back again as if it could not leave it; the ancient +bridges spanning it, and the sharp-cornered recesses on them where he +had spent many an idle hour, watching the boats row in and out under the +arches; he saw every familiar nook and corner of his native town vividly +and suddenly, as if he caught glimpses of them by the capricious play of +lightning. + +And this pleasant home of his; these walls which inclosed his +birth-place, and the birth-place of his children! He could not imagine +himself finding true rest and a peaceful shelter elsewhere. The spacious +old rooms, with brown wainscoted walls and carved ceilings; the tall and +narrow windows, with deep window-sills, where as a child he had so often +knelt, gazing out on the wide green landscape and the far distant, +almost level line of the horizon. His boy, Felix, had knelt in one of +them a few hours ago, looking out with grave childish eyes on the +sunset. The broad, shallow steps of the oaken staircase, trodden so many +years by the feet of all who were dearest to him; the quiet chambers +above where his mother, his wife, and his children were at this moment +sleeping peacefully. How unutterably and painfully sweet all his home +was to him! + +Very prosperous his life had been; hardly overshadowed by a single +cloud. His father, who had been the third partner in the oldest bank in +Riversborough, had lived until he was old enough to step into his place. +The bank had been established in the last century, and was looked upon +as being as safe as the Bank of England. The second partner was dead; +and the eldest, Mr. Clifford, had left everything in his hands for the +last five years. + +No man in Riversborough had led a more prosperous life than he had. His +wife was from one of the county families; without fortune, indeed, but +with all the advantages of high connections, which lifted him above the +rank of mere business men, and admitted him into society hitherto closed +even to the head partner in the old bank; in spite even of the fact that +he still occupied the fine old house adjoining the bank premises. There +was scarcely a townsman who was held to be his equal; not one who was +considered his superior. Though he was little over thirty yet, he was at +the head of all municipal affairs. He had already held the office of +mayor for one year, and might have been re-elected, if his wife had not +somewhat scorned the homely bourgeois dignity. There was no more popular +man in the whole town than he was. + +But he had been building on the sands, and the storm was rising. He +could hear the moan of the winds growing louder, and the rush of the +on-coming floods drawing nearer. He must make good his escape now, or +never. If he put off flight till to-morrow, he would be crushed with the +falling of his house. + +He lifted himself up heavily, and looked round the room. It was his +private office, at the back of the bank, handsomely furnished as a bank +parlor should be. Over the fire-place hung the portrait of old Clifford, +the senior partner, faithfully painted by a local artist, who had not +attempted to soften the hard, stern face, and the fixed stare of the +cold blue eyes, which seemed fastened pitilessly upon him. He had never +seen the likeness before as he saw it now. Would such a man overlook a +fault, or have any mercy for an offender? Never! He turned away from it, +feeling cold and sick at heart; and with a heavy, and very bitter sigh +he locked the door upon the room where he had spent so large a portion +of his life. The place which had known him would know him no more. + +As noiselessly and warily as if he was a thief breaking into the quiet +house, he stole up the dimly-lighted staircase, and paused for a minute +or two before a door, listening intently. Then he crept in. A low shaded +lamp was burning, giving light enough to guide him to the cot where +Felix was sleeping. It would be his birthday to-morrow, and the child +must not lose his birthday gift, though the relentless floods were +rushing on toward him also. Close by was the cot where his baby +daughter, Hilda, was at rest. He stood between them, and could lay a +hand on each. How soundly the children slept while his heart was +breaking! Dear as they had been to him, he had never realized till now +how priceless beyond all words such little tender creatures could be. He +had called them into existence; and now the greatest good that could +befall them was his death. It was unutterable agony to him. + +His gift was a Bible, the boy's own choice; and he laid it on the pillow +where Felix would find it as soon as his eyes opened. He bent over him, +and kissed him with trembling lips. Hilda stirred a little when his lips +touched her soft, rosy face, and she half opened her eyes, whispering +"Father," and then fell asleep again smiling. He dared not linger +another moment, but passing stealthily away, he paused listening at +another door, his face white with anguish. "I dare not see Felicita," he +murmured to himself, "but I must look on my mother's face once again." + +The door made no sound as he opened it, and his feet fell noiselessly on +the thick carpet; but as he drew near his mother's bed, her eyes opened +with a clear steady gaze as if she had been awaiting his coming. There +was a light burning here as well as in the night-nursery adjoining, for +it was his mother who had charge of the children, and who would be the +first the nurse would call if anything was the matter. She awoke as one +who expects to be called upon at any hour; but the light was too dim to +betray the misery on her son's face. + +"Roland!" she said, in a slightly foreign accent. + +"Were you calling, mother?" he asked. "I was passing by, and I came in +here to see if you wanted anything." + +"I did not call, my son," she answered, "but what have you the matter? +Is Felicita ill? or the babies? Your voice is sad, Roland." + +"No, no," he said, forcing himself to speak in a cheerful voice, +"Felicita is asleep, I hope, and the babies are all right. But I have +been late at bank-work; and I turned in just to have a look at you, +mother, before I go to bed." + +"That's my good son," she said, smiling, and taking his hand between her +own in a fond clasp. + +"Am I a good son?" he asked. + +His mother's face was a fair, sweet face still, the soft brown hair +scarcely touched with white, and with clear, dark gray eyes gazing up +frankly into his own. They were eyes like these, with their truthful +light shining through them, inherited from her, which in himself had won +the unquestioning trust and confidence of those who were brought into +contact with him. There was no warning signal of disloyalty in his face +to set others on their guard. His mother looked up at him tenderly. + +"Always a good son, the best of sons, Roland," she replied, "and a good +husband, and a good father. Only one little fault in my good son: too +spendthrift, too lavish. You are not a fine, rich lord, with large +lands, and much, very much money, my boy. I do my best in the house; but +women can only save pennies, while men fling about pounds." + +"But you love me with all my faults, mother?" he said. + +"As my own soul," she answered. + +There was a profound solemnity in her voice and look, which penetrated +to his very heart. She was not speaking lightly. It was in the same +spirit with which. Paul wrote, after saying, "For I am persuaded that +neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor +things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other +creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in +Christ Jesus our Lord;" "I could wish that myself were separate from +Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh." His mother +had reached that sublime height of love for him. + +He stood silent, looking down on her with dull, aching eyes, as he said +to himself it was perhaps for the last time. It was the last time she +would ever see him as her good son. With her, in her heart and memory, +all his life dwelt; she knew the whole of it, with no break or +interruption. Only this one hidden thread, which had been woven into the +web in secret, and which was about to stand out with such clear and open +disclosure; of this she had no faint suspicion. For a minute or two he +felt as if he must tell her of it; that he must roll off this horrible +weight from himself, and crush her faithful heart with it. But what +could his mother do? Her love could not stay the storm; she had no power +to bid the winds and waves be still. It would be best for all of them if +he could make his escape secretly, and be altogether lost in +impenetrable darkness. + +At that moment a clock in the hall below struck one. + +"Well," he said wearily, "if I'm to get any sleep to-night I must be off +to bed. Good-by, mother." + +"Good-by?" she repeated with a smile. + +"Good-night, of course," he replied, bending over her and kissing her +tenderly. + +"God bless you, my son," she said, putting both her hands upon his head, +and pressing his face close to her own. He could not break away from her +fond embrace; but in a few moments she let him go, bidding him get some +rest before the night was passed. + +Once more he stood in the dimly-lighted passage, listening at his wife's +door, with his fingers involuntarily clasping the handle. But he dared +not go in. If he looked upon Felicita again he could not leave her, even +to escape from ruin and disgrace. An agony of love and of terror took +possession of him. Never to see her again was horrible; but to see her +shrink from him as a base and dishonest man, his name an infamy to her, +would be worse than death. Did she love him enough to forgive a sin +committed chiefly for her sake? In the depths of his own soul the answer +was no. + +He stole down stairs again, and passed out by a side door into the +streets. It was raining heavily, and the wind was moaning through the +deserted thoroughfares, where no sound of footsteps could be heard. +Behind him lay his pleasant home, never so precious as at this moment. +He looked up at the windows, the two faintly lit up, and that other +darkened window of the chamber he had not dared to enter. In a few hours +those women, so unutterably dear to him, would be overwhelmed by the +great sorrow he had prepared for them; those children would become the +inheritors of his sin. He looked back longingly and despairingly, as if +there only was life for him; and then hurrying on swiftly he lost sight +of the old home, and felt as a drowning wretch at sea feels when the +heaving billows hide from him the glimmering light of the beacon, which, +however, can offer no harbor of refuge to him. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +PHEBE MARLOWE. + + +Though the night had been stormy, the sun rose brightly on the +rain-washed streets, and the roofs and walls stood out with a peculiar +clearness, and with a more vivid color than usual, against the deep blue +of the sky. It was May-day, and most hearts were stirred with a pleasant +feeling as of a holiday; not altogether a common day, though the shops +were all open, and business was going on as usual. The old be-thought +themselves of the days when they had gone a-Maying; and the young felt +less disposed to work, and were inclined to wander out in search of +May-flowers in the green meadows, or along the sunny banks of the river, +which surrounded the town. Early, very early considering the ten miles +she had ridden on her rough hill-pony, came a young country girl across +one of the ancient bridges, with a large market-basket on her arm, +brimful of golden May-flowers, set off well by their own glossy leaves, +and by the dark blue of her dress. She checked her pony and lingered for +a few minutes, looking over the parapet at the swift rushing of the +current through the narrow arches. A thin line of alders grew along the +margin of the river, with their pale green leaves half unfolded; and in +the midst of the swirling waters, parting them into two streams, lay a +narrow islet on which tall willow wands were springing, with soft, white +buds on every rod, and glistening in the sunshine. Not far away a lofty +avenue of lime-trees stretched along the banks, casting wavering shadows +on the brown river; while beyond it, on the summit of one of the hills +on which the town was built, there rose the spires of two churches built +close together, with the gilded crosses on their tapering points +glittering more brightly than anything else in the joyous light. For a +little while the girl gazed dreamily at the landscape, her color coming +and going quickly, and then with a deep-drawn sigh of delight she +roused herself and her pony, and passed on into the town. + +The church clocks struck nine as she turned into Whitefriars Road, the +street where the old bank of Riversborough stood. The houses on each +side of the broad and quiet street were handsome, old-fashioned +dwelling-places, not one of which had as yet been turned into a shop. +The most eminent lawyers and doctors lived in it; and there was more +than one frontage which displayed a hatchment, left to grow faded and +discolored long after the year of mourning was ended. Here too was the +judge's residence, set apart for his occupation during the assizes. But +the old bank was the most handsome and most ancient of all those urban +mansions. It had originally stood alone on the brow of the hill +overlooking the river and the Whitefriars Abbey. Toward the street, when +Ronald Sefton's forefathers had realized a fortune by banking, now a +hundred years ago, there had been a new frontage built to it, with the +massive red brick workmanship and tall narrow windows of the eighteenth +century. But on the river side it was still an old Elizabethan mansion, +with gabled roofs standing boldly up against the sky; and low broad +casements, latticed and filled with lozenge-shaped panes; and +half-timber walls, with black beams fashioned into many forms: and with +one story jutting out beyond that below, until the attic window under +the gable seemed to hang in mid-air, without visible support, over the +garden sloping down a steep bank to the river-side. + +Phebe Marlowe, in her coarse dark blue merino dress, and with her +market-basket of golden blossoms on her arm, walked with a quick step +along the quiet street, having left her pony at a stable near the +entrance to the town. There were few persons about; but those whom she +met she looked at with a pleasant, shy, slight smile on her face, as if +she almost claimed acquaintance with them, and was ready, even wishful, +to bid them good-morning on a day so fine and bright. Two or three +responded to this inarticulate greeting, and then her lips parted +gladly, and her voice, clear though low, answered them with a sweet +good-humor that had something at once peculiar and pathetic in it. She +passed under a broad archway at one side of the bank offices, leading to +the house entrance, and to the sloping garden beyond. A private door +into the bank was ajar, and a dark, sombre face was peering out of it +into the semi-darkness. Phebe's feet paused for an instant. + +"Good-morning, Mr. Acton," she said, with a little rustic courtesy. But +he drew back quickly, and she heard him draw the bolt inside the door, +as if he had neither seen nor heard her. Yet the face, with its eager +and scared expression, had been too quickly seen by her, and too vividly +impressed upon her keen perception; and she went on, chilled a little, +as if some cloud had come over the clear brightness of the morning. + +Phebe was so much at home in the house, that when she found the +housemaid on her knees cleaning the hall floor, she passed on +unceremoniously to the dining-room, where she felt sure of finding some +of the family. It was a spacious room, with a low ceiling where black +beams crossed and recrossed each other; with wainscoted walls, and a +carved chimney-piece of almost black oak. A sombre place in gloomy +weather, yet so decorated with old china vases, and great brass salvers, +and silver cups and tankards catching every ray of light, that the whole +room glistened in this bright May-day. In the broad cushioned seat +formed by the sill of the oriel window, which was almost as large as a +room itself, there sat the elder Mrs. Sefton, Roland Sefton's foreign +mother, with his two children standing before her. They had their hands +clasped behind them, and their faces were turned toward her with the +grave earnestness children's faces often wear. She was giving them their +daily Bible lesson, and she held up her small brown hand as a signal to +Phebe to keep silence, and to wait a moment until the lesson was ended. + +"And so," she said, "those who know the will of God, and do not keep it, +will be beaten with many stripes. Remember that, my little Felix." + +"I shall always try to do it," answered the boy solemnly. "I'm nine +years old to-day; and when I'm a man I'm going to be a pastor, like +your father, grandmamma; my great-grandfather, you know, in the Jura. +Tell us how he used to go about the snow mountains seeing his poor +people, and how he met with wolves sometimes, and was never frightened." + +"Ah! my little children," she answered, "you have had a good father, and +a good grandfather, and a good great-grandfather. How very good you +ought to be." + +"We will," cried both the children, clinging round her as she rose from +her chair, until they caught sight of Phebe standing in the doorway. +Then with cries of delight they flew to her, and threw themselves upon +her with almost rough caresses, as if they knew she could well bear it. +She received them with merry laughter, and knelt down that their arms +might be thrown more easily round her neck. + +"See," she said, "I was up so early, while you were all in bed, finding +May-roses for you, with the May-dew on them. And if your father and +mother will let us go, I'll take you up the river to the osier island; +or you shall ride my Ruby, and we'll go off a long, long way into the +country, us three, and have dinner in a new place, where you have never +been. Because it's Felix's birthday." + +She was still kneeling on the floor, with the children about her, when +the door opened, and the same troubled and haggard face, which had +peered out upon her under the archway, looked into the room with +restless and bloodshot eyes. Phebe felt a sudden chill again, and rising +to her feet put the children behind her, as if she feared some danger +for them. + +"Where is Mr. Sefton?" he asked in a deep, hoarse voice; "is he at home, +Madame?" + +Ever since the elder Mr. Sefton had brought his young foreign wife home, +now more than thirty years ago, the people of Riversborough had called +her Madame, giving to her no other title or surname. It had always +seemed to set her apart, and at a distance, as a foreigner, and so quiet +had she been, so homely and domesticated, that she had remained a +stranger, keeping her old habits of life and thought, and often yearning +for the old pastor's home among the Jura Mountains. + +"But yes," she answered, "my son is late this morning; but all the world +is early, I think. It is not much beyond nine o'clock, Mr. Acton. The +bank is not open yet." + +"No, no," he answered hurriedly, while his eyes wandered restlessly +about the room; "he is not ill, Madame?" + +"I hope so not," she replied, with some vague uneasiness stirring in her +heart. + +"Nor dead?" he muttered. + +"Dead!" exclaimed both Madame and Phebe in one breath; "dead!" + +"All men die," he went on, "and it is a pleasant thing to lie down +quietly in one's own grave, where the wicked cease from troubling, and +the weary are at rest. He could rest soundly in the grave." + +"I will go and see," cried Madame, catching Phebe by the arm. + +"Pray God you may find him dead," he answered, with a low, miserable +laugh, ending in a sob. He was mad; neither Madame nor Phebe had a doubt +of it. They put the children before them, and bade them run away to the +nursery, while they followed up the broad old staircase. Madame went +into her son's bedroom; but in a few seconds she returned to Phebe with +an anxious face. + +"He is not there," she said, "nor Felicita. She is in her own +sitting-room, where she likes not to be followed. It is her sacred +place, and I go there never, Phebe." + +"But she knows where Mr. Sefton is," answered Phebe, "and we must ask +her. We cannot leave poor Mr. Acton alone. If nobody else dare disturb +her, I will." + +"She will not be vexed with you," said Madame Sefton. "Knock at this +door, Phebe; knock till she answers. I am miserable about my son." + +Several times Phebe knocked, more loudly each time, until at last a low +voice, sounding far away, bade them go in. Very quietly, as if indeed +they were stepping into some holy place barefooted, they crossed the +threshold. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +FELICITA. + + +The room was a small one, with a dim, many-colored light pervading it; +for the upper part of the mullioned casement was filled with painted +glass, and even the panes of the lower part were of faintly tinted +green. Like all the rest of the old house, the walls were wainscoted, +but here there was no piece of china or silver to sparkle; the only +glitter was that of the gilding on the handsomely bound books arranged +in two bookcases. In this green gloom sat Felicita Sefton, leaning back +in her chair, with her head resting languidly on the cushions, and her +dark eyes turned dimly and dreamily toward the quietly opening door. + +"Phebe Marlowe!" she said, her eyes brightening a little, as the fresh, +sweet face of the young country girl met her gaze. Phebe stepped softly +forward into the dim room, and laid the finest of the golden flowers she +had gathered that morning upon Felicita's lap. It brought a gleam of +spring sunshine into the gloom which caught Felicita's eye, and she +uttered a low cry of delight as she took it up in her small, delicate +hand. Phebe stooped down shyly and kissed the small hand, her face all +aglow with smiles and blushes. + +"Felicita," said Madame, her voice altering a little, "where is my son +this morning?" + +"Roland!" she repeated absently; "Roland? Didn't he say last night he +was going to London?" + +"To London!" exclaimed his mother. + +"Yes," she answered, "he bade me good-by last night; I remember now. He +said he would not disturb me again; he was going by the mail-train. He +was sorry to be away on poor little Felix's birthday. I recollect quite +distinctly now." + +"He said not one word to me," said Madame. "It is strange." + +"Very strange," asserted Felicita languidly, as if she were wandering +away again into the reverie they had broken in upon. + +"Did he say when he would be back?" asked his mother. + +"In a few days, of course," she answered. + +"But he has not told Acton," resumed Madame. + +"Who did you say?" inquired Felicita. + +"The head clerk, the manager when Roland is away," she said. "He has not +said anything to him." + +"Very strange," said Felicita again. It was plainly irksome to her to be +disturbed by questions like these, and she was withdrawing herself into +the remote and unapproachable distance where no one could follow her. +Her finely-chiselled features and colorless skin gave her a singular +resemblance to marble; and they might almost as well have addressed +themselves to a marble image. + +"Come," said Madame, "we must see Acton again." + +They found him in the bank parlor, where Roland was usually to be met +with at this hour. There was an unspoken hope in their hearts that he +would be there, and so deliver them from the undefined trouble and +terror they were suffering. But only Acton was there, seated at Roland's +desk, and turning over the papers in it with a rapid and reckless hand. +His face was hidden behind the great flap of the desk, and though he +glanced over it for an instant as the door opened he concealed himself +again, as if feigning unconsciousness of any one's presence. + +"My son is gone to London," said Madame, keeping at a safe distance from +him, with the door open behind her and Phebe to secure a speedy retreat. +The flap of the desk fell with a loud crash, and Acton flung his arms +above his head with a gesture of despair. + +"I knew it," he exclaimed. "Oh, my dear young master! God grant he may +get away safe. All is lost!" + +"What do you mean?" cried Madame, forgetting one terror in another, and +catching him by the arm; "what is lost?" + +"He is gone!" he answered, "and it was more my fault than his--mine and +Mrs. Sefton's. Whatever wrong he has done it was for her. Remember +that, Madame, and you, Phebe Marlowe. If anything happens, remember it's +my fault more than his, and Mrs. Sefton's fault more than mine." + +"Tell me what you mean," urged Madame breathlessly. + +"You'll know when Mr. Sefton returns, Madame," he answered, with a +sudden return to his usually calm tone and manner, which was as +startling as his former vehemence had been; "he'll explain all when he +comes home. We must open the bank now; it is striking ten." + +He locked the desk and passed out of the comfortably-furnished parlor +into the office beyond, leaving them nothing to do but to return into +the house with their curiosity unsatisfied, and the mother's vague +trouble unsoothed. + +"Phebe, Phebe!" cried Felix, as they slowly re-entered the pleasant +home, "my mother says we may go up the river to the osier island; and, +oh, Phebe, she will go with us her own self!" + +He had run down the broad staircase to meet them, almost breathless with +delight, and with eyes shining with almost serious rapture. He clasped +Phebe's arm, and, leaning toward her, whispered into her ear, + +"She took me in her arms, and said, 'I love you, Felix,' and then she +kissed me as if she meant it, Phebe. It was better than all my birthday +presents put together. My father said to me one day he adored her; and I +adore her. She is my mother, you know--the mother of me, Felix; and I +lie down on the floor and kiss her feet every day, only she does not +know it. When she looks at me her eyes seem to go through me; but, oh, +she does not look at me often." + +"She is so different; not like most people," answered Phebe, with her +arms round the boy. + +Madame had gone on sadly enough up-stairs to see if she could find out +anything about her son; and Phebe and Felix had turned into the terraced +garden where the boat-house was built close under the bank of the river. + +"I should be sorry for my mother to be like other people," said Felix +proudly. "She is like the evening star, my father says, and I always +look out at night to see if it is shining. You know, Phebe, when we row +her up the river, my father and me, we keep quite quiet, only nodding at +one another which way to pull, and she sits silent with eyes that shine +like stars. We would not speak for anything, not one little word, lest +we should disturb her. My father says she is a great genius; not at all +like other people, and worth thousands and thousands of common women. +But I don't think you are a common woman, Phebe," he added, lifting up +his eager face to hers, as if afraid of hurting her feelings, "and my +father does not think so, I know." + +"Your father has known me all my life, and has always been my best +friend," said Phebe, with a pleasant smile. "But I am a working-woman, +Felix, and your mother is a lady and a great genius. It is God who has +ordered it so." + +She would have laughed if she had been less simple-hearted than she was, +at the anxious care with which the boy arranged the boat for his mother. +No cushions were soft enough and no shawls warm enough for the precious +guest. When at length all was ready, and he fetched her himself from +the house, it was not until she was comfortably seated in the low seat, +with a well-padded sloping back, against which she could recline at +ease, and with a soft, warm shawl wrapped round her--not till then did +the slight cloud of care pass away from his face, and the little pucker +of anxiety which knitted his brows grow smooth. The little girl of five, +Hilda, nestled down by her mother, and Felix took his post at the helm. +In unbroken silence they pushed off into the middle of the stream, the +boat rowed easily by Phebe's strong young arms. So silent were they all +that they could hear the rustling of the young leaves on the trees, +under whose shadows they passed, and the joyous singing of the larks in +the meadows on each side of the sunny reaches of water, down which they +floated. It was not until they landed the children on the osier island, +and bade them run about to play, and not then until they were some +distance away, that their merry young voices were heard. + +"Phebe," said Felicita, in her low-toned, softly-modulated voice, always +languid and deliberate, "talk to me. Tell me how you spend your life." + +Phebe was sitting face to face with her, balancing the boat with the +oars against the swift flowing of the river, with smiles coming and +going on her face as rapidly as the shadows and the sunshine chasing +each other over the fields this May morning. + +"You know," she answered simply, "we live a mile away from the nearest +house, and that is only a cottage where an old farm laborer lives with +his wife. It's very lonesome up there on the hills. Days and days go by, +and I never hear a voice speaking, and I feel as if I could not bear the +sound of my own voice when I call the cattle home, or the fowls to come +for their corn. If it wasn't for the living things around me, that know +me as well as they know one another, and love me more, I should feel +sometimes as if I was dead. And I long so to hear somebody speak--to be +near more of my fellow-creatures. Why, when I touch the hand of any one +I love--yours, or Mr. Sefton's, or Madame's--it's almost a pain to me; +it seems to bring me so close to you. I always feel as if I became a +part of father when I touch him. Oh, you do not know what it is to be +alone!" + +"No," said Felicita, sighing; "never have I been alone, and I would give +worlds to be as free as you are. You cannot imagine what it is," she +went on, speaking rapidly and with intense eagerness, "never to belong +to yourself, or to be alone; for it is not being alone to have only four +thin walls separating you from a husband and children and a large busy +household. 'What are you thinking, my darling?' Roland is always asking +me; and the children break in upon me. Body, soul, and spirit, I am held +down a captive; I have been in bondage all my life. I have never even +thought as I should think if I could be free." + +"But I cannot understand that," cried Phebe. "I could never be too near +those I love. I should like to live in a large house, with many people +all smiling and talking around me. And everybody worships you." + +She uttered the last words shyly, partly afraid of bringing a frown on +the lovely face opposite to her, which was quickly losing its vivid +expression and sinking back into statuesque coldness. + +"It is simply weariness to me and vexation of spirit," she answered. "If +I could be quite alone, as you are, with only a father like yours, I +think I could get free; but I have never been left alone from my +babyhood; just as Felix and Hilda are never left alone. Oh, Phebe, you +do not know how happy you are." + +"No," she said cheerfully, "sometimes when I stand at our garden-gate, +and look round me for miles and miles away, and the sweet air blows past +me, and the bees are humming, and the birds calling to one another, and +everything is so peaceful, with father happy over his work not far off, +I think I don't know how happy I am. I try to catch hold of the feeling +and keep it, but it slips away somehow. Only I thank God I am happy." + +"I was never happy enough to thank God," Felicita murmured, lying back +in her seat and shutting her eyes. Presently the children returned, and, +after another silent row, slower and more toilsome, as it was up the +river, they drew near home again, and saw Madame's anxious face watching +for them over the low garden wall. Her heart had been too heavy for her +to join them in their pleasure-taking, and it was no lighter now. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +UPFOLD FARM. + + +Phebe rode slowly homeward in the dusk of the evening, her brain too +busy with the varied events of the day for her to be in any haste to +reach the end. For the last four miles her road lay in long by-lanes, +shady with high hedgerows and trees which grew less frequent and more +stunted as she rose gradually higher up the long spurs of the hills, +whose rounded outlines showed dark against the clear orange tint of the +western sky. She could hear the brown cattle chewing the cud, and the +bleating of some solitary sheep on the open moor, calling to the flock +from which it had strayed during the daytime, with the angry yelping of +a dog in answer to its cry from some distant farm-yard. The air was +fresh and chilly with dew, and the low wind, which only lifted the +branches of the trees a little in the lower land she had left, was +growing keener, and would blow sharply enough across the unsheltered +table-land she was reaching. But still she loitered, letting her rough +pony snatch tufts of fresh grass from the banks, and shamble leisurely +along as he strayed from one side of the road to another. + +Phebe was not so much thinking as pondering in a confused and +unconnected manner over all the circumstances of the day, when suddenly +the tall figure of a man rose from under the black hedgerow, and laid +his arm across the pony's neck, with his face turned up to her. Her +heart throbbed quickly, but not altogether with terror. + +"Mr. Roland!" she cried. + +"You know me in the dark then," he answered. "I have been watching for +you all day, Phebe. You come from home?" + +She knew he meant his home, not hers. + +"Yes, it was Felix's birthday, and we have been down the river," she +said. + +"Is anything known yet?" he asked. + +Though it was so solitary a spot that Phebe had passed no one for the +last three miles, and he had been haunting the hills all day without +seeing a soul, yet he spoke in a whisper, as if fearful of betraying +himself. + +"Only that you are away," she replied; "and they think you are in +London." + +"Is not Mr. Clifford come?" he asked. + +"No, sir, he comes to-morrow," she answered. + +"Thank God!" he exclaimed, in a louder tone. When he spoke again he did +so without looking into her face, which indeed was scarcely visible in +the deepening dusk. + +"Phebe," he said, "we have known each other for many years." + +"All my life, sir," she responded eagerly; "father and me, we are proud +of knowing you." + +Before speaking again he led her pony up the steep lane to a gate which +opened on the moorland. It was not so dark here, from under the +hedgerows and trees, and a little pool beside the gate caught the last +lingering light in the west, and reflected it like a dim and dusty +mirror. They could see one another's faces; his was working with strong +excitement, and hers, earnest and friendly, looked frankly down upon +him. He clasped her hand with the strong, desperate grip of a sinking +man, and her fingers responded with a warm clasp. + +"Can I trust you, Phebe?" he cried. "I have no other chance." + +"I will help you, even to dying for you and yours," she answered. The +girlish fervor of her manner struck him mournfully. Why should he burden +her with his crime? What right had he to demand any sacrifice from her? +Yet he felt she spoke the truth. Phebe Marlowe would rejoice in helping, +even unto death, not only him, but any other fellow-creature who was +sinking under sorrow or sin. + +"Come on home," she said, "it is bitterly cold here; and you can tell me +what to do." + +He placed himself at the pony's head again, and trudged on speechlessly +along the rough road, which was now nothing more than the tracks made by +cart-wheels across the moor, with deep ruts over which he stumbled like +a man who is worn out with fatigue. In a quarter of an hour the low +cottage was reached, surrounded by a little belt of fields and a few +storm-beaten fir-trees. There was a dull glow of red to be seen through +the lattice window, telling Phebe of a smouldering fire, made up for her +by her father before going back to his workshop at the end of the field +behind the house. She stirred up the wood-ashes and threw upon them some +dry, light fagots of gorse, and in a few seconds a dazzling light filled +the little room from end to end. It was a familiar place to Roland +Sefton, and he took no notice of it. But it was a curious interior. +Every niche of the walls was covered with carved oak; no wainscoted hall +in the country could be more richly or more fancifully decorated. The +chimney-piece over the open hearth-stone, a wide chimney-piece, was +deeply carved with curious devices. The doors and window-frames, the +cupboards and the shelves for the crockery, were all of dark oak, +fashioned into leaves and ferns, with birds on their nests, and timid +rabbits, and still more timid wood-mice peeping out of their coverts, +cocks crowing with uplifted crest, and chickens nestling under the +hen-mother's wings, sheaves of corn, and tall, club-headed +bulrushes--all the objects familiar to a country life. The dancing light +played upon them, and shone also upon Roland Sefton's sad and weary +face. Phebe drew her father's carved arm-chair close to the fire. + +"Sit down," she said, "and let me get you something to eat." + +"Yes," he answered, sinking down wearily in the chair, "I am nearly +dying of hunger. Good Heavens! is it possible I can be hungry?" + +He spoke with an indescribable expression of mingled astonishment and +dread. Suddenly there broke upon him the possibility of suffering want +in many forms in the future, and yet he felt ashamed of foreseeing them +in this, the first day of his great calamity. Until this moment he had +been too absorbed in dwelling upon the moral and social consequences of +his crime, to realize how utterly worn out he was; but all his physical +strength appeared to collapse in an instant. + +And now for the first time Phebe beheld the change in him, and stood +gazing at him in mute surprise and sorrow. He had always been careful +of his personal appearance, with a refinement and daintiness which had +grown especially fastidious since his marriage. But now his coat, wet +through during the night, and dried only by the keen air of the hills, +was creased and soiled, and his boots were thickly covered with mud and +clay. His face and hands were unwashed, and his hair hung unbrushed over +his forehead. Phebe's whole heart was stirred at this pitiful change, +and she laid her hand on his shoulder with a timid but affectionate +touch. + +"Mr. Roland," she said, "go up-stairs and put yourself to rights a +little; and give me your clothes and your boots to brush. You'll feel +better when you are more like yourself." + +He smiled faintly as he looked up at her quivering lips and eyes full of +unshed tears. But her homely advice was good, and he was glad to follow +it. Her little room above was lined with richly carved oak panels like +the kitchen below, and a bookcase contained her books, many of which he +had himself given to her. There was an easel standing under the highest +part of the shelving roof, where a sky-light was let into the thatch, +and a half-finished painting rested on it. But he did not give a glance +toward it. There was very little interest to him just now in Phebe's +pursuits, though she owed most of them to him. + +By the time he was ready to go down, supper was waiting for him on the +warm and bright hearth, and he fell upon it almost ravenously. It was +twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. Phebe sat almost out of sight +in the shadow of a large settle, with her knitting in her hand, and her +eyes only seeking his face when any movement seemed to indicate that she +could serve him in some way. But in these brief glances she noticed the +color coming back to his face, and new vigor and resolution changing his +whole aspect. + +"And now," he said, when his hunger was satisfied, "I can talk to you, +Phebe." + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +A CONFESSION. + + +But Roland Sefton sat silent, with his shapely hands resting on his +knees, and his handsome face turned toward the hearth, where the logs +had burned down and emitted only a low and fitful flame. The little room +was scarcely lighted by it, and looked all the darker for the blackness +of the small uncurtained window, through which the ebony face of night +was peering in. This bare, uncovered casement troubled him, and from +time to time he turned his eyes uneasily toward it. But what need could +there be of a curtain, when they were a mile away from any habitation, +and where no road crossed the moor, except the rugged green pathway, +worn into deep ruts by old Marlowe's own wagon? Yet as if touched by +some vague sympathy with him, Phebe rose, and pinned one of her large +rough working-aprons across it. + +"Phebe," he said, as she stepped softly back to her seat, "you and I +have been friends a long time; and your father and I have been friends +all my life. Do you recollect me staying here a whole week when I was a +school-boy?" + +"Yes," she answered, her eyes glistening in the dusky light; "but for +you I should have known nothing, only what work had to be done for +father. You taught me my alphabet that week, and the hymns I have said +every night since then before I go to sleep. You helped me to teach +myself painting; and if I ever paint a picture worth looking at it will +be your doing." + +"No, no; you are a born artist, Phebe Marlowe," he said, "though perhaps +the world may never know it. But being such friends as you say, I will +trust you. Do you think me worthy of trust, true and honest as a man +should be, Phebe?" + +"As true and honest as the day," she cried, with eager emphasis. + +"And a Christian?" he added, in a lower voice. + +"Yes," she answered, "I do not know a Christian if you are not one." + +"That is the sting of it," he groaned; "true, and honest, and a +Christian! And yet, Phebe, if I were taken by the police to-night, or if +I be taken by them to-morrow, I shall be lodged in Riversborough jail, +and tried before a jury of my towns-people at the assizes next month." + +"No, it is impossible!" she cried, stretching out her brown, +hard-working hand, and laying it on his white and shapely one, which had +never known toil. + +"You would not send me to jail," he said, "I know that well enough. But +I deserve it, my poor girl. They would find me guilty and sentence me to +a convict prison. I saw Dartmoor prison on my wedding journey with +Felicita, Heaven help me! She liked the wild, solitary moor, with its +great tors and its desolate stillness, and one day we went near to the +prison. Those grim walls seemed to take possession of me; I felt +oppressed and crushed by them. I could not forget them for days after, +even with Felicita by my side." + +His voice trembled as he spoke, and a quiver ran through his whole +frame, which seemed to thrill through Phebe's; but she only pressed her +pitiful hand more closely on his. + +"I might have escaped last night," he went on, "but I stumbled over a +poor girl in the street, dying. A young girl, no older than you, without +a penny or a friend; a sinner too like myself; and I could not leave her +there alone. Only in finding help for her I lost my chance. The train to +London was gone, and there was no other till ten this morning. I +expected Mr. Clifford to be at the bank to-day; if I had only known he +would not be there I could have got away then. But I came here, why I +hardly know. You could not hide me for long if you would; but there was +no one else to help me." + +"But what have you done, sir?" she asked, with a tremulous, long-drawn +sigh. + +"Done?" he repeated; "ay! there's the question. I wonder if I can be +honest and true now with only Phebe Marlowe listening. I could have told +my mother, perhaps, if it had been of any use; but I would die rather +than tell Felicita. Done, Phebe! I've appropriated securities trusted to +my keeping, pledging some and selling others for my own use. I've stolen +£10,000." + +"And you could be sent to prison for it?" she said, in a low voice, +glancing uneasily round as if she fancied she would be overheard. + +"For I don't know how many years," he answered. + +"It would kill Mrs. Sefton," she said. "Oh! how could you do it?" + +"It was for Felicita I did it," he replied absently; "for my Felicita +only." + +For a few minutes Phebe's brain was busy, but not yet with the most +sorrowful thoughts. There could be no shadow of doubt in her mind that +this dearest friend of hers, sitting beside her in the twilight, was +guilty of the crime he had confessed. But she could not as yet dwell +upon the crime. He was in imminent peril; and his peril threatened the +welfare of nearly all whom she loved. Ruin and infamy for him meant +ruin and infamy for them all. She must save him if possible. + +"Phebe," he said, breaking the dreary silence, "I ought to tell you one +thing more. The money your father left with me--the savings of his +life--six hundred pounds--it is all gone. He intrusted it to me, and +made his will, appointing me your guardian; such confidence he had in +me. I have made both him and you penniless." + +"I think nothing of that," she answered. "What should I ever have been +but for you? A dull, ignorant country girl, living a life little higher +than my sheep and cattle. We are rich enough, my father and me. This +cottage, and the fields about it, are our own. But I must go and tell +father." + +"Must he be told?" asked Roland Sefton anxiously. + +"We've no secrets," she replied; "and there's no fear of him, you know. +He would see if I was in trouble; and I shall be in trouble," she added, +in a sorrowful voice. + +She opened the cottage door, and going out left him alone. It was a +familiar place to him; but hitherto it had been only the haunt of happy +holidays, from the time when he had been a school-boy until his last +autumn's shooting of grouse and woodcock on the wide moors. Old Marlowe +had been one of his earliest friends, and Phebe had been something like +a humble younger sister to him. If any one in the world could be +depended upon to help him, outside his own family, it must be old +Marlowe and his daughter. + +And yet, when she left him, his first impulse was to rise and flee while +yet there was time--before old Marlowe knew his secret. Phebe was a +girl, living as girls do, in a region of sentiment and feeling, hardly +understanding a crime against property. A girl like her had no idea of +what his responsibility and his guilt were, money ranking so low in her +estimate of life. But old Marlowe would look at it quite differently. +His own careful earnings, scraped together by untiring industry and +ceaseless self-denial, were lost--stolen by the man he had trusted +implicitly. For Roland Sefton did not spare himself any reproaches; he +did not attempt to hide or palliate his sin. There were other +securities for small sums, like old Marlowe's, gone like his, and ruin +would overtake half a dozen poor families, though the bulk of the loss +would fall upon his senior partner, who was a hard man, of unbending +sternness and integrity. If old Marlowe proved a man of the same +inflexible stamp, he was lost. + +But he sat still, waiting and listening. Round that lonely cottage, as +he well knew, the wind swept from whatever quarter it was blowing; +sighing softly, or wailing, moaning, or roaring past it, as ceaselessly +as the sound of waves against a fisherman's hut on the sea-coast. It was +crying and sobbing now, rising at intervals into a shriek, as if to warn +him of coming peril. He went to the window and met the black face of the +night, hiding everything from his eye. Neither moon nor star gleamed in +the sky. But even if old Marlowe was merciful he could not stay there, +but must go out, as he had done last night from his own home, lashed +like a dog from every familiar hearth by an unseen hand and a heavy +scourge. + +Phebe had not lingered, though she seemed long away. As she drew near +the little workshop she saw the wagon half-laden with some church +furniture her father had been carving, and with which he and she were to +start at daybreak for a village about twenty miles off. She heard the +light tap of his carving tools as she opened the door, and found him +finishing the wings of a spread-eagle. He had pushed back the paper cap +he wore from his forehead, which was deeply furrowed, and shaded by a +few straggling tufts of gray hair. He took no notice of her entrance +until she touched his arm with her hand; and then he looked at her with +eyes, blue like her own, but growing dim with age, and full of the +pitiful, uncomplaining gaze of one who is deaf and dumb. But his face +brightened and his smile was cheerful, as he began to talk eagerly with +his fingers, throwing in many gestures to aid his slow speech. Phebe, +too, smiled and gesticulated in silent answer, before she told him her +errand. + +"The carving is finished, father," she said. "Could we not start at +once, and be at Upchurch before five to-morrow morning?" + +"Twenty miles; eight hours; easily," he answered; "but why?" + +"To help Mr. Sefton," she said. "He wants to get down to Southampton, +and Upchurch is in the way. Father, it must be done; you would never see +a smile upon my face again if we did not do it." + +The keen, wistful eyes of her father were fastened alternately upon her +troubled face and her moving hands, as slowly and silently she spelt out +on her fingers the sad story she had just listened to. His own face +changed rapidly from astonishment to dismay, and from dismay to a +passionate rage. If Roland Sefton could have seen it he would have made +good his escape. But still Phebe's fingers went on pleading for him; and +the smile, which she said her father would never see again--a pale, wan +smile--met his eyes as he watched her. + +"He has been so good to you and me," she went on, with a sob in her +throat; and unconsciously she spoke out the words aloud and slowly as +she told them off on her fingers; "he learned to talk with you as I do, +and he is the only person almost in the world who can talk to you +without your slate and pencil, father. It was good of him to take that +trouble. And his father was your best friend, wasn't he? How good Madame +used to be when I was a little girl, and you were carving all that +woodwork at the old bank, and she let me stay there with you! All our +happiest days have come through them. And now we can deliver them from +great misery." + +"But my money?" he interposed. + +"Money is nothing between friends," she said eagerly. "Will you make my +life miserable, father? I shall be thinking of them always, night and +day; and they will never see me again if he is sent to jail through our +fault. There never was a kinder man than he is; and I always thought him +a good man till now." + +"A thief; worse than a common thief," said her father. "What will become +of my little daughter when I am dead?" + +Phebe made no answer except by tears. For a few minutes old Marlowe +watched her bowed head and face hidden in her hands, till a gray hue +came upon his withered face, and the angry gleam died away from his +eyes. Hitherto her slightest wish had been a law to him, and to see her +weeping was anguish to him. To have a child who could hear and speak had +been a joy that had redeemed his life from wretchedness, and crowned it +with an inexhaustible delight. If he never saw her smile again, what +would become of him? She was hiding her face from him even now, and +there was no medium of communication between them save by touch. He must +call her attention to what he had to say by making her look at him. +Almost timidly he stretched out his withered and cramped hand to lay it +upon her head. + +"I must do whatever you please," he said, when she lifted up her face +and looked at him with tearful eyes; "if it killed me I must do it. But +it is a hard thing you bid me do, Phebe." + +He turned away to brush the last speck of dust from the eagle's wings, +and lifting it up carefully carried it away to pack in his wagon, Phebe +holding the lantern for him till all was done. Then hand in hand they +walked down the foot-worn path across the field to the house, as they +had done ever since she had been a tottering little child, hardly able +to clasp his one finger with her baby hand. + +Roland Sefton was crouching over the dying embers on the hearth, more in +the utter misery of soul than in bodily chilliness, though he felt cold +and shivering, as if stripped of all that made life desirable to him. +There is no icy chill like that. He did not look round when the door +opened, though Phebe spoke to him; for he could not face old Marlowe, or +force himself to read the silent yet eloquent fingers, which only could +utter words of reproach. The dumb old man stood on the threshold, gazing +at his averted face and downcast head, and an inarticulate cry of +mingled rage and grief broke from his silent lips, such as Phebe herself +had never heard before, and which, years afterward, sounded at times in +Roland Sefton's ears. + +It was nearly ten o'clock before they were on the road, old Marlowe +marching at the head of his horse, and Phebe mounted on her wiry little +pony, while Roland Sefton rode in front of the wagon at times. Their +progress was slow, for the oak furniture was heavy and the roads were +rough, leading across the moor and down steep hills into valleys, with +equally steep hills on the other side. The sky was covered with a thin +mist drifting slowly before the wind, and when the moon shone through +it, about two o'clock in the morning, it was the waning-moon looking sad +and forlorn amid the floating vapor. The houses they passed were few and +far between, showing no light or sign of life. All the land lay around +them dark and desolate under the midnight sky; and the slow creaking of +the wheels and sluggish hoof-beats of the horse dragging the wagon were +the only sounds that broke the stillness. + +In this gloom old Marlowe could hold no conversation either with Phebe +or Roland Sefton, but from time to time they could hear him sob aloud as +he trudged on in his speechless isolation. It was a sad sound, which +pierced them to the heart. From time to time Roland Sefton walked up the +long hills beside Phebe's pony, pouring out his whole heart to her. They +could hardly see each other's faces in the dimness, and words came the +more readily to him. All the burden of his confession was that he had +fallen through seeking Felicita's happiness. For her sake he had longed +for more wealth, and speculated in the hope of gaining it, and tampered +with the securities intrusted to him in the hope of retrieving losses. +It was for her, and her only, he maintained; and now he had brought +infamy and wretchedness and poverty upon her and his innocent children. + +"Would to God I could die to-night!" he exclaimed; "my death would save +them from some portion of their trouble." + +Phebe listened to him almost as heart-broken as himself. In her +singularly solitary life, so far apart from ordinary human society, she +had never been brought into contact with sin, and its profound, +fathomless misery; and now it was the one friend, whom she had loved the +longest and the best, who was walking beside her a guilty man, fleeing +through the night from all he himself cared for, to seek a refuge from +the consequences of his crime in an uncertain exile. In years afterward +it seemed to her as if that night had been rather a terrible dream than +a reality. + +At length the pale dawn broke, and the utter separation caused by the +darkness between them and old Marlowe passed away with it. He stopped +his horse and came to them, turning a gray, despairing face upon Roland +Sefton. + +"It is time to leave you," he said; "over these fields lies the nearest +station, where you can escape from a just punishment. You have made us +beggars to keep up your own grandeur. God will see that you do not go +unpunished." + +"Hush, hush!" cried Phebe aloud, stretching out her hand to Roland +Sefton; "he will forgive you by and by. Tell me: have you no message to +send by me, sir? When shall we hear from you?" + +"If I get away safe," he answered, in a broken voice, "and if nothing is +heard of me before, tell Felicita I will be in the place where I saw her +first, this day six months. Do not tell her till the time is near. It +will be best for her to know nothing of me at present." + +They were standing at the stile over which his road lay. The sun was not +yet risen, but the gray clouds overhead were taking rosy and golden +tints. Here and there in the quiet farmsteads around them the cocks +were beginning to crow lazily; and there were low, drowsy twitterings in +the hedges, where the nests were still new little homes. It was a more +peaceful hour than sunset can ever be with its memories of the day's +toils and troubles. All the world seemed bathed in rest and quietness +except themselves. Their dark journey through the silent night had been +almost a crime. + +"Your father turns his back upon me, as all honest men will do," said +Roland Sefton. + +Old Marlowe had gone back to his horse, and stood there without looking +round. The tears ran down Phebe's face; but she did not touch her +father, and ask him to bid his old friend's son good-by. + +"Some day no man will turn his back upon you, sir," she answered; "I +would die now rather than do it. You will regain your good name some +day." + +"Never!" he exclaimed; "it is past recall. There is no place of +repentance for me, Phebe. I have staked all, and lost all." + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE OLD BANK. + + +About the same hour that Roland Sefton set off under shelter of old +Marlowe's wagon to attempt his escape, Mr. Clifford, the senior partner +in the firm, reached Riversborough by the last train from London. It was +too late for him to intrude on the household of his young partner, and +he spent the night at a hotel. + +The old bank at Riversborough had been flourishing for the last hundred +years. It had the power of issuing its own notes; and until lately these +notes, bearing the familiar names of Clifford and Sefton, had been +preferred by the country people round to those of the Bank of England +itself. For nobody knew who were the managers of the Bank of England; +while one of the Seftons, either father or son, could be seen at any +time for the last fifty years. On ordinary days there were but few +customers to be seen in its handsome office, and a single clerk might +easily have transacted all the business. But on market-days and +fair-days the place was crowded by loud-voiced, red-faced country +gentlemen, and by awkward and burly farmers, from the moment its doors +were opened until they were closed at the last stroke of four sounding +from the church clock near at hand. The strong room of the Old Bank was +filled full with chests containing valuable securities and heirlooms, +belonging to most of the county families in the neighborhood. + +For the last twenty years Mr. Clifford had left the management of the +bank entirely to the elder Sefton, and upon his death to his son, who +was already a partner. He had lived abroad, and had not visited England +for more than ten years. There was a report, somewhat more +circumstantial than a rumor, but the truth of which none but the elder +Sefton had ever known, that Mr. Clifford, offended by his only son, had +let him die of absolute starvation in Paris. Added to this rumor was a +vague story of some crime committed by the younger Clifford, which his +father would not overlook or forgive. That he was a hard man, austere to +utter pitilessness, everybody averred. No transgressor need look to him +for pardon. + +When Roland Sefton had laid his hands upon the private personal +securities belonging to his senior partner, it was with no idea that he +would escape the most rigorous prosecution, should his proceedings ever +come to the light. But it was with the fixed conviction that Mr. +Clifford would never return to England, or certainly not to +Riversborough, where this hard report had been circulated and partly +accepted concerning him. The very bonds he had dealt with, first +borrowing money upon them, and at last selling them, had been bequeathed +to him in Mr. Clifford's will, of which he was himself the executor. He +had, as he persuaded himself, only forestalled the possession of them. +But a letter he had received from Mr. Clifford, informing him that he +was on his way home, with the purpose of thoroughly investigating the +affairs of the bank, had fallen like a thunderbolt upon him, and upon +Acton, through whose agency he had managed to dispose of the securities +without arousing any suspicion. + +Early the next morning Mr. Clifford arrived at the bank, and heard to +his great surprise that his partner had started for London, and had been +away the day before; possibly, Madame Sefton suggested with some +anxiety, in the hope of meeting him there. No doubt he would be back +early, for it was the day of the May fair, when there was always an +unusual stir of business. Mr. Clifford took his place in the vacant bank +parlor, and waited somewhat grimly for the arrival of the head clerk, +Acton. + +There was a not unpleasant excitement among the clerks, as they +whispered to each other on arrival that old Clifford was come and Roland +Sefton was still absent. But this excitement deepened into agitation and +misgiving as the hour for opening the bank drew near and Acton did not +arrive. Such a circumstance had never occurred before, for Acton had +made himself unpopular with those beneath him by expecting devotion +equal to his own to the interests of the firm. When ten o'clock was +close at hand a clerk ran round to Acton's lodgings; but before he could +return a breathless messenger rushed into the bank as the doors were +thrown open, with the tidings that the head clerk had been found by his +landlady lying dead in his bed. + +More quickly than if the town-crier had been sent round the streets with +his bell to announce the news, it was known that Roland Sefton was +missing and the managing clerk had committed suicide. The populace from +all the country round was flocking into the town for the fair, three +fourths of whom did business with the Old Bank. No wonder that a panic +took possession of them. In an hour's time the tranquil street was +thronged with a dense mass of town's-people and country-people, numbers +of whom were fighting their way to the bank as if for dear life. There +was not room within for the crowds who struggled to get to the counters +and present their checks and bank-notes, and demand instant settlement +of their accounts. In vain Mr. Clifford assured them there was no fear +of the firm being unable to meet its liabilities. In cases like these +the panic cannot be allayed by words. + +As long as the funds held out the checks and notes were paid over the +counter; but this could not go on. Mr. Clifford himself was in the dark +as to the state of affairs, and did not know how his credit stood. Soon +after midday the funds were exhausted, and with the utmost difficulty +the bank was cleared and the doors closed. But the crowd did not +disperse; rather it grew denser as the news spread like wildfire that +the Old Bank had stopped! + +It was at the moment that the bank doors were closed that Phebe turned +into Whitefriars Road. She had taken a train from Upchurch, leaving her +father to return home alone with the empty wagon. It was a strange sight +which met her. The usually quiet street was thronged from end to end, +and the babble of many voices made all sounds indistinct. Even on the +outskirts of the crowd there were men, some pale and some red with +anxiety, struggling with elbows and shoulders to make their way through +to the bank, in the vain hope that it would not be too late. A +strongly-built, robust farmer fainted quietly away beside her, like a +delicate woman, when he heard that the doors were shut; and his wife and +son, who were following him, bore him out of the crush as well as they +could. Phebe, pressing gently forward, and gliding in wherever a chance +movement gave her an opportunity, at last reached the archway at the +side of the house, and rapped urgently for admittance. A scared-looking +man-servant, who opened the door with the chain upon it, let her in as +soon as he recognized who she was. + +"It's a fearsome day," he said; "master's away, gone nobody knows where; +and old Acton's poisoned himself. Nobody dare tell Mrs. Sefton; but +Madame knows. She is in the dining-room, Miss Marlowe." + +Phebe found her, as she had done the day before, sitting in the oriel +window; but the usually placid-looking little woman was in a state of +nervous agitation. As soon as she caught sight of Phebe's pitiful face +she ran to her, and clasping her in her arms, burst into a passion of +tears and sobs. + +"My son!" she cried; "what can have become of him, Phebe? Where can he +be gone? If he would only come home, all these people would be +satisfied, and go away. They don't know Mr. Clifford, but they know +Roland; he is so popular. The servants say the bank is broken; what does +that mean, Phebe? And poor Acton! They say he is dead--he did kill +himself by poison. Is it not true, Phebe? Tell me it is not true!" + +But Phebe could say nothing to comfort her; she knew better than any one +else the whole truth of the calamity. But she held the weeping little +woman in her strong young arms, and there was something consoling in her +loving clasp. + +"And where are the children?" she asked, after a while. + +"I sent them to play in the garden," answered Madame; "their own little +plots are far away, out of sight of the dreadful street. What good is it +that they should know all this trouble?" + +"No good at all," replied Phebe. "And where is Mrs. Sefton?" + +"Alas, my Phebe!" she exclaimed, "who dare tell her? Not me; no, no! +She is shut up in her little chamber, and she forgets all the world--her +children even, and Roland himself. It is as if she went away into +another life, far away from ours; and when she comes home again she is +like one in a dream. Will you dare to tell her?" + +"Yes, I will go," she said. + +Yet with very slow and reluctant steps Phebe climbed the staircase, +pausing long at the window midway, which overlooked the wide and sunny +landscape in the distance, and the garden just below. She watched the +children busy at their little plots of ground, utterly unconscious of +the utter ruin that had befallen them. How lovely and how happy they +looked! She could have cried out aloud, a bitter and lamentable cry. But +as yet she must not yield to the flood of her own grief; she must keep +it back until she was at home again, in her solitary home, where nobody +could hear her sobs and cries. Just now she must think for, and comfort, +if comfort were possible, these others, who stood even nearer than she +did to the sin and the sinner. Gathering up all her courage, she +quickened her footsteps and ran hurriedly up the remaining steps. + +But at the drawing-room door, which was partly open, her feet were +arrested. Within, standing behind the rose-colored curtains, stood the +tall, slender figure of Felicita, with her clear and colorless face +catching a delicate flush from the tint of the hangings that concealed +her from the street. She was looking down on the crowd below, with the +perplexity of a foreigner gazing on some unfamiliar scene in a strange +land. There was a half-smile playing about her lips; but her whole +attention was so absorbed by the spectacle beneath her that she did not +see or hear Phebe until she was standing beside her, looking down also +on the excited crowd. + +"Phebe!" she exclaimed, "you here again? Then you can tell me, are the +good people of Riversborough gone mad? or is it possible there is an +election going on, of which I have heard nothing? Nothing less than an +election could rouse them to such a pitch of excitement." + +"Have you heard nothing of what they say?" asked Phebe. + +"There is such a Babel," she answered; "of course I hear my husband's +name. It would be just like him if he got himself elected member for +Riversborough without telling me anything about it till it was over. He +loves surprises; and I--why I hate to be surprised." + +"But he is gone!" said Phebe. + +"Yes, he told me he was going to London," she went on; "but if it is no +election scene, what is it, Phebe? Why are all the people gathered here +in such excitement?" + +"Shall I tell you plainly?" asked Phebe, looking steadily into +Felicita's dark, inscrutable eyes. + +"Tell me the simple truth," she replied, somewhat haughtily; "if any +human being can tell it." + +"Then the bank has stopped payment," answered Phebe. "Poor Mr. Acton has +been found dead in bed this morning; and Mr. Sefton is gone away, nobody +knows where. It is the May fair to-day, and all the people are coming in +from the country. There's been a run on the bank till they are forced to +stop payment. That is what brings the crowd here." + +Felicita dropped the curtain which she had been holding back with her +hand, and stepped back a pace or two from the window. But her face +scarcely changed; she listened calmly and collectedly, as if Phebe was +speaking of some persons she hardly knew. + +"My husband will come back immediately," she said. "Is not Mr. Clifford +there?" + +"Yes," said Phebe. + +"Are you telling me all?" asked Felicita. + +"No," she answered; "Mr. Clifford says he has been robbed. Securities +worth nearly ten thousand pounds are missing. He must have found it out +already." + +"Who does he suspect?" she asked again imperiously; "he does not dare +suspect my husband?" + +Phebe replied only by a mute gesture. She had never had any secret to +conceal before, and she did not see that she had betrayed herself by the +words she had uttered. The deep gloom on her bright young face struck +Felicita for the first time. + +"Do you think it was Roland?" she asked. + +Again the same dumb, hopeless gesture answered the question. Phebe could +not bring her lips to shape a word of accusation against him. It was +agony to her to feel her idol disgraced and cast down from his high +pedestal; yet she had not learned any way of concealing or +misrepresenting the truth. + +"You know he did it?" said Felicita. + +"Yes, I know it," she whispered. + +For a minute or two Felicita stood, with her white hands resting on +Phebe's shoulders, gazing into her mournful face with keen, questioning +eyes. Then, with a rapid flush of crimson, betraying a strong and +painful heart-throb, which suffused her face for an instant and left it +paler than before, she pressed her lips on the girl's sunburnt forehead. + +"Tell nobody else," she murmured; "keep the secret for his sake and +mine." + +Before Phebe could reply she turned away, and, with a steady, +unfaltering step, went back to her study and locked herself in. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM. + + +Felicita's study was so quiet a room, quite remote from the street, that +it was almost a wonder the noise of the crowd had reached her. But this +morning there had been a pleasant tumult of excitement in her own brain, +which had prevented her from falling into an absorbed reverie, such as +she usually indulged in, and rendered her peculiarly susceptible to +outward influences. All her senses had been awake to-day. + +On her desk lay the two volumes of a new book, handsomely got up, with +pages yet uncut as it had come from the publishers. A dozen times she +had looked at the title-page, as if unable to convince herself of the +reality, and read her own name--Felicita Riversdale Sefton. It was the +first time her name as an author had been published, though for the last +three years she had from time to time written anonymously for magazines. +This was her own book; thought out, written, revised, and completed in +her chosen solitude and secrecy. No one knew of it; possibly Roland +suspected something, but he had not ventured to make any inquiries, and +she had no reason to believe that he even suspected its existence. It +was simply altogether her own; no other mind had any part or share in +it. + +There was something like rapture in her delight. The book was a good +book, she was sure of it. She had not succeeded in making it as perfect +as her ideal, but she had not signally failed. It did in a fair degree +represent her inmost thoughts and fancies. Yet she could not feel quite +sure that the two volumes were real, and the letter from the publisher, +a friendly and pleasant letter enough, seemed necessary to vouch for +them. She read and re-read it. The little room seemed too small and +close for her. She opened the window to let in the white daylight, +undisguised by the faint green tint of the glass, and she leaned out to +breathe the fresh sweet air of the spring morning. Life was very +pleasurable to her to-day. + +There were golden gleams too upon the future. She would no longer be the +unknown wife of a country banker, moving in a narrow sphere, which was +altogether painful to her in its provincial philistinism. It was a +sphere to which she had descended in girlish ignorance. Her uncle, Lord +Riversdale, had been willing to let his portionless niece marry this +prosperous young banker, who was madly in love with her, and a little +gentle pressure had been brought to bear on the girl of eighteen, who +had been placed by her father's death in a position of dependence. Since +then a smouldering fire of ambition and of dissatisfaction with her lot +had been lurking unsuspected under her cold and self-absorbed manner. + +But her thoughts turned with more tenderness than usual toward her +husband. She had aroused in him also a restless spirit of ambition, +though in him it was for her sake, not his own. He wished to restore her +if possible to the position she had sacrificed for him; and Felicita +knew it. Her heart beating faster with her success was softened toward +him; and tears suffused her dark eyes for an instant as she thought of +his astonishment and exultation. + +The children were at play in the garden below her, and their merry +voices greeted her ear pleasantly. The one human being who really dwelt +in her inmost heart was her boy Felix, her first-born child. Hilda was +an unnecessary supplement to the page of her maternal love. But for +Felix she dreamed day-dreams of extravagant aspiration; no lot on earth +seemed too high or too good for him. He was a handsome boy, the very +image of her father, the late Lord Riversdale, and now as she gazed down +on him, her eyes slightly dewed with tears, he looked up to her window. +She kissed her hand to him, and the boy waved his little cap toward her +with almost passionate gesticulations of delight. Felix would be a great +man some day; this book of hers was a stone in the foundation of his +fame as well as of her own. + +It was upon this mood of exultation, a rare mood for Felicita, that the +cry and roar from the street had broken. With a half-smile at herself, +the thought flashed across her mind that it was like a shout of applause +and admiration, such as might greet Felix some day when he had proved +himself a leader of men. But it aroused her dormant curiosity, and she +had condescended to be drawn by it to the window of the drawing-room +overlooking Whitefriars Road, in order to ascertain its cause. The crowd +filling the street was deeply in earnest, and the aim of those who were +fighting their way through it was plainly the bank offices in the floor +below her. The sole idea that occurred to her, for she was utterly +ignorant of her husband's business, was that some unexpected crisis in +the borough had arisen, and its people were coming to Roland Sefton as +their leading townsman. When Phebe found her she was quietly studying +the crowd and its various features, that she might describe a throng +from memory, whenever a need should arise for it. + +Felicita regained her luxurious little study, and sat down before her +desk, on which the new volumes lay, with more outward calm than her +face and movements had manifested before she left it. The transient glow +of triumph had died away from her face, and the happy tears from her +eyes. She closed the casement to shut out the bright, clear sunlight, +and the merry voices of her children, before she sat down to think. + +For a little while she had been burning incense to herself; but the +treacherous fire was gone out, and the sweet, bewildering, intoxicating +vapors were scattered to the winds. The recollection of her short-lived +folly made her shiver as if a cold breath had passed over her. + +Not for a moment did she doubt Roland's guilt. There was such a +certainty of it lying behind Phebe's sorrowful eyes as she whispered "I +know it," that Felicita had not cared to ask how she knew it. She did +not trouble herself with details. The one fact was there: her husband +had absconded. A dreamy panorama of their past life flitted across her +brain--his passionate love for her, which had never cooled, though it +had failed to meet with a response from her; his insatiable desire to +make her life more full of pomp and luxury and display than that of her +cousins at Riversdale; his constant thraldom to her, which had +ministered only to her pride and coldness. His queen he had called her. +It was all over now. His extraordinary absence was against any hope that +he could clear himself. Her husband had brought fatal and indelible +disgrace upon his name, the name he had given to her and their children. + +Her name! This morning, and for many days to come, it would be +advertised as the author of the new book, which was to have been one of +her stepping-stones to fame. She had grasped at fame, and her hand had +closed upon infamy. There was no fear now that she would remain among +the crowd of the unknown. As the wife of a fraudulent banker she would +be only too well and too widely talked of. + +Why had she let her own full name be published? She had yielded, though +with some reluctance, to the business-like policy of her publisher, who +had sought to catch the public eye by it; for her father, Lord +Riversdale, was hardly yet forgotten as an author. A vague sentiment of +loyalty to her husband had caused her to add her married name. She hated +to see the two blazoned together on the title-page. + +Sick at heart, she sat for hours brooding over what would happen if +Roland was arrested. The assizes held twice a year at Riversborough had +been to her, as to many people of her position, an occasion of +pleasurable excitement. The judges' lodgings were in the next house to +the Old Bank, and for the few days the judges were Roland Sefton's +neighbors there had been a friendly interchange of civilities. An assize +ball was still held, though it was falling into some neglect and +disrepute. Whenever any cause of special local interest took place she +had commanded the best seat in the court, and had obsequious attention +paid to her. She had learned well the aspect of the place, and the mode +of procedure. But hitherto her recollections of a court of justice were +all agreeable, and her impressions those of a superior being looking +down from above on the miseries and crimes of another race. + +How different was the vision that branded itself on her brain this +morning! She saw her husband standing at the dock, instead of some +coarse, ignorant, brutish criminal; the stern gravity of the judge; the +flippant curiosity of the barristers not connected with the case, and +the cruel eagerness of his fellow-townsmen to get good places to hear +and see him. It would make a holiday for all who could get within the +walls. + +She could have written almost word for word the report of the trial as +it would appear in the two papers published in Riversborough. She could +foretell how lavish would be the use of the words "felon" and "convict;" +and she would be that felon and convict's wife. + +Oh, this intolerable burden of disgrace! To be borne through the long, +long years of life; and not by herself alone, but by her children. They +had come into a miserable heritage. What became of the families of +notorious criminals? She could believe that the poor did not suffer from +so cruel a notoriety, being quickly lost in the oblivious waters of +poverty and distress, amid refuges and workhouses. But what would +become of her? She must go away into endless exile, with her two little +children, and live where there was no chance of being recognized. This +was what her husband's sin had done for her. + +"God help me! God deliver me!" she moaned with white lips. But she did +not pray for him. In the first moments of anguish the spirit flies to +that which lies at the very core. While Roland's mother and Phebe were +weeping together and praying for him, Felicita was crying for help and +deliverance for herself. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE SENIOR PARTNER. + + +Long as the daylight lasts in May it was after nightfall when Felicita +left her study and went down to the drawing-room, more elegantly and +expensively furnished for her than the drawing-room at Riversdale had +been. Its extravagant display seemed to strike upon her suddenly as she +entered it. Phebe was gone home, and Madame had retired to her own room, +having given up the expectation of seeing Felicita that day. Mr. +Clifford, the servant told her, was still in the bank, with his lawyer, +for whom he had telegraphed to London. Felicita sent him a message that +if he was not too busy she wished to see him for a few minutes. + +Mr. Clifford almost immediately appeared, and Felicita saw him for the +first time. She had always heard him called old; but he was a strong, +erect, stern-looking man of sixty, with keen, cold eyes that could not +be avoided. Felicita did not seek to avoid them. She looked as steadily +at him as he did at her. There were traces of tears on her face, but +there was no tremor or weakness about her. They exchanged a few civil +words as calmly as if they were ordinary acquaintances. + +"Tell me briefly what has happened," she said to him, when he had taken +a seat near to her. + +"Briefly," he repeated. "Well! I find myself robbed of securities worth +nearly £8000; private securities, bond and scrip, left in custody only, +not belonging to the firm. No one but Acton or Roland could have access +to them. Acton has eluded me; but if Roland is found he must take the +consequences." + +"And what are those?" asked Felicita. + +"I shall prosecute him as I would prosecute a common thief or burglar," +answered Mr. Clifford. "His crime is more dishonorable and cowardly." + +"Is it not cruel to say this to me?" she asked, yet in a tranquil tone +which startled him. + +"Cruel!" he repeated again; "I have not been in the habit of choosing +words. You asked me a question, and I gave you the answer that was in my +mind. I never forgive. Those who pass over crimes make themselves +partakers in those crimes. Roland has robbed not only me, but half a +dozen poor persons, to whom such a loss is ruin. Would it be right to +let such a man escape justice?" + +"You think he has gone away on purpose?" she said. + +"He has absconded," answered Mr. Clifford, "and the matter is already in +the hands of the police. A description of him has been telegraphed to +every police station in the kingdom. If he is not out of it he can +barely escape now." + +Felicita's pale face could not grow paler, but she shivered perceptibly. + +"I am telling you bluntly," he said, "because I believe it is best to +know the worst at once. It is terrible to have it falling drop by drop. +You have courage and strength; I see it. Take an old man's word for it, +it is better to know all in its naked ugliness, than have it brought to +light bit by bit. There is not the shadow of a doubt of Roland's crime. +You do not believe him innocent yourself?" + +"No," she replied in a low, yet steady voice; "no. I must tell the +truth. I cannot comfort myself with the belief that he is innocent." + +Mr. Clifford's keen eyes were fastened upon Felicita with admiration. +Here was a woman, young and pallid with grief and dread, who neither +tried to move him by prayers and floods of tears, nor shrank from +acknowledging a truth, however painful. He had never seen her before, +though the costly set of jewels she was wearing had been his own gift to +her on her wedding. He recognized them with pleasure, and looked more +attentively at her beautiful but gloomy face. When he spoke again it was +in a manner less harsh and abrupt than it had been before. + +"I am not going to ask you any questions about Roland," he said; "you +have a right, the best right in the world, to screen him, and aid him in +escaping from the just consequences of his folly and crime." + +"You might ask me," she interrupted, "and I should tell you the simple +truth. I do so now, when I say I know nothing about him. He told me he +was going to London. But is it not possible that poor Acton alone was +guilty?" + +Mr. Clifford shook his head in reply. For a few minutes he paced up and +down the floor, and then placed himself at the back of Felicita, with +his hand upon her chair, as if to support him. In a glass opposite she +could see the reflection of his face, gray and agitated, with closed +eyes and quivering lips--a face that looked ten years older than that +which she had seen when he entered the room. She felt the chair shaken +by his trembling hand. + +"I will tell you," he said in a voice which he strove to render steady. +"I did not spare my own son when he had defrauded Roland's father. +Though Sefton would not prosecute him, I left him to reap the harvest of +his deed to the full; and it was worse than the penalty the law would +have exacted. He perished, disgraced and forsaken, of starvation in +Paris, the city of pleasures and of crimes. They told me that my son was +little more than a living skeleton when he was found, so slowly had the +end come. If I did not spare him, can I relent toward Roland? The +justice I demand is, in comparison, mercy for him." + +As he finished speaking he opened his eyes, and saw those of Felicita +fastened on the reflection of his face in the mirror. He turned away, +and in a minute or two resumed his seat, and spoke again in his ordinary +abrupt tone. + +"What will you do?" he asked. + +"I cannot tell yet," she answered; "I must wait till suspense is over. +If Roland comes back, or is brought back," she faltered, "then I must +decide what to do. I shall keep to myself till then. Is there anything I +can do?" + +"Could you go to your uncle, Lord Riversdale?" suggested Mr. Clifford. + +"No, no," she cried; "I will not ask any help from him. He arranged my +marriage for me, and he will feel this disgrace keenly. I will keep out +of their way; they shall not be compelled to forbid me their society." + +"But to-morrow you had better go away for the day," he answered; "there +will be people coming and going, who will disturb you. There will be a +rigorous search made. There is a detective now with my lawyer, who is +looking through the papers in the bank. The police have taken possession +of Acton's lodgings." + +"I have nowhere to go," she replied, "and I cannot show my face out of +doors. Madame and the children shall go to Phebe Marlowe, but I must +bear it as well as I can." + +"Well," he said after a brief pause, "I will make it as easy as I can +for you. You are thinking me a hard man? Yes, I have grown hard. I was +soft enough once. But if I forgave any sinner now I should do my boy, +who is dead, an awful injustice. I would not pass over his sin, and I +dare not pass over any other. I know I shall pursue Roland until his +death or mine; my son's fate cries out for it. But I'm not a hard man +toward innocent sufferers, like you and his poor mother. Try to think of +me as your friend; nay, even Roland's friend, for what would a few +years' penal servitude be compared with my boy's death? Shake hands +with me before I go." + +The small, delicate hand she offered him was icy cold, though her face +was still calm and her eyes clear and dry. He was himself more moved and +agitated than she appeared to be. The mention of his son always shook +him to the very centre of his soul; yet he had not been able to resist +uttering the words that had passed his lips during this painful +interview with Roland's young wife. Unshed tears were burning under his +eyelids. But if it had not been for that death-like hand he might have +imagined her almost unmoved. + +Felicita was down-stairs before Madame the next morning, and had ordered +the carriage to be ready to take her and the children to Upfold Farm +directly after breakfast. It was so rare an incident for their mother to +be present at the breakfast-table that Felix and Hilda felt as if it +were a holiday. Madame was pale and sad, and for the first time Felicita +thought of her as being a sufferer by Roland's crime. Her husband's +mother had been little more to her than a superior housekeeper, who had +been faithfully attached to her and her children. The homely, gentle, +domestic foreigner, from a humble Swiss home, had looked up to her young +aristocratic daughter-in-law as a being from a higher sphere. But now +the downcast, sorrowful face of the elder woman touched Felicita's +sympathy. + +"Mother!" she said, as soon as the children had run away to get ready +for their drive. She had never before called Madame "mother," and a +startled look, almost of delight, crossed Madame's sad face. + +"My daughter!" she cried, running to Felicita's side, and throwing her +arms timidly about her, "he is sure to come back soon--to-day, I think. +Oh, yes, he will be here when we return! You do well to stay to meet +him; and I should be glad to be here, but for the children. Yes, the +little ones must be out of the way. They must not see their father's +house searched; they must never know how he is suspect. Acton did say it +was all his fault; his fault and--" + +But here Madame paused for an instant, for had not Acton said it was +Felicita's fault more than any one's? + +"Phebe heard him," she went on hastily; "and if it is not his fault, why +did he kill himself? Oh, it is an ill-fortune that my son went to London +that day! It would all be right if he were here; but he is sure to come +to-day and explain it all; and the bank will be opened again. So be of +good comfort, my daughter; for God is present with us, and with my son +also." + +It was a sorrowful day at the Upfold Farm in spite of the children's +unconscious mirthfulness. Old Marlowe locked himself into his workshop, +and would see none of them, taking his meals there in sullen anger. +Phebe's heart was almost broken with listening to Madame's earnest +asseverations of her son's perfect innocence, and her eager hopes to +find him when she reached home. It was nearly impossible to her to keep +the oppressive secret, which seemed crushing her into deception and +misery, and her own muteness appeared to herself more condemnatory than +any words could be. But Madame did not notice her silence, and her grief +was only natural. Phebe's tears fell like balm on Madame's aching +heart. Felicita had not wept; but this young girl, and her abandonment +to passionate bursts of tears, who needed consoling herself, was a +consolation to the poor mother. They knelt together in Phebe's little +bedroom, while the children were playing on the wide uplands around +them, and they prayed silently, if heavy sobs and sighs could be called +silence; but they prayed together, and for her son; and Madame returned +home comforted and hopeful. + +It had been a day of fierce trial to Felicita. She had not formed any +idea of how searching would be the investigation of the places where any +of her husband's papers might be found. Her own study was not exempt +from the prying eyes of the detectives. This room, sacred to her, which +Roland himself never entered without permission was ransacked, and +forever desecrated in her eyes. This official meddling with her books +and her papers could never be forgotten. The pleasant place was made an +abomination to her. + +The bank was reopened the next morning at the accustomed hour, for a +very short investigation by Mr. Clifford and the experienced advisers +summoned from London to assist him proved that the revenues of the firm +were almost as good as ever. The panic had been caused by the vague +rumor afloat of some mysterious complicity in crime between the absent +partner and the clerk who had committed suicide. It was, therefore, +considered necessary for the prosperous re-establishment of the bank to +put forth a cautiously worded circular, in which Mr. Clifford's return +was made the reason for the absence on a long journey of Roland Sefton, +whose disappearance had to be accounted for. By the time he was arrested +and brought to trial the confidence of the bank's customers in its +stability would in some measure be regained. + +There was thus a good deal of conjecture and of contradictory opinion +abroad in Riversborough concerning Roland Sefton, which continued to be +the town's-talk for some weeks. Even Madame began to believe in a +half-bewildered manner that her son had gone on a journey of business +connected with the bank, though she could not account for his total +silence. Sometimes she wondered if he and Felicita could have had some +fatal quarrel, which had driven him away from home in a paroxysm of +passionate disappointment and bitterness. Felicita's coldness and +indifference might have done it. With this thought, and the hope of his +return some day, she turned for relief to the discharge of her household +duties, and to the companionship of the children, who knew nothing +except that their father was gone away on a journey, and might come back +any day. + +Neither Madame nor the children knew that whenever they left the house +they were followed by a detective, and every movement was closely +watched. But Felicita was conscious of it by some delicate sensitiveness +of her imaginative temperament. She refused to quit the house except in +the evening, when she rambled about the garden, and felt the fresh air +from the river breathing against her often aching temples. Even then she +fancied an eye upon her--an unsleeping, unblinking eye; the unwearying +vigilance of justice on the watch for a criminal. Night and day she felt +herself living under its stony gaze. + +It was a positive pain to her when reviews of her book appeared in +various papers, and were forwarded to her with congratulatory letters +from her publishers. She was living far enough from London to be easily +persuaded, without much vanity, that her name was upon everybody's lips +there. She read the reviews, but with a sick heart, and the words were +forgotten as soon as she put them away; but the Riversborough papers, +which had been very guarded in their statements about the death of Acton +and the events at the Old Bank, took up the book with what appeared to +her fulsome and offensive enthusiasm. It had never occurred to her that +local criticism was certain to follow the appearance of a local writer; +and she shrank from it with morbid and exaggerated disgust. Even if all +had been well, if Roland had been beside her, their notices would have +been well-nigh intolerable to her. She could not have endured being +stared at and pointed out in the streets of her own little town. But now +Fame had come to her with broken wings and a cracked trumpet, and she +shuddered at the sound of her own name harshly proclaimed through it. + +It soon became evident that Roland Sefton had succeeded in getting away +out of the country. The police were at fault; and as no one in his own +home knew how to communicate with him, no clew had been discovered by +close surveillance of their movements. Such vigilance could be kept up +only for a few months at longest, and as the summer drew toward the end +it ceased. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +FAST BOUND. + + +Roland Sefton had met with but few difficulties in getting clear away +out of England, and there was little chance of his being identified, +from description merely, by any of the foreign police, or by any English +detective on the Continent who was not as familiar with his personal +appearance as the Riversborough force were. In his boyhood he had spent +many months, years even, in his mother's native village with her father, +M. Roland Merle, the pastor of a parish among the Jura Mountains. It was +as easy for him to assume the character of a Swiss mountaineer as to +sustain that of a prosperous English banker. The dress, the patois, the +habits of the peasant were all familiar to him, and his disguise in them +was as complete as disguise ever can be. The keen eye either of love or +hate can pierce through all disguises. + +Switzerland was all fatherland to him, as much so as his native country, +and the county in which Riversborough was situated. There was no +ignorance in him of any little town, or the least known of the Alps, +which might betray the stranger. He would never need to attract notice +by asking a question. He had become a member of an Alpine club as soon +as his boyish thews and sinews were strong enough for stiff and perilous +climbing. He had crossed the most difficult passes and scaled some of +the worst peaks. And there had been within him that passionate love of +the country common to the Swiss which an English Alpine climber can +never feel. His mother's land had filled him with an ardent flame, +smouldering at times amid the absorbing interests of his somewhat +prominent place in English life, but every now and then breaking out +into an irrepressible longing for the sight of its white mountains and +swift, strong streams. It was at once the safest and the most dangerous +of refuges. He would be certainly sought for there; but there he could +most effectually conceal himself. He flew thither with his burden of +sin and shame. + +Roland adopted at once the dress of a decent artisan of the Jura--such a +man as he had known in his boyhood as a watchmaker of Locle or the +Doubs. For a few days he stayed in Geneva, lodging in such a street as a +Locle artisan would have chosen; but he could not feel secure there, in +spite of his own certainty that his transformation was complete. A +restless dread haunted him. He knew well that there are in every one +little personal traits, tricks of gesture, and certain tones of voice +always ready to betray us. It was yet too early in the year for many +travellers to be journeying to Switzerland; but already a few straggling +pioneers of the summer flight were appearing in the larger towns, and +what would be his fate if any one of them recognized him? He quitted +Geneva, and wandered away into the mountain villages. + +It was May-time, and the snow-line was still lingering low down on the +steep slopes, though the flowers were springing into life up to its +very margin, seeming to drive it higher and higher every day. The High +Alps were still fast locked in midwinter, and with untrodden wastes and +plains of snow lying all around them. The deserted mountain farms and +great solitary hotels, so thronged last summer, were empty. But in the +valleys and the little villages lying on the warm southern slopes, or +sheltered by precipitous rocks from the biting winds, there was +everywhere a joyous stir of awakening from the deep sleep of winter. The +frozen streams were thawed and ran bubbling and gurgling along their +channels, turning water-wheels and filling all the quiet places with +their merry noise. The air itself was full of sweet exhilaration. In the +forests there was the scent of stirring sap and of the up-springing +wild-flowers, and the rosy blossoms of the tender young larch-trees +shone like jewels in the bright sunshine. The mountain-peaks overhead, +gleaming through the mists and clouds, were of dazzling whiteness, for +none of the frozen snow had yet fallen from their sharp, lance-like +summits. + +Journeying on foot from one village to another, Roland roamed about +aimlessly, yet as one hunted, seeking for a safe asylum. He bore his +troubled conscience and aching heart from one busy spot to another, +homesick and self-exiled. Oh, what a fool he had been! Life had been +full to the brim for him with gladness and prosperity, and in trying to +make its cup run over he had dashed it away from his lips forever. + +His money was not yet spent, for a very little went a long way among +these simple mountain villages, and in his manner of travelling. He had +not yet been forced to try to earn a living, and he felt no anxiety for +the future. In his boyhood he had learned wood-carving, both in +Switzerland and from old Marlowe, and he had acquired considerable skill +in the art. Some of the panels in his home at Riversborough were the +workmanship of his own hands. It was a craft to turn to in extremity; +but he did not think of it yet. + +Labor of any kind would have made the interminable hours pass more +quickly. The carving of a piece of wood might have kept him from +torturing his own heart perpetually; but he did not turn to this slight +solace. There were times when he sat for hours, for a whole age, as it +seemed to him, in some lonely spot, hidden behind a great rock or half +lost in a forest, thinking. And yet it was not thought, but a vague, +mournful longing and remembrance, the past and the absent blended in +dim, shadowy reverie, of which nothing was clear but the sharp anguish +of having forfeited them. There was a Garden of Eden still upon earth, +and he had been dwelling in it. But he had banished himself from it by +his own folly and sin, and when he turned his eyes toward it he could +see only the "flaming brand, and the gate with dreadful faces thronged +and fiery arms." But even Adam had his Eve with him, "to drop some +natural tears, and wipe them soon." He was utterly alone. + +If his thoughts, so dazed and bewildered usually, became clear for a +little while, it was always Felicita whose image stood out most +distinctly before him. He had loved her passionately; surely never had +any man loved a woman with the same intensity--so he said to himself. +Even now the very crime he had committed seemed as nothing to him, +because he had been guilty of it for her. His love for her covered its +heinousness from his eyes. His conscience had become the blind and dumb +slave of his passion. So blind and dumb had it been that it had scarcely +stirred or murmured until his sin was found out, and it was scarcely +aroused to life even yet. + +In a certain sense he had been religious, having been most sedulously +trained in religion from his earliest consciousness. He had accepted the +ordinary teachings of our nineteenth-century Christianity. His place in +church, beside his mother or his wife, had seldom been empty, and +several times in the year he had knelt with them at the Lord's table, +and taken the Lord's Supper, feeling himself distinctly a more religious +man than usual on such occasions. No man had ever heard him utter a +profane word, nor had he transgressed any of the outward rules of a +religious life. It is true he had never made a vehement and +extraordinary profession of piety, such as some men do; but there was +not a person in Riversborough who would not have spoken of him as a +good churchman and a Christian. While he had been gradually +appropriating Mr. Clifford's money and the hard-earned savings of poorer +men confided to him, he had felt no qualm of conscience in giving +liberally to many a religious and philanthropic object, contributing +such sums as figure well in a subscription list; though it was generally +his wife's name that figured there. He had never taken up a subscription +list without glancing first for that beloved name, Mrs. Roland Sefton. + +In those days he had never doubted that he was a Christian. So far as he +knew, so far as words could teach him, he was living a Christian life. +Did he not believe in God, the Father Almighty? Yes, as fully as those +who lived about him. Had he not followed Christ? As closely as the mass +of people who call themselves Christians. Nay, more than most of them. +Not as much as his mother perhaps, in her simple, devout faith. But then +religion is always a different thing with women than with men, a fairer +and more delicate thing, wearing a finer bloom and gloss, which does not +wear well in a work-a-day world such as he did battle in. But if he had +not lived a Christian life, what man in Riversborough had done so, +except a few fanatics? + +But his religion had been powerless to keep him from falling into subtle +temptations, and into a crime so heinous in the sight of his fellow-men +that it was only to be expiated by the loss of character, the loss of +liberty, and the loss of every honorable man's esteem. The web had been +closely and cunningly woven, and now he was fast bound in it, with no +way of escape. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH. + + +The weeks passed by in Riversborough, and brought no satisfactory +conclusion to the guarded investigations of the police. A close search +made among Acton's private papers produced no discovery. His will was +among them, leaving all he had to leave, which was not much, to Felix, +the son of his friend and employer, Roland Sefton. There was no +memorandum or letter which could throw any light upon the transactions, +or give any clew to what had been done with Mr. Clifford's securities. + +Nor was the watch kept over the movements of the family more successful. +The police were certain that no letter was posted by any member of the +household, which could be intended for the missing culprit. Even Phebe +Marlowe's correspondence was subject to their vigilance. But not a trace +could be discovered. He was gone; whether he had fled to America, or +concealed himself nearer home on the Continent, no one could make a +guess. + +Mr. Clifford remained in Riversborough, and resumed his position as head +of the firm. He had returned with the intention of doing so, having +heard abroad of the extravagant manner in which his junior partner was +living. The bank, though seriously crippled in its credit and resources, +was in no danger of insolvency, and there seemed no reason why it should +not regain its former prosperity, if only confidence could be restored. +He had reserved to himself the power of taking in another partner, if he +should deem it advisable; and an eligible one presenting himself, in the +person of a Manchester man of known wealth, the deeds of partnership +were drawn up, and the Old Bank was once more set up on a firm basis. + +During the time that elapsed while these arrangements were being made, +Felicita was visibly suffering, and failing in health. So sensitive had +she grown to the dread of seeing any one not in the immediate circle of +her household, that it became impossible to her to leave her home. The +clear colorlessness of her face had taken on a transparency and delicacy +which did not lessen its beauty, but added to it an unearthly grace. She +no longer spent hours alone in her desecrated room; it had grown +intolerable to her; but she sat speechless, and almost motionless, in +the oriel window overlooking the garden and the river; and Felix, a +child of dreamy and sensitive temperament, would sit hour after hour at +her feet, pressing his cheek against her knee, or with his uplifted eyes +gazing into her face. + +"Mother," he said one day, when Roland had been gone more than a month, +"how long will my father be away on his journey? Doesn't he ever write +to you, and send messages to me? Grandmamma says she does not know how +soon he will be back. Do you know, mother?" + +Felicita looked down on him with her beautiful dark eyes, which seemed +larger and sadder than of old, sending a strange thrill through the +boy's heart, and for a minute or two she seemed uncertain what to say. + +"I cannot tell you, Felix," she answered; "there are many things in life +which children cannot understand. If I told you what was true about your +father, your little brain would turn it into an untruth. You could not +understand it if I told you." + +"But I shall understand it some day," he said, lifting his head up +proudly; "will you tell me when I am old enough, mother?" + +How could she promise him to do that? This proud young head, tossed back +with the expectant triumph of some day knowing all that his father and +mother knew, must be bowed down with grief and shame then, as hers was +now. It was a sad knowledge he must inherit. How would she ever be able +to tell him that the father who had given him life, and whose name he +bore, was a criminal; a convict if he was arrested and brought to +judgment; an outlaw and an exile if he made good his escape? Roland had +never been as dear to her as Felix was. She was one of those women who +love more deeply and tenderly as mothers than as wives. To see that +bright, fond face of his clouded with disgrace would be a ceaseless +torment to her. There would be no suffering to compare with it. + +"But you will tell me all about it some day, mother," urged the boy. + +"If I ever tell you," she answered, "it will be when you are a man, and +can understand the whole truth. You will never hear me tell a falsehood, +Felix." + +"I know that, mother," he replied, "but oh! I miss my father! He used to +come to my bedside at nights, and kiss me, and say 'God bless you.' I +tried always to keep awake till he came; but I was asleep the last time +of all, and missed him. Sometimes I feel frightened, as if he would +never come again. But grandmamma says he is gone on a long journey, and +will come home some day, only she doesn't know when. Phebe cries when I +ask her. Would it be too much trouble for you to come in at night +sometimes, like my father did?" he asked timidly. + +"But I am not like your father," she answered. "I could not say 'God +bless you' in the same way. You must ask God yourself for His +blessing." + +For Felicita's soul had been thrust down into the depths of darkness. +Her early training had been simply and solely for this world: how to +make life here graceful and enjoyable. She could look back upon none but +the vaguest aspirations after something higher in her girlhood. It had +been almost like a new revelation to her to see her mother-in-law's +simple and devout piety, and to witness her husband's cheerful and manly +profession of religion. This was the point in his character which had +attracted her most, and had been most likely to bind her to him. Not his +passionate love to herself, but his unselfishness toward others, his +apparently happy religion, his energetic interest in all good and +charitable schemes--these had reconciled her more than anything else to +the step she had taken, the downward step, in marrying him. + +This unconscious influence of Roland's life and character had been +working secretly and slowly upon her nature for several years. They +were very young when they were married, and her first feeling of +resentment toward her own family for pressing on the marriage had at the +outset somewhat embittered her against her young husband. But this had +gradually worn away, and Felicita had never been so near loving him +heartily and deeply as during the last year or two, when it was evident +that his attachment to her was as loyal and as tender as ever. He had +almost won her, when he staked all and lost all. + +For now, she asked herself, what was the worth of all this religion, +which presented so fair a face to her? She had a delicate sense of honor +and truthfulness, which never permitted her to swerve into any byways of +expediency or convenience. What use was Roland's religion without +truthfulness and honor? She said to herself that there was no excuse for +him even feeling tempted to deal with another man's property. It ought +to have been as impossible to him as it was impossible to her to steal +goods from a tradesman's counter. Was it possible to serve God--and +Roland professed to serve Him--yet cheat his fellow-men? The service of +God itself must then be a vanity--a mere bubble, like all the other +bubbles of life. + +It had never been her habit to speak out her thoughts, even to her +husband. Speech seemed an inefficient and blundering medium of +communication, and she found it easier to write than to talk. There was +a natural taciturnity about her which sealed her lips, even when her +children were prattling to her. Only in writing could she give +expression to the multitude of her thoughts within her; and her letters +were charming, and of exceeding interest. But in this great crisis in +her life she could not write. She would sit for hours vainly striving to +arouse her languid brain. It seemed to her that she had lost this gift +also in the utter ruin that had overtaken her. + +Felicita's white, silent, benumbed grief, accepting the conviction of +her husband's guilt with no feminine contradicting or loud lamenting, +touched Mr. Clifford with more pity than he felt for Madame, who bore +her son's mysterious absence with a more simple and natural sorrow. +There was something irritating to him in the fact that Roland's mother +ignored the accusation he made against him. But when Roland had been +away three months, and the police authorities had given up all +expectation of discovering anything by watching his home and family, Mr. +Clifford felt that it was time something should be arranged which would +deliver Felicita from her voluntary imprisonment. + +"Why do you not go away?" he asked her; "you cannot continue to live +mewed up here all your days. If Roland should be found, it would be +better for you not to be in Riversborough. And I for one have given up +the expectation that he will be found; the only chance is that he may +return and give himself up. Go to some place where you are not known. +There is Scarborough; take Madame and the children there for a few +months, and then settle in London for the winter. Nobody will know you +in London." + +"But how can we leave this house?" she said, with a gleam of light in +her sad eyes. + +"Let me come in just as it is," he answered. "I will pay you a good rent +for it, and you can take a part of the furniture to London, to make +your new dwelling there more like home. It would be a great convenience +to me, and it would be the best thing for you, depend upon it. If Roland +returns he never will live here again." + +"No, he could never do that," she said, sighing deeply. "Mr. Clifford, +sometimes I think he must be dead." + +"I have thought so too," he replied gravely; "and if it were so, it +would be the salvation of you and your children. There would be no +public trial and conviction, and though suspicion might always rest upon +his memory, he would not be remembered for long. Justice would be +defrauded, yet on the whole I should rejoice for your sake to hear that +he was dead." + +Felicita's lips almost echoed the words. Her heart did so, though it +smote her as she recollected his passionate love for her. But Mr. +Clifford's speech sank deeply into her mind, and she brooded over it +incessantly. Roland's death meant honor and fair fame for herself and +her children; his life was perpetual shame and contempt to them. + +It was soon settled that they must quit Riversborough; but though +Felicita welcomed the change, and was convinced it would be the best +thing to do, Madame grieved sorely over leaving the only home which had +been hers, except the little manse in the Jura, where her girlhood had +passed swiftly and happily away. She had brought with her the homely, +thrifty ways in which she had been trained, and every spot in her +husband's dwelling had been taken under her own care and supervision. +Her affections had rooted themselves to the place, and she had never +dreamed of dying anywhere else than among the familiar scenes which had +surrounded her for more than thirty years. The change too could not be +made without her consent, for her marriage settlement was secured upon +the house, and her husband had left to her the right of accepting or +refusing a tenant. To leave the familiar, picturesque old mansion, and +to carry away with her only a few of the household treasures, went far +to break her heart. + +"It is where my husband intended for me to live and die," she moaned to +Phebe Marlowe; "and, oh, if I go away I can never fancy I see him +sitting in his own chair as he used to do, at the head of the table, or +by the fire. I have not altogether lost him, though he's gone, as long +as I can think of how he used to come in and go out of this room, always +with a smile for me. But if I go where he never was, how can I think I +see him there? And my son will be angry if we go; he will come back, and +clear up all this mystery, and he will think we went away because we +thought he had done evil. Ought we not to come home again after we have +been to Scarborough?" + +"I think Mrs. Sefton will die if she stays here," said Phebe. "It is +necessary for her to make this change; and you'd rather go with her and +the children than live here alone without them." + +"Oh, yes, yes!" answered Madame; "I cannot leave my little Felix and +Hilda, or Felicita: she is my son's dear wife. But he will come home +some day, and we can return then; you hope so, don't you, Phebe?" + +"If God pleases!" said Phebe, sighing. + +"In truth, if God pleases!" repeated Madame. + +When the last hour came in which Phebe could see Roland's wife, she +sought for her in her study, where she was choosing the books to be sent +after her. In the very words in which Roland had sent his message he +delivered it to Felicita. The cold, sad, marble-like face did not +change, though her heart gave a throb of disappointment and anguish as +the dread hope that he was no longer alive died out of it. + +"I will meet him there," she said. But she asked Phebe no questions, and +did not tell her where she was to meet her husband. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +OLD MARLOWE. + + +Life had put on for Phebe a very changed aspect. The lonely farmstead on +the uplands had been till now a very happy and tranquil home. She had +had no sorrow since her mother died when she was eight years of age, too +young to grieve very sorely. On the other hand, she was not so young as +to require a woman's care, and old Marlowe had made her absolute +mistress of the little home. His wife, a prudent, timid woman, had +always repressed his artistic tendencies, preferring the certainty of +daily bread to the vague chances of gaining renown and fortune. Old +Marlowe, so marred and imperfect in his physical powers, had submitted +to her shrewd, ignorant authority, and earned his living and hers by +working on his little farm and going out occasionally as a carpenter. +But when she was gone, and his little girl's eyes only were watching him +at his work, and the child's soul delighted in all the beautiful forms +his busy hands could fashion, he gave up his out-door toil, and, with +all the pent-up ardor of the lost years, he threw himself absorbingly +into the pleasant occupation of the present. Though he mourned +faithfully for his wife, the woman who had given to him Phebe, he felt +happier and freer without her. + +Phebe's girlhood also had been both free and happy. All the seasons had +been sweet to her: dear to her was "the summer, clothing the general +earth with greenness," and the winter, when "the redbreast sits and +sings be-twixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of the mossy +apple-tree." She had listened to "the eave-drops falling in the trances +of the blast," and seen them "hang in silent icicles, quietly shining to +the quiet moon." There had been no change in nature unnoticed or +unbeloved by her. The unbroken silence reigning around her, heightened +by the mute speech between herself and her father, which needed eyes +only, not lips, had grown so familiar as to be almost dear to her, in +spite of her strong delight in fellowship with others. The artistic +temperament she had inherited from her father, which very early took +vivid pleasure in expressing itself in color as well as in form, had +furnished her with an occupation of which she could never tire. As long +as there was light in the sky, long after the sun had gone down, in the +lingering twilight, loath to forsake the uplands, she was at her canvas +catching the soft gray tones, and dim-colored tints, and clearer masses +of foliage, which only the evening could show. + +To supply her need of general companionship there had been so full and +satisfying a sense of friendship between herself and the household at +the Old Bank at Riversborough that one day spent with them gave her +thought for a month. Every word uttered by Roland and Felicita was +treasured up in her memory and turned over in her mind for days after. +Madame's simple and cheerful nature made her almost like a mother to the +simple and cheerful country girl; and Felix and Hilda had been objects +of the deepest interest to her from the days of their birth. But it was +Roland, who had known her best and longest, to whom she owed the +direction and cultivation of her tastes and intellect, who had been +almost like a god to her in her childhood; it was he who dominated over +her simple heart the most. He was to Phebe so perfect that she had never +imagined that there could be a fault in him. + +There is one token to us that we are meant for a higher and happier life +than this, in the fact that sorrow and sin always come upon us as a +surprise. Happy days do not astonish us, and the goodness of our beloved +ones awakens no amazement. But if a sorrow comes we cry aloud to let our +neighbors know something untoward has befallen us; and if one we love +has sinned, we feel as if the heavens themselves were darkened. + +It was so with Phebe Marlowe. All her earthly luminaries, the greater +lights and the lesser lights, were under an eclipse, and a strange +darkness had fallen upon her. For the first time in her life she found +herself brooding over the sin of one who had been her guide, her +dearest friend, her hero. From the time when as a child she had learned +to look up to him as the paragon of all perfection, until now, as a girl +on the verge of womanhood, she had offered up to him a very pure and +maidenly worship. There was no one else whom she could love as much; for +her dumb and deaf father she loved in quite a different manner--with +more of pity and compassion than of admiration. Roland too had sometimes +talked with her, especially while she was a child, about God and Christ; +and she had regarded him as a spiritual director. Now her guide was lost +in the dense darkness. There was no sure example for her to follow. + +She had told her father he would never see her smile again if Roland +Sefton was taken to jail. There had been, of course, an implied promise +in this, but the promise was broken. Old Marlowe looked in vain for the +sweet and merry smiles that had been used to play upon her face. She was +too young and too unversed in human nature to know how jealously her +father would watch her, with inward curses on him who had wrought the +change. When he saw her stand for an hour or more, listlessly gazing +with troubled, absent eyes across the wide-spreading moor, with its +broad sweep of deep-purpled bloom, and golden gorse, and rich green +fern, yet taking no notice, nor hastening to fix the gorgeous hues upon +her canvas while the summer lasted; and when he watched her in the long +dusk of the autumn evenings sit motionless in the chimney corner +opposite to him, her fingers lying idly on her lap instead of busily +prattling some merry nonsense to him, and with a sad preoccupation in +her girlish face; then he felt that he had received his own death-blow, +and had no more to live for. + +The loss of his hard-earned money had taken a deeper hold upon him than +a girl so young as Phebe could imagine. For what is money to a young +nature but the merest dross, compared with the love and faith it has +lavished upon some fellow-mortal? While she was mourning over the +shipwreck of all her best affections, old Marlowe was brooding over his +six hundred pounds. They represented so much to him, so many years of +toil and austere self-denial. He had risen early, and late taken rest, +and eaten the bread of carefulness. His grief was not all ignoble, for +it was for his girl he grieved most; his wonderful child, so much more +gifted than the children of other men, whom nature had treated more +kindly than himself, men who could hear and speak, but whose daughters +were only commonplace creatures. The money was hers, not his; and it was +too late now for him to make up the heavy loss. The blow which had +deprived him of the fruits of his labor seemed to have incapacitated him +for further work. + +Moreover, Phebe was away oftener than usual: gone to the house of the +spoiler. Nor did she come home, as she had been wont to do, with radiant +eyes, and a soft, sweet smile coming and going, and many a pleasant +piece of news to tell off on her nimble fingers. She returned with +tear-stained eyelids and a downcast air, and was often altogether silent +as to the result of the day's absence. + +He strove, notwithstanding a haunting dread of failure, to resume his +old occupation. Doggedly every morning he put on his brown paper cap, +and went off to his crowded little workshop, but with unequal footsteps, +quite unlike his former firm tread. But it would not do. He stood for +hours before his half-shaped blocks of oak, with birds and leaves and +heads partly traced upon them; but he found himself powerless to +complete his own designs. Between him and them stood the image of Phebe, +a poverty-stricken, work-worn woman, toiling with her hands, in all +weathers, upon their three or four barren fields, which were now the +only property left to him. It had been pleasant to him to see her milk +the cows, and help him to fetch in the sheep from the moors; but until +now he had been able to pay for the rougher work on the farmstead. His +neighbor, Samuel Nixey, had let his laborers do it for him, since he had +kept his own hands and time for his artistic pursuit. But he could +afford this no longer, and the thought of the next winter's work which +lay before him and Phebe harassed him terribly. + +"Father," she said to him one evening, after she had been at +Riversborough, "they are all going away--Mrs. Sefton, and Madame, and +the children. They are going Scarborough, and after that to London, +never to come back. I shall not see them again." + +"Thank God!" thought the dumb old man, and his eyes gleamed brightly +from under their thick gray eyebrows. But he did not utter the words, so +much less easy was it for his fingers to betray his thoughts than it +would have been for his lips. And Phebe did not guess them. + +"Is there any news of him?" he asked. + +"Not a word," she answered. "Mr. Clifford has almost given it up. He is +an unforgiving man, an awful man." + +"No, no; he is a just man," said old Marlowe; "he wants nothing but his +own again, like me, and that a scoundrel should not get off scot free. I +want my money back; it's not money merely, but my years, and my brain, +and my love for thee, and my power to work: that's what he has robbed me +of. Let me have my money back, and I'll forgive him." + +"Poor father!" said Phebe aloud, with a little sob. How easy it seemed +to her to forgive a wrong that could be definitely stated at six hundred +pounds! All her inward grief was that Roland had fallen--he himself. If +by a whole sacrifice of herself she could have reinstated him in the +place he had forfeited, she would not have hesitated for an instant. But +no sacrifice she could make would restore him. + +"Does Mrs. Sefton know what he has done?" inquired her father. + +She nodded only in reply. + +"Does she believe him innocent?" he asked. + +"No," answered Phebe. + +"And Madame, his mother?" he pursued. + +"No, no, no! she cannot believe him guilty," she replied; "she thinks he +could free himself, if he would only come home. She is far happier than +Mrs. Sefton or me. I would lay down my life to have him true and honest +and good again, as he used to be. I feel as if I was in a miserable +dream." + +They were sitting together outside their cottage-door, with the level +rays of the setting sun shining across the uplands upon them, and the +fresh air of the evening breathing upon their faces. It was an hour they +both loved, but neither of them felt its beauty and tranquillity now. + +"You love him next to me?" asked old Marlowe. + +"Next to you, father," she repeated. + +But the subtle jealousy in the father's heart whispered that his +daughter loved these grand friends of hers more than himself. What could +he be to her, deaf mute that he was? What could he do for her? All he +had done had been swept away by the wrong-doing of this fine gentleman, +for whom she was willing to lay down her life. He looked at her with +wistful eyes, longing to hold closer, swifter communication with her +than could be held by their slow finger-speech. How could he ever make +her know all the love and pride pent up in his voiceless heart? Phebe, +in her girlish, blind preoccupation, saw nothing of his eager, wistful +gaze, did not even notice the nervous trembling of his stammering +fingers; and the old man felt thrown back upon himself, in more utter +loneliness of spirit than his life had ever experienced before. Yet he +was not so old a man, for he was little over sixty, but his hard life +of incessant toil and his isolation from his fellow-creatures had aged +him. This bitter calamity added many years to his actual age, and he +began to realize that his right hand was forgetting its cunning, his eye +for beauty was growing dim, and his craft failing him. The long, light +summer days kept him for a while from utter hopelessness. But as the +autumn winds began to moan and mutter round the house he told himself +that his work was done, and that soon Phebe would be a friendless and +penniless orphan. + +"I ought not to have let Roland Sefton go," he thought to himself; "if +I'd done my duty he would have been paying for his sin now, and maybe +there would have been some redress for us that lost by him. None of his +people will come to poverty like my Phebe. I could have held up my head +if I had not helped him to escape from punishment." + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +RECKLESS OF LIFE. + + +If old Marlowe, or Mr. Clifford himself, could have followed Roland +Sefton during his homeless wanderings, their rigorous sense of justice +would have been satisfied that he was not escaping punishment, though he +might elude the arbitrary penalty of the law. + +As the summer advanced, and the throng of yearly tourists poured into +the playground of Europe from every country, but especially from +England, he was driven away from all the towns and villages where he +might by chance be recognized by some fellow-countryman. Up into the +mountain pastures he retreated, where he rambled from one chalet to +another, sleeping on beds of fodder, with its keen night air piercing +through the apertures of the roof and walls, yet bringing with it those +intolerable stenches which exhale from the manure and mire lying +ankle-deep round each picturesque little hut. The yelping of the +watch-dogs; the snoring of the tired herdsmen lying within arm's length +of him; the shrill tinkling of cow-bells, musical enough by day and in +the distance, but driving sleep away too harshly; the sickness and +depression produced by unwholesome food, and the utter compulsory +abandonment of all his fastidious and dainty personal habits, made his +mere bodily life intolerable to him. He had borne something like these +discomforts and privations for a day or two at a time, when engaged in +Alpine climbing, but that he should be forced to live a life compared +with which that of an Irish bog-trotter was decent and civilized, was a +daily torment to him. + +It is true that during the long hours of daylight he wandered among the +most sublime scenery. Sometimes he scaled solitary peaks and looked down +upon far-stretching landscapes below him, with broad dead rivers of +glaciers winding between the high and terrible masses of snow-clad +rocks, and creeping down into peaceful valleys, where little living +streams of silvery gray wandered among chalets looking no larger than +the rocks strewn around them, with a tiny church in their midst lifting +up its spire of glittering metal with a kind of childish confidence and +exultation. Here and there in deep sunken hollows lay small tarns, black +as night, and guilty looking, with precipices overhanging them fringed +with pointed pine-trees, which sought in vain to mirror themselves in +those pitch-dark waters. And above them all, gazing down in silent +greatness, rose the snow-mountains, very cold, whiter than any other +whiteness on earth, pure and stainless, and apparently as unapproachable +in their far-off loveliness as the deep blue of the pure sky behind +them. + +But there was something unutterably awful to Roland Sefton in this +sublimity. A bad man, whose ear has never heard the voice of Nature, and +whose eye is blind to her ineffable beauty, may dwell in such places and +not be crushed by them. The dull herdsmen, thinking only of their cattle +and of the milking to be done twice a day, might live their own stupid, +commonplace lives there. The chance visitor who spent a few hours in +scaling difficult cliffs would perhaps catch a brief and fleeting sense +of their awfulness, only too quickly dissipated by the unwonted toil and +peril of his situation. But Roland Sefton felt himself exiled to their +ice-bound solitudes, cut off from all companionship, and attended only +by an accusing conscience. + +Morning after morning, when his short and feverish night was ended, he +went out in the early dawn while all the valleys below were still +slumbering in darkness, self-driven into the wilderness of rock and snow +rising above the wretched chalets. With coarse food sufficient for the +wants of the day he strayed wherever his aimless footsteps led him. It +was seldom that he stayed more than a night or two in the same +herdsman's hut. When he was well out of the track of tourists he +ventured down into the lower villages now and then, seeking a few days +of comparative comfort. But some rumor, or the arrival of some chance +traveller more enterprising and investigating than the mass, always +drove him away again. There was no peace for him, either in the high +Alps or the most secluded valleys. + +How could there be peace while memory and conscience were gnawing at his +heart? In a dreary round his thoughts went back to the first beginnings +of the road that had led him hither; with that vague feeling which all +of us have when retracing the irrevocable past, as if by some mighty +effort of our will we could place ourselves at the starting-point again +and run our race--oh, how differently! + +Roland could almost fix the date when he had first wished that Mr. +Clifford's bonds, bequeathed to him, were already his own. He +recollected the very day when old Marlowe had asked him to invest his +money for him in some safe manner for Phebe's benefit, and how he had +persuaded himself that nothing could be safer than to use it for his own +purposes, and to pay a higher interest than the old man could get +elsewhere. What he had done for him had been still easier to do for +other clients--ignorant men and women who knew nothing of business, and +left it all to him, gratefully pleased with the good interest he paid +them. The web had been woven with almost invisible threads at the first, +but the finest thread among them was a heavy cable now. + +But the one thought that haunted him, never leaving him for an instant +in these terrible solitudes, was the thought of Felicita. His mother he +could forget sometimes, or remember her with a dewy tenderness at his +heart, as if he could feel her pitiful love clinging to him still; and +his children he dreamed of at times in a day-dream, as playing merrily +without him, in the blissful ignorance of childhood. But Felicita, who +did not love him as his mother did, and could not remain in ignorance of +his crime! Was she not something like these pure, distant snowy +pinnacles, inapproachable and repellent, with icy-cold breath which +petrified all lips that drew too near to them? And he had set a stain +upon that purity as white as the driven snow. The name he had given to +her was tarnished, and would be publicly dishonored if he failed in +evading the penalty he merited. His death alone could save her from +notorious and intolerable disgrace. + +But though he was reckless of his life, he could not bring himself to be +guilty of suicide. Death was wooing him in many forms, day by day, to +seek refuge with him. When his feet slipped among the yawning crevasses +of the glaciers, the smallest wilful negligence would have buried him in +their blue depths. The common impulse to cast himself down the +precipices along whose margin he crept had only to be yielded to, and +all his earthly woe would be over. Even to give way to the weary +drowsiness that overtook him at times as the sun went down, and the +night fell upon him far away from shelter, might have soothed him into +the slumber from which there is no awaking. But he dared not. He was +willing enough to die, if dying had been all. But he believed in the +punishment of sin here, or hereafter; in the dealing out of a righteous +judgment to every man, whether he be good or evil. + +As the autumn passed by, and the mountain chalets were shut up, the +cattle and the herdsmen descending to the lower pastures, Roland Sefton +was compelled to descend too. There was little chance of encountering +any one who knew him at this late season; yet there were still +stragglers lingering among the Alps. But when he saw himself again in a +looking-glass, his face burned and blistered with the sun, and now +almost past recognition, and his ragged hair and beard serving him +better than any disguise, he was no longer afraid of being detected. He +began to wonder in mingled hope and dread whether Felicita would come +out to seek him. The message he had sent to her by Phebe could be +interpreted by her alone. Would she avail herself of it to find him out? +Or would she shrink from the toil and pain and danger of quitting +England? A few weeks more would answer the question. + +Sometimes he was overwhelmed with terror lest she should be watched, and +her movements tracked, and that behind her would come the pursuers he +had so successfully evaded. At other times an unutterable heart-sickness +possessed him to see her once more, to hear her voice, to press his +lips, if he dared, to her pale cheeks; to discover whether she would +suffer him to hold her in his arms for one moment only. He longed to +hear from her lips what had happened at home since he fled from it six +months ago; what she had done, and was going to do, supposing that he +were not arrested and brought to justice. Would she forgive him? would +she listen to his pleas and explanations? He feared that she would hate +him for the shame he had brought upon her. Yet there was a possibility +that she might pity him, with a pity so much akin to love as that with +which the angels look down upon sinful human beings. + +Every day brought the solution of his doubts nearer. The rains of autumn +had begun, and fell in torrents, driving him to any shelter he could +find, to brood there hour after hour upon these hopes and fears. The fog +and thick clouds hid the mountains, and all the valleys lay forlorn and +cold under clinging veils of mist, through which the few brown leaves +left upon the trees hung limp and dying on the bare branches. The +villagers were settling down to their winter life; and though along the +frequented routes a few travellers were still passing to and fro, the +less known were deserted. It was safe now to go down to Engelberg, +where, if ever again except as a prisoner in the hands of justice, he +would see Felicita. + +Impatient to anticipate the day on which he might again see her, he +reached Engelberg a week before the appointed time. The green meadows +and the forests of the little valley were hidden in mist and rain, and +the towering dome of the Titlis was folded from sight in dense clouds, +with only a cold gleam now and then as its snowy summit glanced through +them for a minute. The innumerable waterfalls were swollen, and fell +with a restless roar through the black depths of the forests. The +daylight was short, for the sun rose late behind the encircling +mountains, and hastened to sink again below them. But the place where he +had first met Felicita was dear to him, though dark and gloomy with the +cloudy days. He hastened to the church where his eyes had fallen upon +the young, silent, absorbed girl so many years ago; and here, where the +sun was shining fitfully for a brief half hour, he paced up and down the +aisles, wondering what the coming interview would bring. Day after day +he lingered there, with the loud chanting of the monks ringing in his +ears, until the evening came when he said to himself, "To-morrow I shall +see her once more." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +SUSPENSE. + + +Roland Sefton did not sleep that night. As the time drew near for +Felicita to act upon his message to her, he grew more desponding of her +response to it; yet he could not give up the feeble hope still +flickering in his heart. If she did not come he would be a hopeless +outcast indeed; yet if she came, what succor could she bring to him? He +had not once cherished the idea that Mr. Clifford would forbear to +prosecute him; yet he knew well that if he could be propitiated, the +other men and women who had claims upon him would be easily satisfied +and appeased. But how many things might have happened during the long +six months, which had seemed almost an eternity to him. It was not +impossible that Mr. Clifford might be dead. If so, and if a path was +thus open to him to re-enter life, how different should his career be in +the future! How warily would he walk; with what earnest penitence and +thorough uprightness would he order all his ways! He would be what he +had only seemed to be hitherto: a man following Christ, as his +forefathers had done. + +He was staying at a quiet inn in the village, and as soon as daybreak +came he started down the road along which Felicita must come, and waited +at the entrance of the valley, four miles from the little village. The +road was bad, for the heavy rains had washed much of it away, and it had +been roughly repaired by fir-trees laid along the broken edges; but it +was not impassable, and a one-horse carriage could run along it safely. +The rain had passed away, and the sun was shining. The high mountains +and the great rocks were clear from base to summit. If she came to-day +there was a splendid scene prepared for her eyes. Hour after hour passed +by, the short autumnal day faded into the dusk, and the dusk slowly +deepened into the blackness of night. Still he waited, late on into the +night, till the monastery bells chimed for the last time; but there was +no sign of her coming. + +The next day passed as that had done. Felicita, then, had deserted him! +He felt so sure of Phebe that he never doubted that she had not received +his message. He had left only one thread of communication between +himself and home--a slender thread--and Felicita had broken it. There +was now no hope for him, no chance of learning what had befallen all his +dear ones, unless he ran the risk of discovery, and ventured back to +England. + +But for Felicita and his children, he said to himself, it would be +better to go back, and pay the utmost penalty he owed to the broken laws +of his country. No hardships could be greater than those he had already +endured; no separation from companionship could be more complete. The +hard labor he would be doomed to perform would be a relief. His +conscience might smite him less sharply and less ceaselessly if he was +suffering the due punishment for his sin, in the society of his +fellow-criminals. Dartmoor Prison would be better for him than his +miserable and degrading freedom. + +Still, as long as he could elude publicity and preserve his name from +notoriety, the burden would not fall upon Felicita and his children. His +mother would not shrink from bearing her share of any burden of his. But +he must keep out of the dock, lest their father and husband should be +branded as a convict. + +A dreary round his thoughts ran. But ever in the centre of the circling +thoughts lay the conviction that he had lost his wife and children +forever. Whether he dragged out a wretched life in concealment, or was +discovered, or gave himself up to justice, Felicita was lost to him. +There were some women--Phebe Marlowe was one--who could have lived +through the shame of his conviction and the dreary term of his +imprisonment, praying to God for her husband, and pitying him with a +kind of heavenly grace, and at the end of the time met him at the prison +door, and gone out with him, tenderly and faithfully, to begin a new +life in another country. But Felicita was not one of these women. He +could never think of her as pardoning a transgression like his, though +committed for her sake. Even now she would not stoop so low as to seek a +meeting with one who deserved a penal punishment. + +Night had set in, and he was trudging along the road, still heavy with +recent rains, though the sky above was hung with glittering stars, and +the crystal snow on Titlis shone against the deep blue depths, casting a +wan light over the valley. Suddenly upon the stillness there came the +sound of several voices, and a shrill yodel, pitched in a key that rang +through the village, to call attention to the approaching party. It was +in advance of him, nearer to Engelberg; yet though he had been watching +the route from Stans all day, and was satisfied that Felicita could not +have entered the valley unseen by himself, the hope flashed through him +that she was before him, belated by the state of the roads. He hurried +on, seeing before him a small group of men carrying lanterns. But in +their midst they bore a rude litter, made of a gate taken hastily off +the hinges. They passed out of sight behind a house as he caught sight +of the litter, and for a minute or two he could not follow them, from +the mere shock of dread lest the litter held her. Then he hurried on, +and reached the hotel door as the procession marched into the hall and +laid their burden cautiously down. + +"An accident?" said the landlord. + +"Yes," answered one of the peasants; "we found him under Pfaffenwand. He +must have been coming from Engstlensee Alp; how much farther the good +God alone knows. The paths are slippery this wet weather, and he had no +guide, or there was no guide to be seen." + +"That must be searched into," said the landlord; "is he dead?" + +"No, no," replied two or three together. + +"He has spoken twice," continued the peasant who had answered before, +"and groaned much. But none of us knew what he said. He is dying, poor +fellow!" + +"English?" asked the landlord, looking down on the scarred face and +eager eyes of the stranger, who lay silent on the litter, glancing round +uneasily at the faces about him. + +"Some of us would have known French, or German, or Italian," was the +reply, "but not one of us knows English." + +"Nor I," said the landlord; "and our English speaker went away last +week, over the St. Gothard to Italy for the winter. Send round, Marie," +he went on, speaking to his wife, "and find out any one in Engelberg who +knows English. See! The poor fellow is trying to say something now." + +"I can speak English," said Roland, pushing his way in amid the crowd +and kneeling down beside the litter, on which a rough bed of fir +pine-branches had been made. The unknown face beneath his eyes was drawn +with pain, and the gaze that met his was one of earnest entreaty. + +"I am dying," he murmured; "don't let them torture me. Only let me be +laid on a bed to die in peace." + +"I will take care of you," said Roland in his pleasant and soothing +voice, speaking as tenderly as if he had been saying "God bless you!" to +Felix in his little cot; "trust yourself to me. They shall do for you +only what I think best." + +The stranger closed his eyes with an expression of relief, and Roland, +taking up one corner of the litter, helped to carry it gently into the +nearest bedroom. He was gifted with something of a woman's softness of +touch, and with a woman's delicate sympathy with pain; and presently, +though not without some moans and cries, the injured man was resting +peacefully on a bed: not unconscious, but looking keenly from face to +face on the people surrounding him. + +"Are you English?" he asked, looking at Roland's blistered face and his +worn peasant's dress. + +"Yes," he answered. + +"Is there any surgeon here?" he inquired. + +"No English surgeon," replied Roland. "I do not know if there is one +even at Lucerne, and none could come to you for many hours. But there +must be some one at the monastery close by, if not in the village--" + +"No, no!" he interrupted, "I shall not live many hours; but promise +me--I am quite helpless as you see--promise me that you will not let any +village doctor pull me about." + +"They are sometimes very skilful," urged Roland, "and you do not know +that you must really die." + +"I knew it as I was slipping," he answered; "at the first moment I knew +it, though I clutched at the very stones to keep me from falling. Why! I +was dead when they found me; only the pain of being pulled about brought +me back to life. I'm not afraid to die if they will let me die in +peace." + +"I will promise not to leave you," replied Roland; "and if you must die, +it shall be in peace." + +That he must die, and was actually dying, was affirmed by all about him. +One of the brothers from the monastery, skilled in surgery, came in +unrecognized as a doctor by the stranger, and shook his head hopelessly +when he saw him, telling Roland to let him do whatever he pleased so +long as he lived, and to learn all he could from him during the hours of +the coming night. There was no hope, he said; and if he had not been +found by the peasants he would have been dead now. Roland must ask if +he was a good Catholic or a heretic. When the monk heard that he was a +heretic and needed none of the consolations of the Church, he bade him +farewell kindly, and went his way. + +Roland Sefton sat beside the dying man all the night, while he lingered +from hour to hour: free from pain at times, at others restless and +racked with agony. He wandered a little in delirium, and when his brain +was clear he had not much to say. + +"Have you no message to send to your friends?" inquired Roland, in one +of these lucid intervals. + +"I have no friends," he answered, "and no money. It makes death easier." + +"There must be some one who would care to hear of you," said Roland. + +"They'll see it in the papers," he replied. "No, I come from India, and +was going to England. I have no near relations, and there is no one to +care much. 'Poor Austin,' they'll say; 'he wasn't a bad fellow.' That's +all. You've been kinder to me than anybody I know. There's about fifty +pounds in my pocket-book. Bury me decently and take the rest." + +He dozed a little, or was unconscious for a few minutes. His sunburnt +face, lying on the white pillow, still looked full of health and the +promise of life, except when it was contracted with pain. There was no +weakness in his voice or dimness in his eye. It seemed impossible to +believe that this strong young man was dying. + +"I lost my valise when I fell," he said, opening his eyes again and +speaking in a tranquil tone; "but there was nothing of value in it. My +money and my papers are in my pocket-book. Let me see you take +possession of it." + +He watched Roland search for the book in the torn coat on the chair +beside him, and his eyes followed its transfer to his breast-pocket +under his blue blouse. + +"You are an English gentleman, though you look a Swiss peasant," he +said; "you are poor, perhaps, and my money will be of use to you. It is +the only return I can make to you. I should like you to write down that +I give it to you, and let me sign the paper." + +"Presently," said Roland; "you must not exert yourself. I shall find +your name and address here?" + +"I have no address; of course I have a name," he answered; "but never +mind that now. Tell me, what do you think of Christ? Does He indeed save +sinners?" + +"Yes," said Roland reluctantly; "He says, 'I came to seek and to save +that which was lost.' Those are His own words." + +"Kneel down quickly," murmured the dying man. "Say 'Our Father!' so that +I can hear every word. My mother used to teach it to me." + +"And she is dead?" said Roland. + +"Years ago," he gasped. + +Roland knelt down. How familiar, with what a touch of bygone days, the +attitude came to him; how homely the words sounded! He had uttered them +innumerable times; never quite without a feeling of their sacredness and +sweetness. But he had not dared to take them into his lips of late. His +voice faltered, though he strove to keep it steady and distinct, to +reach the dying ears that listened to him. The prayer brought to him the +picture of his children kneeling, morning and evening, with the +self-same petitions. They had said them only a few hours ago, and would +say them again a few hours hence. Even the dying man felt there was +something more than mere emotion for him expressed in the tremulous +tones of Roland Sefton's voice. He held out his hand to him when he had +finished, and grasped his warmly. + +"God bless you!" he said. But he was weary, and his strength was failing +him. He slumbered again fitfully, and his mind wandered. Now and then +during the rest of the night he looked up with a faint smile, and his +lips moved inarticulately. He thought he had spoken, but no sound +disturbed the unbroken silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +ON THE ALTAR STEPS. + + +It was as the bells of the Abbey rang for matins that the stranger died. +For a few minutes Roland remained beside him, and then he called in the +women to attend to the dead, and went out into the fresh morning air. It +was the third day that the mountains had been clear from fog and cloud, +and they stood out against the sky in perfect whiteness. The snow-line +had come lower down upon the slopes, and the beautiful crystals of frost +hung on the tapering boughs of the pine-trees in the forests about +Engelberg. Here and there a few villagers were going toward the church, +and almost unconsciously Roland followed slowly in their track. + +The short service was over and the congregation was dispersing when he +crossed the well-worn door-sill. But a few women, especially the late +comers, were still scattered about praying mechanically, with their eyes +wandering around them. The High Altar was deserted, but candles burning +on it made a light in the dim place, and he listlessly sauntered up the +centre aisle. A woman was kneeling on the steps leading up to it, and as +the echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet church she rose and +looked round. It was Felicita! At that moment he was not thinking of +her; yet there was no doubt or surprise in the first moment of +recognition. The uncontrollable rapture of seeing her again arrested his +steps, and he stood looking at her, with a few paces between them. It +was plain that she did not know him. + +How could she know him, he thought bitterly, in the rough blue blouse +and coarse clothing and heavy hobnail boots of a Swiss peasant? His hair +was shaggy and uncut, and the skin of his face was so peeled and +blistered and scorched that his disguise was sufficient to conceal him +even from his wife. Yet as he stood there with downcast head, as a +devout peasant might have done before the altar, he saw Felicita make a +slight but imperious sign to him to advance. She did not take a step +toward him, but leaning against the altar rails she waited till he was +near to her, within hearing. There Roland paused. + +"Felicita," he said, not daring to draw closer to her. + +"I am here," she answered, not looking toward him; her large, dark, +mournful eyes lifted up to the cross above the altar, before which a +lamp was burning, whose light was reflected in her unshed tears. + +Neither of them spoke again for a while. It seemed as if there could be +nothing said, so great was the anguish of them both. The man who had +just died had passed away tranquilly, but they were drinking of a cup +more bitter than death. Yet the few persons lingering over their morning +devotions before the shrines in the side aisles saw nothing but a +stranger looking at the painting over the altar, and a peasant kneeling +on the lowest step deep in prayer. + +"I come from watching a fellow-man die," he said at last; "would to God +it had been myself!" + +"Yes!" sighed Felicita, "that would have been best for us all." + +"You wish me dead!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. + +"For the children's sake," she murmured, still looking away from him; +"yes! and for the sake of our name, your father's name, and mine. I +thought to bring honor to it, and you have brought flagrant dishonor to +it." + +"That can never be wiped away," he added. + +"Never!" she repeated. + +As if exhausted by these passionate words, they fell again into silence. +The murmur of whispered prayers was about them, and the faint scent of +incense floated under the arched roof. A gleam of morning light, growing +stronger, though the sun was still far below the eastern mountains, +glittered through a painted window, and threw a glow of color upon them. +Roland saw her standing in its many-tinted brightness, but her wan and +sorrowful face was not turned to look at him. He had not caught a +glance from her yet. How vividly he remembered the first moment his eyes +had ever beheld her, standing as she did now on these very altar steps, +with uplifted eyes and a sweet seriousness on her young face! It was +only a poor village church, but it was the most sacred spot in the whole +world to him; for there he had met Felicita and received her image into +his inmost heart. His ambition as well as his love had centred in her, +the penniless daughter of the late Lord Riversford, an orphan, and +dependent upon her father's brother and successor. But to Roland his +wife Felicita was immeasurably dearer than the girl Felicita Riversford +had been. All the happy days since he had won her, all the satisfied +desires, all his successes were centred in her and represented by her. +All his crime too. + +"I have loved you," he cried, "better than the whole world." + +There was no answer by word or look to his passionate words. + +"I have loved you," he said, more sadly, "better than God." + +"But you have brought me to shame!" she answered; "if I am tracked +here--and who can tell that I am not?--and if you are taken and tried +and convicted, I shall be the wife of the fraudulent banker and +condemned felon, Roland Sefton. And Felix and Hilda will be his +children." + +"It is true," he groaned; "I could not escape conviction." + +He buried his face in his hands, and rested them on the altar-rails. Now +his bowed-down head was immediately beneath her eyes, and she looked +down upon it with a mournful gaze; it could not have been more mournful +if she had been contemplating his dead face lying at rest in his coffin. +How was all this shame and misery for him and her to end? + +"Felicita," he said, lifting up his head, and meeting the sorrowful +farewell expression in her face, "if I could die it would be best for +the children and you." + +"Yes," she answered, in the sweet, too dearly loved voice he had +listened to in happy days. + +"I dare not open that door of escape for myself," he went on, "and God +does not send death to me. But I see a way, a possible way. I only see +it this moment; but whether it be for good or evil I cannot tell." + +"Will it save us?" she asked eagerly. + +"All of us," he replied. "This stranger, whose corpse I have just +left--nobody knows him, and he has no friends to trouble about +him--shall I give to him my name, and bury him as myself? Then I shall +be dead to all the world, Felicita; dead even to you; but you will be +saved. I too shall be safe in the grave, for death covers all sins. Even +old Clifford will be satisfied by my death." + +"Could it be done?" she asked breathlessly. + +"Yes," he said; "if you consent it shall be done. For my own sake I +would rather go back to England and deliver myself up to the law I have +broken. But you shall decide, my darling. If I return you will be known +as the wife of the convict Sefton. Say: shall I be henceforth dead +forever to you and my mother and the children? Shall it be a living +death for me, and deliverance and safety and honor for you all? You must +choose between my infamy or my death." + +"It must be," she answered, slowly yet without hesitation, looking away +from him to the cross above the altar, "your death." + +A shudder ran through her slight frame as she spoke, and thrilled +through him as he listened. It seemed to them both as if they stood +beside an open grave, on either side one, and parted thus. He stretched +out his hand to her, and laid it on her dress, as if appealing for +mercy; but she did not turn to him, or look upon him, or open her white +lips to utter another word. Then there came more stir and noise in the +church, footsteps sounded upon the pavement, and an inquisitive face +peeped out of the vestry near the altar where they stood. It was no +longer prudent to remain as they were, subject to curiosity and +scrutiny. Roland rose from his knees, and without glancing again toward +her, he spoke in a low voice of unutterable grief and supplication. + +"Let me see you and speak to you once more," he said. + +"Once more," she repeated. + +"This evening," he continued, "at your hotel." + +"Yes," she answered. "I am travelling under Phebe Marlowe's name. Ask +for Mrs. Marlowe." + +She turned away and walked slowly and feebly down the aisle; and he +watched her, as he had watched the light tread of the young girl eleven +years ago, passing through alternate sunshine and shadow. There was no +sunshine now. Was it possible that so long a time had passed since then? +Could it be true that for ten years she had been his wife, and that the +tie between them was forever dissolved? From this day he was to be dead +to her and to all the world. He was about to pass voluntarily into a +condition of death amid life, as utterly bereft of all that had once +been his as if the grave had closed over him. Roland Sefton was to exist +no more. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +A SECOND FRAUD. + + +Roland Sefton went back to the room in which the corpse of the stranger +was now lying. The women were gone, and he turned down the sheet to look +at the face of the man who was about to bear his name and the disgrace +of his crime into the safe asylum of the grave. It was perfectly calm, +with no trace of the night's suffering upon it; there was even a faint +vestige of a smile about the mouth, as of one who sleeps well, and has +pleasant dreams. He was apparently about Roland's own age, and a +description given by strangers would not be such as would lead to any +suspicion that there could have been a mistake as to identity. Roland +looked long upon it before covering it up again, and then he sat down +beside the bed and opened the pocket-book. + +There were notes in it worth fifty pounds, but not many papers. There +was a memorandum made here and there of the places he had visited, and +the last entry was dated the day before at Engstlenalp. Roland knew +every step of the road, and for a while he seemed to himself to be this +traveller, starting from the little inn, not yet vacated by its peasant +landlord, but soon to be left to icy solitude, and taking the narrow +path along the Engstlensee, toiling up the Joch pass under the mighty +Wendenstöcke and the snowy Titlis, clear of clouds from base to summit +yesterday. The traveller must have had a guide with him, some peasant or +herdsman probably, as far as the Trübsee Alp; for even in summer the +route was difficult to find. The guide had put him on to the path for +Engelberg, and left him to make his way along the precipitous slopes of +the Pfaffenwand. All this would be discovered when an official inquiry +was made into the accident. In the mean time it was necessary to invest +this stranger with his own identity. + +There were two or three well-worn letters in the pocket-book, but they +contained nothing of importance. It seemed true, what the dying man had +said, that there was no link of kinship or friendship binding him +specially to his fellow-men. Roland opened his own pocket-book, and +looked over a letter or two which he had carried about with him, one of +them a childish note from Felix, preferring some simple request. His +passport was there also, and his mother's portrait and those of the +children, over which his eyes brooded with a hungry sorrow in his heart. +He looked at them for the last time. But Felicita's portrait he could +not bring himself to give up. She would be dead to him, and he to her. +In England she would live among her friends as his widow, pitied, and +comforted, and beloved. But what would the coming years bring to him? +All that would remain to him of the past would be a fading photograph +only. + +So long he lingered over this mournful conflict that he was at last +aroused from it by the entrance of the landlord, and the mayor and other +officials, who had come to look at the body of the dead. Roland's +pocket-book lay open on the bed, and he was still gazing at the +portraits of his children. He raised his sunburnt face as they came in, +and rose to meet them. + +"This traveller," he said, "gave to me his pocket-book as I watched +beside him last night. It is here, containing his passport, a few +letters, and fifty pounds in notes, which he told me to keep, but which +I wish to give to the commune." + +"They must be taken charge of," said the mayor; "but we will look over +them first. Did he tell you who he was?" + +"The passport discloses that," answered Roland; "he desired only a +decent funeral." + +"Ah!" said the mayor, taking out the passport, "an English traveller; +name Roland Sefton; and these letters, and these portraits--they will be +enough for identification." + +"He said he had no friends or family in England," pursued Roland, "and +there is no address among his letters. He told me he came from India." + +"Then there need be no delay about the interment," remarked the mayor, +"if he had no family in England, and was just come from India. Bah! we +could not keep him till any friends came from India. It is enough. We +must make an inquiry; but the corpse cannot be kept above ground. The +interment may take place as soon as you please, Monsieur." + +"I suppose you will wish for some trifle as payment?" said the landlord, +addressing Roland. + +"No," he answered, "I only watched by him through the night; and I am +but a passing traveller like himself." + +"You will assist at the funeral?" he asked. + +"If it can be to-morrow," replied Roland; "if not I must go on to +Lucerne. But I shall come back to Engelberg. If it be necessary for me +to stay, and the commune will pay my expenses, I will stay." + +"Not necessary at all," said the mayor; "the accident is too simple, and +he has no friends. Why should the commune lose by him?" + +"There are the fifty pounds," suggested Roland. + +"And there are the expenses!" said the mayor. "No, no. It is not +necessary for you to stay; not at all. If you are coming back again to +Engelberg it will be all right. You say you are coming back?" + +"I am sure to come back to Engelberg," he answered, with gloomy +emphasis. + +For already Roland began to feel that he, himself, was dead, and a new +life, utterly different from the old, was beginning for him. And this +new life, beginning here, would often draw him back to its birth-place. +There would be an attraction for him here, even in the humble grave +where men thought they had buried Roland Sefton. It would be the only +link with his former life, and it would draw him to it irresistibly. + +"And what is your name and employment, my good fellow?" asked the mayor. + +"Jean Merle," he answered promptly. "I am a wood-carver." + +The deed he had only thought of an hour ago was accomplished, and there +could be no undoing it. This passport and these papers would be +forwarded to the embassy at Berne, where doubtless his name was already +known as a fugitive criminal. He could not reclaim them, for with them +he took up again the burden of his sin. He had condemned himself to a +penalty and sacrifice the most complete that man could think of, or put +into execution. Roland Sefton was dead, and his wife and children were +set free from the degradation he had brought upon them. + +He spent the remaining hours of the day in wandering about the forests +in the Alpine valley. The autumn fogs and the dense rain-clouds were +gathering again. But it was nothing to him that the snowy crests of the +surrounding mountains were once more shrouded from view, or that the +torrents and waterfalls which he could not see were thundering and +roaring along their rocky channels with a vast effluence of waters. He +saw and heard no more than the dead man who bore his name. He was +insensible to hunger or fatigue. Except for Felicita's presence in the +village behind him he would have felt himself in another world; in a +beamless and lifeless abyss, where there was no creature like unto +himself; only eternal gloom and solitude. + +It was quite dark before he passed again through the village on his way +to Felicita's hotel. The common light of lamps, and the every-day life +of ordinary men and women busy over their evening meal, astonished him, +as if he had come from another state of existence. He lingered awhile, +looking on as at some extraordinary spectacle. Then he went on to the +hotel standing a little out of and above the village. + +The place, so crowded in the summer, was quiet enough now. A bright +light, however, streamed through the window of the salon, which was +uncurtained. He stopped and looked in at Felicita, who was sitting alone +by the log fire, with her white forehead resting on her small hand, +which partly hid her face. How often had he seen her sitting thus by the +fireside at home! But though he stood without in the dark and cold for +many minutes, she did not stir; neither hand nor foot moved. At last he +grew terrified at this utter immobility, and stepping through the hall +he told the landlady that the English lady had business with him. He +opened the door, and then Felicita looked up. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +PARTING WORDS. + + +Roland advanced a few paces into the gaudy salon, with its mirrors +reflecting his and Felicita's figures over and over again, and stood +still, at a little distance from her, with his rough cap in his hand. He +looked like one of the herdsmen with whom he had been living during the +summer. There was no one else in the large room, but the night was +peering in through half a dozen great uncurtained windows, which might +hold many spectators watching them, as he had watched her a minute ago. +She scarcely moved, but the deadly pallor of her face and the dark +shining of her tearless eyes fixed upon him made him tremble as if he +had been a woman weaker than herself. + +"It is done," he said. + +"Yes," she answered, "I have been to see him." + +There was an accent in her voice, of terror and repugnance, as of one +who had witnessed some horrifying sight and was compelled to bear a +reluctant testimony to it. Roland himself felt a shock of antipathy at +the thought of his wife seeing this unknown corpse bearing his name. He +seemed to see her standing beside the dead, and looking down with those +beloved eyes upon the strange face, which would dwell for evermore in +her memory as well as his. Why had she subjected herself to this +needless pang? + +"You wished it?" he said. "You consented to my plan?" + +"Yes," she answered in the same monotonous tone of reluctant testimony. + +"And it was best so, Felicita," he said tenderly; "we have done the dead +man no wrong. Remember he was alone, and had no friends to grieve over +his strange absence. If it had been otherwise there would have been a +terrible sin in our act. But it has set you free; it saves you and my +mother and the children. As long as I lived you would have been in +peril; but now there is a clear, safe course laid open for you. You will +go home to England, where in a few months it will be forgotten that your +husband was suspected of crime. Only old Clifford, and Marlowe, and two +or three others will remember it. When you have the means, repay those +poor people the money I owe them. And take comfort, Felicita. It would +have done them no good if I had been taken and convicted; that would not +have restored their money. My name then will be clear of all but +suspicion, and you will make it a name for our children to inherit." + +"And you?" she breathed with lips that scarcely moved. + +"I?" he said. "Why, I shall be dead! A man's life is not simply the +breath he draws: it is his country, his honor, his home. You are my +life, Felicita: you and my mother and Felix and Hilda; the old home +where my forefathers dwelt; my townsmen's esteem and good-will; the work +I could do, and hoped to do. Losing those I lost my life. I began to +die when I first went wrong. The way seemed right in my own eyes, but +the end of it was death. I told old Marlowe his money was as safe as in +the Bank of England, when I was keeping it in my own hands; but I +believed it then. That was the first step; this is the last. Henceforth +I am dead." + +"But how will you live?" she asked. + +"Never fear; Jean Merle will earn his living," he answered. "Let us +think of your future, my darling. Nay, let me call you darling once +more. My death provides for you, for your marriage-settlement will come +into force. You will have to live differently, my Felicita; all the +splendor and the luxury I would have surrounded you with must be lost. +But there will be enough, and my mother will manage your household well +for you. Be kind to my poor mother, and comfort her. And do not let my +children grow up with hard thoughts of their father. It will be a +painful task to you." + +"Yes," she said. "Oh, Roland, we ought not to have done this thing!" + +"Yet you chose," he replied. + +"Yes; and I should choose it again, though I hate the falsehood," she +exclaimed vehemently. "I cannot endure shame. But all our future life +will be founded on a lie." + +"Let the blame be mine, not yours," he said; "it was my plan, and there +is no going back from it now. But tell me about home. How are my +children and my mother? They are still at home?" + +"No," she answered; "the police watched it day and night, till it grew +hateful to me. I shall never enter it again. We went away to the +sea-side three months ago, and there our mother and the children are +still. But when I get back we shall remove to London." + +"To London!" he repeated. "Will you never go home to Riversborough?" + +"Never again!" she replied. "I could not live there now; it is a hateful +spot to me. Your mother grieves bitterly over leaving it; but even she +sees that we can never live there again." + +"I shall not even know how to think of you all!" he cried. "You will be +living in some strange house, which I can never picture to myself. And +the old home will be empty." + +"Mr. Clifford is living in it," she said. + +He threw up his hands with a gesture of grief and vexation. Whenever his +thoughts flew to the old home, the only home he had ever known, it would +be only to remember that the man he most dreaded, he who was his most +implacable enemy, was dwelling in it. And when would he cease to think +of his own birth-place and the birth-place of his children, the home +where Felicita had lived? It would be impossible to blot the vivid +memory of it from his brain. + +"I shall never see it again," he said; "but I should have felt less +banished from you if I could have thought of you as still at home. We +are about to part forever, Felicita--as fully as if I lay dead down +yonder, as men will think I do." + +"Yes," she answered, with a mournful stillness. + +"Even if we wished to hold any intercourse with each other," he +continued, gazing wistfully at her, "it would be dangerous to us both. +It is best for us both to be dead to one another." + +"It is best," she assented; "only if you were ever in great straits, if +you could not earn your living, you might contrive to let me know." + +"There is no fear of that," he answered bitterly. "Felicita, you never +loved me as I love you." + +"No," she said, with the same inexpressible sadness, yet calmness, in +her voice and face; "how could I? I was a child when you married me; we +were both children. There is such a difference between us. I suppose I +should never love any one very much--not as you mean. It is not in my +nature. I can live alone, Roland. All of you, even the children, seem +very far away from me. But I grieve for you in my inmost soul. If I +could undo what you have done I would gladly lay down my life. If I +could only undo what we did this morning! The shadow of it is growing +darker and darker upon me. And yet it seemed so wise; it seems so still. +We shall be safe again, all of us, and we have done that dead man no +wrong." + +"None," he said. + +"But when I think of you," she went on, "how you, still living, will +long to know what is befalling us, how the children are growing up, and +how your mother is, and how I live, yet never be able to satisfy this +longing; how you will have to give us up, and never dare to make a sign; +how you will drag on your life from year to year, a poor man among poor, +ignorant, stupid men; how I may die, and you not know it, or you may +die, and I not know it; I wonder how we could have done what we did this +morning." + +"Oh, hush, hush, Felicita!" he exclaimed; "I have said all this to +myself all this day, until I feel that my punishment is harder than I +can bear. Tell me, shall we undo it? Shall I go to the mayor and deliver +myself up as the man whose name I have given to the dead? It can be done +still; it is not too late. You shall decide again." + +"No; I cannot accept disgrace," she answered passionately; "it is an +evil thing to do, but it must be done. We must take the consequences. +You and I are dead to one another for evermore; but your death is more +terrible than mine. I shall grieve over you more than if you were really +dead. Why does not God send death to those that desire it? Good-by now +forever, Roland. I return to England to act this lie, and you must +never, never seek me out as your wife. Promise me that. I would +repudiate you if I lay on my death-bed." + +"I will never seek you out and bring you to shame," he said; "I promise +it faithfully, by my love for you. As I hope ever to obtain pardon, I +promise it." + +"Then leave me," she cried; "I can bear this no longer. Good-by, +Roland." + +They were still some paces apart, he with his shaggy mountain cap in his +hand standing respectfully at a distance, and she, sitting by the low, +open hearth with her white, quiet face turned toward him. All the +village might have witnessed their interview through the uncurtained +windows. Slowly, almost mechanically, Felicita left her seat and +advanced toward him with an outstretched hand. It was cold as ice as he +seized it eagerly in his own; the hand of the dead man could not have +been colder or more lifeless. He held it fast in a hard, unconscious +grip. + +"Good-by, my wife," he said; "God bless and keep you!" + +"Is there any God?" she sobbed. + +But there was a sound at the door, the handle was being turned, and they +fell apart guiltily. A maid entered to tell Madame her chamber was +prepared, and without another word Felicita walked quickly from the +salon, leaving him alone. + +He caught a glimpse of her again the next morning as she came +down-stairs and entered the little carriage which was to take her down +to Stansstad in time to catch the boat to Lucerne. She was starting +early, before it was fairly dawn, and he saw her only by the dim light +of lamps, which burned but feebly in the chilly damp of the autumn +atmosphere. For a little distance he followed the sound of the carriage +wheels, but he arrested his own footsteps. For what good was it to +pursue one whom he must never find again? She was gone from him forever. +He was a young man yet, and she still younger. But for his folly and +crime a long and prosperous life might have stretched before them, each +year knitting their hearts and souls more closely together; and he had +forfeited all. He turned back up the valley broken-hearted. + +Later in the day he stood beside the grave of the man who was bearing +away his name from disgrace. The funeral had been hurried on, and the +stranger was buried in a neglected part of the churchyard, being +friendless and a heretic. It was quickly done, and when the few persons +who had taken part in it were dispersed, Roland Sefton lingered alone +beside the desolate grave. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +WAITING FOR THE NEWS. + + +Felicita hurried homeward night and day without stopping, as if she had +been pursued by a deadly enemy. Madame and the children were not at +Scarborough, but at a quiet little fishing village on the eastern coast; +for Felicita had found Scarborough too gay in the month of August, and +her cousins, the Riversfords, having appeared there, she retreated to +the quietest spot that could be found. To this village she returned, +after being absent little more than a week. + +Madame knew nothing of her journey; but the mere fact that Felicita was +going away alone had aroused in her the hope that it was connected in +some way with Roland. In some vague manner this idea had been +communicated to Felix, and both were expecting to see the long-lost +father and son come back with her. Roland's prolonged and mysterious +absence had been a sore trial to his mother, though her placid and +trustful nature had borne it patiently. Surely, she thought, the trial +was coming to an end. + +Felicita reached their lodgings utterly exhausted and worn out. She was +a delicate woman, in no way inured to fatigue, and though she had been +insensible to the overstrain of the unbroken journey as she was whirled +along railways and passed from station to station, a sense of complete +prostration seized upon her as soon as she found herself at home. Day +after day she lay in bed, in a darkened room, unwilling to lift her +voice above a whisper, waiting in a kind of torpid dread for the +intelligence that she knew must soon come. + +She had been at home several days, and still there was no news. Was it +possible, she asked herself, that this unknown traveller, and his +calamitous fate, should pass on into perfect oblivion and leave matters +as they were before? For a cloud would hang over her and her children +as long as Roland was the object of pursuit. While he was a fugitive +criminal, of interest to the police officers of all countries, there was +no security for their future. The lie to which she had given a guilty +consent was horrible to her, but her morbid dread of shame was more +horrible. She had done evil that good might come; but if the good +failed, the evil would still remain as a dark stain upon her soul, +visible to herself, if to none else. + +"I will get up to-day," she said at last, to Madame's great delight. She +never ventured to exert any authority over her beautiful and clever +daughter-in-law--not even the authority of a mildly expressed wish. She +was willing to be to Felicita anything that Felicita pleased--her +servant and drudge, her fond mother, or her quiet, attentive companion. +Since her return from her mysterious journey she had been very tender to +her, as tenderly and gently demonstrative as Felicita would ever permit +her to be. + +"Have you seen any newspapers lately?" asked Felicita. + +"I never read the papers, my love," answered Madame. + +"I should like to see to-day's _Times_," said Felicita. + +But it was impossible to get it in this village without ordering it +beforehand, and Felicita gave up her wish with the listless indifference +of an invalid. When the late sun of the November day had risen from +behind a heavy bank of clouds she ventured down to the quiet shore. +There were no visitors left beside themselves, so there were no curious +eyes to scan her white, sad face. For a short time Felix and Hilda +played about her; but by and by Madame, thinking she was weary and +worried, allured them away to a point where they were still in sight, +though out of hearing. The low, cold sun shed its languid and watery +rays upon the rocks and creeping tide, and, unnoticed, almost unseen, +Felicita could sit there in stillness, gazing out over the chilly and +mournful sea. There was something so unutterably sad about Felicita's +condition that it awed the simple, cheerful nature of Madame. It was +more than illness and exhaustion. The white, unsmiling face, the +drooping head, the languor of the thin, long hands, the fathomless +sorrow lurking behind her dark eyes--all spoke of a heart-sickness such +as Madame had never seen or dreamed of. The children did not cheer their +mother. When she saw that, Madame felt that there was nothing to be done +but to leave her in the cold solitude she loved. + +But as Felicita sat alone on the shore, looking listlessly at the +fleeting sails which were passing to and fro upon the sea, she saw afar +off the figure of a girl coming swiftly toward her from the village, and +before many moments had passed she recognized Phebe Marlowe's face. A +great throb of mingled relief and dread made her heart beat violently. +Nothing could have brought Phebe away, so far from home, except the news +of Roland's death. + +The rosy color on Phebe's face was gone, and the brightness of her blue +eyes was faded; but there was the same out-looking of a strong, simple, +unselfish soul shining through them. As she drew near to Felicita she +stretched out her arms with the instinctive gesture of one who was come +to comfort and support, and Felicita, with a strange, impulsive feeling +that she brought consolation and help, threw herself into them. + +"I know it all," said Phebe in a low voice. "Oh, what you must have +suffered! He was going to Engelberg to meet you, and you never saw him +alive! Oh, why did not God let you meet each other once again? But God +loved him. I can never think that God had not forgiven him, for he was +grieved because of his sin when I saw him the night he got away. And in +all things else he was so good! Oh, how good he was!" + +Phebe's tears were falling fast, and her words were choked with sobs. +But Felicita's face was hidden against her neck, and she could not see +if she was weeping. + +"Everybody is talking of him in Riversborough," she went on, "and now +they all say how good he always was, and how unlikely it is that he was +guilty. They will forget it soon. Those who remember him will think +kindly of him, and be grieved for him. But oh, I would give worlds for +him to have lived and made amends! If he could only have proved that he +had repented! If he could only have outlived it all, and made everybody +know that he was really a good man, one whom God had delivered out of +sin!" + +"It was impossible!" murmured Felicita. + +"No, not impossible!" she cried earnestly; "it was not an unpardonable +sin. Even if he had gone to prison, as he would, he might have faced the +world when he came out again; and if he'd done all the good he could in +it, it might have been hard to convince them he was good, but it would +never be impossible. If God forgives us, sooner or later our +fellow-creatures will forgive us, if we live a true life. I would have +stood by him in the face of the world, and you would, and Madame and the +children. He would not have been left alone, and it would have ended in +every one else coming round to us. Oh, why should he die when you were +just going to see each other again!" + +Felicita had sunk down again into the chair which had been carried for +her to the shore, and Phebe sat down on the sands at her feet. She +looked up tearfully into Felicita's wan and shrunken face. + +"Did any one ever win back their good name?" asked Felicita with +quivering lips. + +"Among us they do sometimes," she answered. "I knew a working-man who +had been in jail five years, and he became a Christian while he was +there, and he came back home to his own village. He was one of the best +men I ever knew, and when he died there was such a funeral as had never +been seen in the parish church. Why should it not be so? If God is +faithful and just to forgive us our sins, why shouldn't we forgive? If +we are faithful and just, we shall." + +"It could never be," said Felicita; "it cannot be the same as if Roland +had not been guilty. No one can blot out the past; it is eternal." + +"Yes," she replied, covering Felicita's hand with kisses and tears; "but +oh, we love him more now than ever. He is gone into the land of thick +darkness, and I cannot follow him in my thoughts. It is like a gulf +between us and him. Even if he had been farthest away from us in the +world--anywhere--we could imagine what he was doing; but we cannot see +him or call across the gulf to him. It is all unknown. Only God knows!" + +"God!" echoed Felicita; "if there is a God, let Him help me, for I am +the most wretched woman on His earth to-day." + +"God cannot keep from helping us all," answered Phebe. "He cannot rest +while we are wretched. I understand it better than I used to do. I +cannot rest myself while the poorest creature about me is in pain that I +can help. It is impossible that He should not care. That would be an +awful thing to think; that would make His love and pity less than ours. +This I know, that God loves every creature He has made. And oh, He must +have loved him, though he was suffered to fall over that dreadful +precipice, and die before you saw him. It happened before you reached +Engelberg?" + +"Yes," said Felicita, shivering. + +"The papers were sent on to Mr. Clifford," continued Phebe, "and he sent +for me to come with him, and see you before the news got into the +papers. It will be in to-morrow. But I knew more than he did, and I came +on here to speak to you. Shall you tell him you went there to meet +him?" + +"Oh, no, no!" cried Felicita; "it must never be known, dear Phebe." + +"And his mother and the children--they, know nothing?" she said. + +"Not a word, and it is you who must tell them, Phebe," she answered. +"How could I bear to tell them that he is dead? Never let them speak +about it to me; never let his name be mentioned." + +"How can I comfort you?" cried Phebe. + +"I can never be comforted," she replied despairingly; "but it is like +death to hear his name." + +The voices of the children coming nearer reached their ears. They had +seen from their distant playground another figure sitting close beside +Felicita, and their curiosity had led them to approach. Now they +recognized Phebe, and a glad shout rang through the air. She bent down +hurriedly to kiss Felicita's cold hand once again, and then she rose to +meet them, and prevent them from seeing their mother's deep grief. + +"I will go and tell them, poor little things!" she said, "and Madame. +Oh, what can I do to help you all? Mr. Clifford is at your lodgings, +waiting to see you as soon as you can meet him." + +She did not stay for an answer, but ran to meet Felix and Hilda; while +slowly, and with much guilty shrinking from the coming interview, +Felicita went back to the village, where Mr. Clifford was awaiting her. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN. + + +Roland Sefton's pocket-book, containing his passport and the papers and +photographs, had reached Mr. Clifford the day before, with an official +intimation of his death from the consulate at Berne. The identification +was complete, and the inquiry into the fatal accident had resulted in +blame to no one, as the traveller had declined the services of a +trustworthy guide from Meirengen to Engelberg. This was precisely what +Roland would have done, the whole country being as familiar to him as to +any native. No doubt crossed Mr. Clifford's mind that his old friend's +son had met his untimely end while a fugitive from his country, from +dread chiefly of his own implacable sense of justice. + +Roland was dead, but justice was not satisfied. Mr. Clifford knew +perfectly well that the news of his tragic fate would create an +immediate and complete reaction in his favor among his fellow-townsmen. +Hitherto he had been only vaguely accused of crime, which his absence +chiefly had tended to fasten upon him; but as there had been no +opportunity of bringing him to public trial, it would soon be believed +that there was no evidence against him. Many persons thought already +that the junior partner was away either on pleasure or business, because +the senior had taken his place. Only a few, himself and the three or +four obscure people who actually suffered from his defalcations, would +recollect them. By and by Roland Sefton would be remembered as the kind, +benevolent, even Christian man, whose life, so soon cut short, had been +full of promise for his native town. + +Mr. Clifford himself felt a pang of regret and sorrow when he heard the +news. Years ago he had loved the frank, warm-hearted boy, his friend's +only child, with a very true affection. He had an only boy, too, older +than Roland by a few years, and these two were to succeed their fathers +in the long-established firm. Then came the bitter disappointment in his +own son. But since he had suffered his son to die in his sins, reaping +the full harvest of his transgressions, he had felt that any forgiveness +shown to other offenders would be a cruel injustice to him. Yet as +Roland's passport and the children's photographs lay before him on his +office desk--the same desk at which Roland was sitting but a few months +ago, a man in the full vigor of life, with an apparently prosperous and +happy future lying before him--Mr. Clifford for a moment or two yielded +to the vain wish that Roland had thrown himself on his mercy. Yet his +conscience told him that he would have refused to show him mercy, and +his regret was mingled with a tinge of remorse. + +His first care was to prevent the intelligence reaching Felicita by +means of the newspapers, and he sent immediately for Phebe Marlowe to +accompany him to the sea-side, in order to break the news to her. +Phebe's excessive grief astonished him, though she had so much natural +control over herself, in her sympathy for others, as to relieve him of +all anxiety on her account, and to keep Felicita's secret journey from +being suspected. But to Phebe, Roland's death was fraught with more +tragic circumstances than any one else could conceive. He was hastening +to meet his wife, possibly with some scheme for their future, which +might have hope and deliverance in it, when this calamity hurried him +away into the awful, unknown world, on whose threshold we are ever +standing. But for her ardent sympathy for Felicita, Phebe would have +been herself overwhelmed. It was the thought of her, with this terrible +and secret addition to her sorrow, which bore her through the long +journey and helped her to meet Felicita with something like calmness. + +From the bay-window of the lodging-house Mr. Clifford watched Felicita +coming slowly and feebly toward the house. So fragile she looked, so +unutterably sorrow-stricken, that a rush of compassion and pity opened +the floodgates of his heart, and suffused his stern eyes with tears. +Doubtless Phebe had told her all. Yet she was coming alone to meet him, +her husband's enemy and persecutor, as if he was a friend. He would be a +friend such as she had never known before. There would be no vain +weeping, no womanish wailing in her; her grief was too deep for that. +And he would respect it; he would spare her all the pain he could. At +this moment, if Roland could have risen from the dead, he would have +clasped him in his arms, and wept upon his neck, as the father welcomed +his prodigal son. + +Felicita did not speak when she entered the room, but looked at him with +a steadfastness in her dark sad eyes which again dimmed his with tears. +Almost fondly he pressed her hands in his, and led her to a chair, and +placed another near enough for him to speak to her in a low and quiet +voice, altogether unlike the awful tones he used in the bank, which made +the clerks quail before him. His hand trembled as he took the little +photographs out of their envelope, so worn and stained, and laid them +before her. She looked at them with tearless eyes, and let them fall +upon her lap as things of little interest. + +"Phebe has told you?" he said pitifully. + +"Yes," she whispered. + +"You did not know before?" he said. + +She shook her head mutely. A long, intricate path of falsehood stretched +before her, from which she could not turn aside, a maze in which she was +already entangled and lost; but her lips were reluctant to utter the +first words of untruth. + +"These were found on him," he continued, pointing to the children's +portraits. "I am afraid we cannot doubt the facts. The description is +like him, and his papers and passport place the identity beyond a +question. But I have dispatched a trusty messenger to Switzerland to +make further inquiries, and ascertain every particular." + +"Will he see him?" asked Felicita with a start of terror. + +"No, my poor girl," said the old banker; "it happened ten days ago, and +he was buried, so they say, almost immediately. But I wish to have a +memorial stone put over his grave, that if any of us, I or you, or the +children, should wish to visit it at some future time, it should not be +past finding." + +He spoke tenderly and sorrowfully, as if he imagined himself standing +beside the grave of his old friend's son, recalling the past and +grieving over it. His own boy was buried in some unknown common _fosse_ +in Paris. Felicita looked up at him with her strange, steady, searching +gaze. + +"You have forgiven him?" she said. + +"Yes," he answered; "men always forgive the dead." + +"Oh, Roland! Roland!" she cried, wringing her hands for an instant. +Then, resuming her composure, she gazed quietly into his pitiful face +again. + +"It is kind of you to think of his grave," she said; "but I shall never +go there, nor shall the children go, if I can help it." + +"Hush!" he answered imperatively. "You, then, have not forgiven him? Yet +I forgive him, who have lost most." + +"You!" she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of passion. "You have lost +a few thousand pounds; but what have I lost? My faith and trust in +goodness; my husband's love and care. I have lost him, the father of my +children, my home--nay, even myself. I am no longer what I thought I +was. That is what Roland robs me of; and you say it is more for you to +forgive than for me!" + +He had never seen her thus moved and vehement, and he shrank a little +from it, as most men shrink from any unusual exhibition of emotion. +Though she had not wept, he was afraid now of a scene, and hastened to +speak of another subject. + +"Well, well," he said soothingly, "that is all true, no doubt. Poor +Roland! But I am your husband's executor and the children's guardian, +conjointly with yourself. It will be proved immediately, and I shall +take charge of your affairs." + +"I thought," she answered, in a hesitating manner, "that there was +nothing left, that we were ruined and had nothing. Why did Roland take +your bonds if he had money? Why did he defraud other people? There +cannot be any money coming to me and the children, and why should the +will be proved?" + +"My dear girl," he said, "you know nothing about affairs. Your uncle, +Lord Riversford, would never have allowed Roland to marry you without a +settlement, and a good one too. His death was the best thing for you. It +saves you from poverty and dependence, as well as from disgrace. I +hardly know yet how matters stand, but you will have little less than a +thousand a year. You need not trouble yourself about these matters; +leave them to me and Lord Riversford. He called upon me yesterday, as +soon as he heard the sad news, and we arranged everything." + +Felicita did not hear his words distinctly, though her brain caught +their meaning vaguely. She was picturing herself free from poverty, +surrounded with most of her accustomed luxuries, and shielded from every +hardship, while Roland was homeless and penniless, cast upon his own +resources to earn his daily bread and a shelter for every night, with +nothing but a poor handicraft to support him. She had not expected this +contrast in their lot. Poverty had seemed to lie before her also. But +now how often would his image start up before her as she had seen him +last, gaunt and haggard, with rough hair and blistered skin serving him +as a mask, clad in coarse clothing, already worn and ragged, not at rest +in the grave, as every one but herself believed him, but dragging out a +miserable and sordid existence year by year, with no hopes for the +future, and no happy memories of the past! + +"Mr. Clifford," she said, when the sound of his voice humming in her +ears had ceased, "I shall not take one farthing of any money settled +upon me by my husband. I have no right to it. Let it go to pay the sums +he appropriated. I will maintain myself and my children." + +"You cannot do it," he replied; "you do not know what you are talking +about. The money is settled upon your children; all that belongs to you +is the yearly income from it." + +"That, at least, I will never touch," she said earnestly; "it shall be +set aside to repay those just claims. When all those are paid I will +take it, but not before. Yours is the largest, and I will take means to +find out the others. With my mother's two hundred a year and what I earn +myself, we shall keep the children. Lord Riversford has no control over +me. I am a woman, and I will act for myself." + +"You cannot do it," he repeated; "you have no notion of what you are +undertaking to do. Mrs. Sefton, my dear young lady, I am come, with Lord +Riversford's sanction, to ask you to return to your home again, to +Madame's old home--your children's birth-place. I think, and Lord +Riversford thinks, you should come back, and bring up Felix to take his +grandfather's and father's place." + +"His father's place!" interrupted Felicita. "No, my son shall never +enter into business. I would rather see him a common soldier or sailor, +or day-laborer, earning his bread by any honest toil. He shall have no +traffic in money, such as his father had; he shall have no such +temptations. Whatever my son is, he shall never be a banker." + +"Good heavens, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Clifford. Felicita's stony quietude +was gone, and in its place was such a passionate energy as he had never +witnessed before in any woman. + +"It was money that tempted Roland to defraud you and dishonor himself," +she said; "it drove poor Acton to commit suicide, and it hardened your +heart against your friend's son. Felix shall be free from it. He shall +earn his bread and his place in the world in some other way, and till he +can do that I will earn it for him. Every shilling I spend from +henceforth shall be clean, the fruit of my own hands, not Roland's--not +his, whether he be alive or dead." + +Before Mr. Clifford could answer, the door was flung open, and Felix, +breathless with rapid running, rushed into the room and flung himself +into his mother's arms. No words could come at first; but he drew long +and terrible sobs. The boy's upturned face was pale, and his eyes, +tearless as her own had been, were fastened in an agony upon hers. She +could not soothe or comfort him, for she knew his grief was wasted on a +falsehood; but she looked down on her son's face with a feeling of +terror. + +"Oh, my father! my beloved father!" he sobbed at last. "Is he dead, +mother? You never told me anything that wasn't true. He can't be dead, +though Phebe says so. Is it true, mother?" + +Felicita bent her head till it rested on the boy's uplifted face. His +sobs shook her, and the close clasp of his arms was painful; but she +neither spoke nor moved. She heard Phebe coming in, and knew that +Roland's mother was there, and Hilda came to clasp her little arms about +her as Felix was doing. But her heart had gone back to the moment when +Roland had knelt beside her in the quiet little church, and she had said +to him deliberately, "I choose your death." He was dead to her. + +"Is it true, mother?" wailed Felix. "Oh, tell me it isn't true!" + +"It is true," she answered. But the long, tense strain had been too much +for her strength, and she sank fainting on the ground. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER. + + +It was all in vain that Mr. Clifford tried to turn Felicita from her +resolution. Phebe cordially upheld her, and gave her courage to persist +against all arguments. Both of them cared little for poverty--Phebe +because she knew it, Felicita because she did not know it. Felicita had +never known a time when money had to be considered; it had come to her +pretty much in the same way as the air she breathed and the food she +ate, without any care or prevision of her own. Phebe, on the other hand, +knew that she could earn her own living at any time by the work of her +strong young arms, and her wants were so few that they could easily be +supplied. + +It was decided before Phebe went home again, and decided in the face of +Mr. Clifford's opposition, that a small house should be taken in London, +and partly furnished from the old house at Riversborough, where Felicita +would be in closer and easier communication with the publishers. Mr. +Clifford laughed to himself at the idea that she could gain a +maintenance by literature, as all the literary people he had ever met or +heard of bewailed their poverty. But there was Madame's little income of +two hundred a year: that formed a basis, not altogether an insecure or +despicable one. It would pay more than the rent, with the rates and +taxes. + +The yearly income from Felicita's marriage settlement, which no +representations could persuade her to touch, was to go to the gradual +repayment of Roland's debts, the poorest men being paid first, and Mr. +Clifford, who reluctantly consented to the scheme, to receive his the +last. Though Madame had never believed in her son's guilt, her just and +simple soul was satisfied and set at rest by this arrangement. She had +not been able to blame him, but it had been a heavy burden to her to +think of others suffering loss through him. It was then almost with +cheerfulness that she set herself to keep house for her daughter-in-law +and her grand-children under such widely different circumstances. + +Before Christmas a house was found for them in Cheyne Walk. The Chelsea +Embankment was not then thought of, and the streets leading to it, like +those now lying behind it, were mean and crowded. It was a narrow house, +with rooms so small that when the massive furniture from their old house +was set up in it there was no space for moving about freely. Madame had +known only two houses--the old straggling, picturesque country manse in +the Jura, with its walnut-trees shading the windows, and tossing up +their branches now and then to give glimpses of snow-mountains on the +horizon, and her husband's pleasant and luxurious house at +Riversborough, with every comfort that could be devised gathered into +it. There was the river certainly flowing past this new habitation, and +bearing on its full and rapid tide a constantly shifting panorama of +boats, of which the children never tired, and from Felicita's window +there was a fair reach of the river in view, while from the dormer +windows of the attic above, where Felix slept, there was a still wider +prospect. But in the close back room, which Madame allotted to herself +and Hilda, there was only a view of back streets and slums, with sights +and sounds which filled her with dismay and disgust. + +But Madame made the best of the woeful change. The deep, quiet love she +had given to her son she transferred to Felicita, who, she well knew, +had been his idol. She believed that the sorrows of these last few +months had not sprung out of the ground, but had for some reason come +down from God, the God of her fathers, in whom she put her trust. Her +son had been called away by Him; but three were left, her daughter and +her grand-children, and she could do nothing better in life than devote +herself to them. + +But to Felicita her new life was like walking barefoot on a path of +thorns. Until now she had been so sheltered and guarded, kept from the +wind blowing too roughly upon her, that every hour brought a sharp +pin-prick to her. To have no carriage at her command, no maid to wait +upon, her--not even a skilful servant to discharge ordinary household +duties well and quickly--to live in a little room where she felt as if +she could hardly breathe, to hear every sound through the walls, to have +the smell of cooking pervade the house--these and numberless similar +discomforts made her initiation into her new sphere a series of +surprises and disappointments. + +But she must bestir herself if even this small amount of comfort and +well-being were to be kept up. Madame's income would not maintain their +household even on its present humble footing. Felicita's first book had +done well; it had been fairly reviewed by some papers, and flatteringly +reviewed by other critics who had known the late Lord Riversford. On the +whole it had been a good success, and her name was no longer quite +unknown. Her publishers were willing to take another book as soon as it +could be ready: they did more, they condescended to ask for it. But the +£50 they had paid for the first, though it had seemed a sufficient sum +to her when regarded from the stand-point of a woman surrounded by every +luxury, and able to spend the whole of it on some trinket, looked small +enough--too small--as the result of many weeks of labor, by which she +and her children were to be fed. If her work was worth no more than +that, she must write at least six such books in the year, and every +year! Felicita's heart sank at the thought! + +There seemed to be only one resource, since one of her publishers had +offered an advance of £10 only, saying they were doing very well for +her, and running a risk themselves. She must take her manuscript and +offer it as so much merchandise from house to house, selling it to the +best bidder. This was against all her instincts as an author, and if she +had remained a wealthy woman she would not have borne it. She was too +true and original an artist not to feel how sacred a thing earnest and +truthful work like hers was. She loved it, and did it conscientiously. +She would not let it go out of her hands disgraced with blunders. Her +thoughts were like children to her, not to be sent out into the world +ragged and uncouth, exposed to just ridicule and to shame. + +Felicita and Madame set out on their search after a liberal publisher on +a gloomy day in January. For the first time in her life Felicita found +herself in an omnibus, with her feet buried in damp straw, and strange +fellow-passengers crushing against her. In no part of London do the +omnibuses bear comparison with the well-appointed carriages rich people +are accustomed to; and this one, besides other discomforts, was crowded +till there was barely room to move hand or foot. + +"It is very cheap," said Madame cheerfully after she had paid the fare +when they were set down in Trafalgar Square "and not so very +inconvenient." + +A fog filled the air and shrouded all the surrounding buildings in dull +obscurity; while the fountains, rising and falling with an odd and +ghostly movement as of gigantic living creatures, were seen dimly white +in the midst of the gray gloom. The ceaseless stream of hurrying +passers-by lost itself in darkness only a few paces from them. The +chimes of unseen belfries and the roll of carriages visible only for a +few seconds fell upon their ears. Felicita, in the secret excitement of +her mood, felt herself in some impossible world, some phantasmagoria of +a dream, which must presently disperse, and she would find herself at +home again, in her quiet, dainty study at Riversborough, where most of +the manuscript, which she held so closely in her hand, had been written. +But the dream was dispelled when she found herself entering the +publishing-house she had fixed upon as her first scene of venture. It +was a quiet place, with two or three clerks busily engaged in some +private conversation, too interesting to be abruptly terminated by the +entrance of two ladies dressed in mourning, one of whom carried a roll +of manuscript. If Felicita had been wise the manuscript would not have +been there to betray her. It made it exceedingly difficult for her to +obtain admission to the publisher, in his private room beyond; and it +was only when she turned away to go, with a sudden outflashing of +aristocratic haughtiness, that the clerk reluctantly offered to take her +card and a message to his employer. + +In a few moments Felicita was entering the dark den where the fate of +her book was in the balance. Unfortunately for her she presented too +close a resemblance to the well-known type of a distressed author. Her +deep mourning, the thick veil almost concealing her face; a straw +clinging to the hem of her dress and telling too plainly of +omnibus-riding; her somewhat sad and agitated voice; Madame's widow's +cap, and unpretending demeanor--all were against her chances of +attention. The publisher, who had risen from his desk, did not invite +them to be seated. He glanced at Felicita's card, which bore the simple +inscription, "Mrs. Sefton." + +"You know my name?" she asked, faltering a little before his keen-eyed, +shrewd, business-like observation. He shook his head slightly. + +"I am the writer of a book called 'Haughmond Towers,'" she added, +"published by Messrs. Price and Gould. It came out last May." + +"I never heard of it," he answered solemnly. Felicita felt as if he had +struck her. This was an unaccountable thing; he was a publisher, and she +an author; yet he had never heard of her book. It was impossible that +she had understood him, and she spoke again eagerly. + +"It was noticed in all the reviews," she said, "and my publishers +assured me it was quite a success. I could send you the reviews of it." + +"Pray do not trouble yourself," he answered; "I do not doubt it in the +least. But there are hundreds of books published every season, and it is +impossible for one head, even a publisher's, to retain all the titles +and the names of the authors." + +"But I hope mine was not like hundreds of others," remarked Felicita. + +"Every author hopes so," he said; "and besides the mass that is printed, +somehow, at some one's expense, there are hundreds of manuscripts +submitted to us. Pardon me, but may I ask if you write for amusement or +for remuneration." + +"For my living," she replied, with a sorrowful inflection of her voice +which alarmed the publisher. How often had he faced a widowed mother +and her daughter, in mourning so deep as to suggest the recentness of +their loss. There was a slight movement of his hand, unperceived by +either of them, and a brisk rap was heard on the door behind them. + +"In a moment," he said, looking over their heads. "I am afraid," he went +on, "if I asked you to leave your manuscript on approbation, it might be +months before our readers could look at it. We have scores, if not +hundreds, waiting." + +"Could you recommend any publisher to me?" asked Felicita. + +"Why not go again to Price and Gould?" he inquired. + +"I must get more money than they pay me," she answered ingenuously. + +The publisher shrugged his shoulders. If her manuscript had contained +Milton's "Paradise Lost" or Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield," such an +admission would have swamped it. There is no fate swift enough for an +unknown author who asks for more money than that which a publisher's +sense of justice awards to him. + +"I am sorry I can do nothing for you," he said, "but my time is very +precious. Good-morning--No thanks, I beg. It would be a pleasure, I am +sure, if I could do anything." + +Felicita's heart sank very low as she turned into the dismal street and +trod the muddy pavement. A few illusions shrivelled up that wintry +morning under that murky sky. The name she was so fearful of staining; +the name she had fondly imagined as noised from mouth to mouth; the name +for which she had demanded so great a sacrifice, and had sacrificed so +much herself, was not known in those circles where she might most have +expected to find it a passport to attention and esteem. It had travelled +very little indeed beyond the narrow sphere of Riversborough. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF. + + +The winter fogs which made London so gloomy did not leave the country +sky clear and bright. All the land lay under a shroud of mist and vapor; +and even on the uplands round old Marlowe's little farmstead the heavens +were gray and cold, and the wide prospect shut out by a curtain of dim +clouds. + +The rude natural tracks leading over the moor to the farm became almost +impassable. The thatched roof was sodden with damp, and the deep eaves +shed off the water with the sound of a perpetual dropping. Behind the +house the dark, storm-beaten, distorted firs, and the solitary yew-tree +blown all to one side, grew black with the damp. The isolation of the +little dwelling-place was as complete as if a flood had covered the face +of the earth, leaving its two inmates the sole survivors of the human +race. + +Several months had passed since old Marlowe had executed his last piece +of finished work. The blow that Rowland Sefton's dishonesty had +inflicted upon him had paralyzed his heart--that most miserable of all +kinds of paralysis. He could still go about, handle his tools, set his +thin old fingers to work; but as soon as he had put a few marks upon his +block of oak his heart died with him, and he threw down his useless +tools with a sob as bitter as ever broke from an old man's lips. + +There was no relief for him, as for other men, in speech easily, perhaps +hastily uttered, in companionship with his fellows. Any solace of this +kind was too difficult and too deliberate for him to seek it in writing +his lamentations on a slate or spelling them off on his fingers, but his +grief and anger struck inward more deeply. + +Phebe saw his sorrow, and would have cheered him if she could; but she, +too, was sorely stricken, and she was young. She tried to set him an +example of diligent work, and placed her easel beside his carving, +painting as long as the gray and fleeting daylight permitted. Now and +then she attempted to sing some of her old merry songs, knowing that his +watchful eyes would see the movement of her lips; but though her lips +moved, her face was sad and her heart heavy. Sometimes, too, she forgot +all about her, and fell into an absorbed reverie, brooding over the +past, until a sob or half-articulate cry from her father aroused her. +These outcries of his troubled her more than any other change in him. He +had been altogether mute in the former tranquil and placid days, +satisfied to talk with her in silent signs; but there was something in +his mind to express now which quiet and dumb signs could not convey. At +intervals, both by day and night, her affection for him was tortured by +these hoarse and stifled cries of grief mingled with rage. + +There was a certain sense of the duties of citizenship in old Marlowe's +mind which very few women, certainly not a girl as young as Phebe, could +have shared. Many years ago the elder Sefton had perceived that the +companionless man was groping vaguely after many a dim thought, +political and social, which few men of his class would have been +troubled with. He had given to him several books, which old Marlowe had +pondered over. Now he felt that, quite apart from his own personal +ground of resentment, he had done wrong to the laws of his country by +aiding an offender of them to escape and elude the just penalty. He felt +almost a contempt for Roland Sefton that he had not remained to bear the +consequences of his crime. + +The news of Roland's death brought something like satisfaction to his +mind; there was a chill, dejected sense of justice having been done. He +had not prospered in his crime. Though he had eluded man's judgment, yet +vengeance had not suffered him to live. There was no relenting toward +him, as there was in Mr. Clifford's mind. Something like the old heathen +conception of a divine righteousness in this arbitrary punishment of the +evil-doer gave him a transient content. He did not object therefore to +Phebe's hasty visit to Mrs. Sefton at the sea-side, in order to break +the news to her. The inward satisfaction he felt sustained him, and he +even set about a piece of work long since begun, a hawk swooping down +upon his prey. + +The evening on which Phebe reached home again he was more like his +former self. He asked her many questions about the sea, which he had +never seen, and told her what he had been doing while she was away. An +old, well-thumbed translation of Plato's Dialogues was lying on the +carved dresser behind him, in which he had been reading every night. +Instead of the Bible, he said. + +"It was him, Mr. Roland, that gave it to me," he continued; "and listen +to what I read last night: 'Those who have committed crimes, great yet +not unpardonable, they are plunged into Tartarus, where they go who +betray their friends for money, the pains of which they undergo for a +year. But at the end of the year they come forth again to a lake, over +which the souls of the dead are taken to be judged. And then they lift +up their voices, and call upon the souls of them they have wronged to +have pity upon them, and to forgive them, and let them come out of their +prison. And if they prevail they come forth, and cease from their +troubles; but if not they are carried back again into Tartarus, until +they obtain mercy of them whom they have wronged.' But it seems as if +they have to wait until them they have wronged are dead themselves." + +The brown, crooked fingers ceased spelling out the solemn words, and +Phebe lifted up her eyes from them to her father's face. She noticed for +the first time how sunken and sallow it was, and how dimly and wearily +his eyes looked out from under their shaggy eyebrows. She buried her +face in her hands, and broke down into a passion of tears. The vivid +picture her father's quotation brought before her mind filled it with +horror and grief that passed all words. + +The wind was wailing round the house with a ceaseless moan of pain, in +which she could almost distinguish the tones of a human voice lamenting +its lost and wretched fate. The cry rose and fell, and passed on, and +came back again, muttering and calling, but never dying away +altogether. It sounded to her like the cry of a belated wanderer calling +for help. She rose hastily and opened the cottage door, as if she could +hear Roland Sefton's voice through the darkness and the distance. But he +was dead, and had been in his grave for many days already. Was she to +hear that lost, forlorn cry ringing in her ears forever? Oh, if she +could but have known something of him between that night, when he walked +beside her through the dark deserted roads, pouring out his whole +sorrowful soul to her, and the hour when in the darkness again he had +strayed from his path, and been swallowed up of death! Was it true that +he had gone down into that great gulf of secrecy and silence, without a +word of comfort spoken, or a ray of light shed upon its profound +mystery? + +The cold wind blew in through the open door, and she shut it again, +going back to her low chair on the hearth. Through her blinding tears +she saw her father's brown hands stretched out to her, and the withered +fingers speaking eagerly. + +"I shall be there before long," he said; "he will not have to wait very +long for me. And if you bid me I will forgive him at once. I cannot bear +to see your tears. Tell me: must I forgive him? I will do anything, if +you will look up at me again and smile." + +It was a strange smile that gleamed through Phebe's tears, but she had +never heard an appeal like this from her dumb father without responding +to it. + +"Must I forgive him?" he asked. + +"'If ye forgive men their trespasses,'" she answered, "'your heavenly +Father will also forgive yours; but if ye forgive not men their +trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive yours.' It was our +Lord Jesus Christ who said that, not your old Socrates, father." + +"It is a hard saying," he replied. + +"I don't think so," she said; "it was what Jesus Christ was doing every +day he lived." + +From that time old Marlowe did not mention Roland Sefton again, or his +sin against him. + +As the dark stormy days passed on he sometimes put a touch or two to the +outstretched wings of his swooping hawk, but it did not get on fast. +With a pathetic clinging to Phebe he seldom let her stay long out of his +sight, but followed her about like a child, or sat on the hearth +watching her as she went about her house-work. Only by those unconscious +sobs and outcries, inaudible to himself, did he betray the grief that +was gnawing at his heart. Very often did Phebe put aside her work, and +standing before him ask such questions as the following on her swiftly +moving fingers. + +"Don't you believe in God, our Father in heaven, the Father Almighty, +who made us?" + +"Yes," he would reply by a nod. + +"And in Jesus Christ, His Son, our Lord, who lived, and died for us, and +rose again?" + +"Yes, yes," was the silent, emphatic answer. + +"And yet you grieve and fret over the loss of money!" she would say, +with a wistful smile on her young face. + +"You are a child; you know nothing," he replied. + +For without a sigh the old man was going forward consciously to meet +death. Every morning when the dawn awoke him he felt weaker as he rose +from his bed; every day his sight was dimmer and his hand less steady; +every night the steep flight of stairs seemed steeper, and he ascended +them feebly by his hands as well as feet. He could not bring himself to +write upon his slate or to spell out upon his fingers the dread words, +"I am dying;" and Phebe was not old or experienced enough to read the +signs of an approaching death. That her father should be taken away from +her never crossed her thoughts. + +It was the vague, mournful prospect of soon leaving her alone in the +wide world that made his loss loom more largely and persistently before +the dumb old man's mind. Certainly he believed all that Phebe said to +him. God loved her, cared for her, ordered her life; yet he, her father, +could not reconcile himself to the idea of her being left penniless and +friendless in the cold and cruel world. He could have left her more +peacefully in God's hands if she had those six hundred pounds of his +earnings to inherit. + +The sad winter wore slowly away. Now and then the table-land around them +put on its white familiar livery of snow, and old Marlowe's dim eyes +gazed at it through his lattice window, recollecting the winters of long +years ago, when neither snow nor storm came amiss to him. But the slight +sprinkling soon melted away, and the dun-colored fog and cloudy curtain +shut them in again, cutting them off from the rest of the world as if +their little dwelling was the ark stranded on the hill's summit amid a +waste of water. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +PLATO AND PAUL. + + +Phebe's nearest neighbor, except the farm-laborer who did an occasional +day's labor for her father, was Mrs. Nixey, the tenant of a farmhouse, +which lay at the head of a valley running up into the range of hills. +Mrs. Nixey had given as much supervision to Phebe's motherless childhood +as her father had permitted, in his jealous determination to be +everything to his little daughter. Of late years, ever since old Marlowe +in the triumph of making an investment had communicated that important +fact to her on his slate, she had indulged in a day-dream of her own, +which had filled her head for hours while sitting beside her kitchen +fire busily knitting long worsted stockings for her son Simon. + +Simon was thirty years of age, and it was high time she found a wife +for him. Who could be better than Phebe, who had grown up under her own +eyes, a good, strong, industrious girl, with six hundred pounds and +Upfold Farm for her fortune? As she brooded over this idea, a second +thought grew out of it. How convenient it would be if she herself +married the dumb old father, and retired to the little farmstead, +changing places with Phebe, her daughter-in-law. She would still be near +enough to come down to her son's house at harvest-time and pig-killing, +and when the milk was abundant and cheese and butter to make. And the +little house on the hills was built with walls a yard thick, and well +lined with good oak wainscoting; she could keep it warm for herself and +the old man. The scheme had as much interest and charm for her as if she +had been a peeress looking out for an eligible alliance for her son. + +But it had always proved difficult to take the first steps toward so +delicate a negotiation. She was not a ready writer; and even if she had +been, Mrs. Nixey felt that it would be almost impossible to write her +day-dream in bold and plain words upon old Marlowe's slate. If Marlowe +was deaf, Phebe was singularly blind and dull. Simon Nixey had played +with her when she was a child, but it had been always as a big, grown-up +boy, doing man's work; and it was only of late that she had realized +that he was not almost an old man. For the last year or two he had +lingered at the church door to walk home with her and her father, but +she had thought little of it. He was their nearest neighbor, and made +himself useful in giving her father hints about his little farm, besides +sparing his laborer to do them an occasional day's work. It seemed +perfectly natural that he should walk home with them across the moors +from their distant parish church. + +But as soon as the roads were passable Mrs. Nixey made her way up to the +solitary farmstead. The last time she had seen old Marlowe he had been +ailing, yet she was quite unprepared for the rapid change that had +passed over him. He was cowering in the chimney-corner, his face yellow +and shrivelled, and his eyes, once blue as Phebe's own, sunken in their +sockets, and glowering dimly at her, with the strange intensity of gaze +in the deaf and dumb. There was a little oak table before him, with his +copy of Plato's Dialogues and a black leather Bible that had belonged to +his forefathers, lying upon it; but both of them were closed, and he +looked drowsy and listless. + +"Good sakes! Phebe," cried Mrs. Nixey, "whatever ails thy father? He +looks more like dust and ashes than a livin' man. Hast thou sent for no +physic for him?" + +"I didn't know he was ill," answered Phebe. "Father always feels the +winter long and trying. He'll be all right when the spring comes." + +"I'll ask him what's the matter with him," said Mrs. Nixey, drawing his +slate to her, and writing in the boldest letters she could form, as if +his deafness made it needful to write large. + +"What's the matter?" she asked. + +"Nothing, save old age," he answered in his small, neat hand-writing. +There was a gentle smile on his face as he pushed the slate under the +eyes of Mrs. Nixey and Phebe. He had sometimes thought he must tell +Phebe he would not be long with her, but his hands refused to convey +such sad warnings to his young daughter. He had put it off from day to +day, though he was not sorry now to give some slight hint of his fears. + +"Old! he's no older nor me," said Mrs. Nixey. "A pretty thing it'ud be +if folks gave up at sixty or so. There's another ten years' work in +you," she wrote on the slate. + +"Ten years' work." How earnestly he wished it was true! He might still +earn a little fortune for Phebe; for he was known all through the +county, and beyond, and could get a good price for his carving. He +stretched out his hand and took down his unfinished work, looking +longingly at it. + +Phebe's fingers were moving fast, so fast that he could not follow them. +Of late he had been unable to seize the meaning of those swift, glancing +finger-tips. He had reached the stage of a man who can no longer catch +the lower tones of a familiar voice, and has to guess at the words thus +spoken. If he lived long enough to lose his sight he would be cut off +from all communion with the outer world, even with his daughter. + +"Come close to me, and speak more slowly," he said to her. "I am growing +old and dark. Yet I am only sixty, and my father lived to be over +seventy. I was over forty when you were born. It was a sunny day, and I +kept away from the house, in the shed, till I saw Mrs. Nixey there +beckoning to me. And when I came in the house here she laid you in my +arms. God was very good to me that day." + +"He is always good," answered Phebe. + +"So the parson teaches us," he continued; "but it was very hard for me +to lose that money. It struck me a dreadful blow, Phebe. If I'd been +twenty years younger I could have borne it; but when a man's turned +sixty there's no chance. And he robbed me of more than money: he robbed +me of love. I loved him next to you." + +She knew that so well that she did not answer him. Her love for Roland +Sefton lived still; but it was altogether changed from the bright, +girlish admiration and trustful confidence it had once been. His +conduct had altered life itself to her; it was colder and darker, with +deeper and longer shadows in it. And now there was coming the darkest +shadow of all. + +"Read this," he said, opening the "Phædo," and pointing to some words +with his crooked and trembling finger. She stooped her head till her +soft cheek rested against his with a caressing and soothing touch. + +"I go to die, you to live; but which is best God alone can know," she +read. Her arm stole round his neck, and her cheek was pressed more +closely against his. Mrs. Nixey's hard face softened a little as she +looked at them; but she could not help thinking of the new turn affairs +were taking. If old Marlowe died, it might be more convenient, on the +whole, than for her to marry him. How snugly she could live up here, +with a cow or two, and a little maid from the workhouse to be her +companion and drudge! + +Quite unconscious of Mrs. Nixey's plans, Phebe had drawn the old black +leather Bible toward her, turning over the stained and yellow leaves +with one hand, for she would not withdraw her arm from her father's +neck. She did not know exactly where to find the words she wanted; but +at last she came upon them. The gray shaggy locks of the old man and the +rippling glossy waves of Phebe's brown hair mingled as they bent their +heads again over the same page. + +"For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die +unto the Lord: whether we live therefore or die, we are the Lord's. For +to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be +Lord both of the dead and the living." + +"That is better than your old Socrates," said Phebe, with tears in her +eyes and a faint smile playing about her lips. "Our Lord has gone on +before us, through life and death. There is nothing we can have to bear +that He has not borne." + +"He never had to leave a young girl like you alone in the world," +answered her father. + +For a moment Phebe's fingers were still, and old Marlowe looked up at +her like one who has gained a miserable victory over a messenger of glad +tidings. + +"But He had to leave His mother, who was growing old, when the sword had +pierced through her very soul," answered Phebe. "That was a hard thing +to do." + +The old man nodded, and his withered hands folded over each other on the +open page before him. Mrs. Nixey, who could understand nothing of their +silent speech, was staring at them inquisitively, as if trying to +discover what they said by the expression of their faces. + +"Ask thy father if he's made his will," she said. "I've heard say as +land canno' go to a woman if there's no will; and it'ud niver do for +Upfold to go to a far-away stranger. May be he reckons on all he has +goin' to you quite natural. But there's law agen' it; the agent told me +so years ago. I niver heard of any relations thy father had, but they'll +find what's called an heir-at-law, take my word for it, if he doesn't +leave iver a will." + +But, instead of answering, Phebe rushed past her up the steep, dark +staircase, and Mrs. Nixey heard her sobbing and crying in the little +room above. It was quite natural, thought the hard old woman, with a +momentary feeling of pity for the lonely girl; but it was necessary to +make sure of Upfold Farm, and she drew old Marlowe's slate to her, and +wrote on it, very distinctly, "Has thee made thy will?" + +The dejected, miserable expression came back to his face, as his +thoughts were recalled to the loss he had sustained, and he nodded his +answer to Mrs. Nixey. + +"And left all to Phebe?" she wrote again. + +Again he nodded. It was all right so far, and Mrs. Nixey felt glad she +had made sure of the ground. The little farm was worth £15 a year, and +old Marlowe himself had once told her that his money brought him in £36 +yearly, without a stroke of work on his part. How money could be gained +in this way, with simply leaving it alone, she could not understand. But +here was Phebe Marlowe with £50 a year for her fortune: a chance not to +be lost by her son Simon. She hesitated for a few minutes, listening to +the soft low sobs overhead, but her sense of judicious forestalling of +the future prevailed over her sympathy with the troubled girl. + +"Phebe'll be very lonesome," she wrote, and old Marlowe looked sadly +into her face with his sunken eyes. There was no need to nod assent to +her words. + +"I've been like a mother to her," wrote Mrs. Nixey, and she rubbed both +the sentences off the slate with her pocket-handkerchief, and sat +pondering over the wording of her next communication. It was difficult +and embarrassing, this mode of intercourse on a subject which even she +felt to be delicate. How much easier it would have been if old Marlowe +could hear and speak like other men! He watched her closely as she wrote +word after word and rubbed them out again, unable to satisfy herself. At +last he stretched out his hand and seized the slate, just as she was +again about to rub out the sentence. + +"Our Simon'd marry her to-morrow," was written upon it. + +Old Marlowe sat looking at the words without raising his eyes or making +any sign. He had never seen the man yet worthy of being the husband of +his daughter, and Simon Nixey was not much to his mind. Still, he was a +kind-hearted man, and well-to-do for his station; he kept a servant to +wait on his mother, and he would do no less for his wife. Phebe would +not be left desolate if she could make up her mind to marry him. But +with a deep instinctive jealousy, born of his absolute separation from +his kind, he could not bear the thought of sharing her love with any +one. She must continue to be all his own for the little time he had to +live. + +"If Phebe likes to marry him when I'm gone, I've no objection," he +wrote, and then, with a feeling of irritation and bitterness, he rubbed +out the words with the palm of his hand and turned his back upon Mrs. +Nixey. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +A REJECTED SUITOR. + + +All the next day Phebe remained very near to her father, leaving her +house-work and painting to sit beside him on the low chair he had carved +for her when she was a child. For the first time she noticed how slowly +he caught her meaning when she spoke to him, and how he himself was +forgetting how to express his thoughts on his fingers. The time might +come when he could no longer hold any intercourse with her or she with +him. There was unutterable sadness in this new dread. + +"You used to laugh and sing," he said, "but you never do it now: never +since he robbed me. He robbed me of that too. I'm a poor, helpless, deaf +old man; and God never let me hear my child's voice. He used to tell me +it was sweet and pleasant to hear; and your laugh made every one merry +who heard it. But I could see you laugh, and now I never see it." + +She could not laugh now, and her smile was sadder than tears; so she +bent down her head and laid it against his knee where he could not see +her face. By and by he touched her, and she lifted up her tear-dimmed +eyes to his fingers. + +"Promise me," he said, "not to sell this old place. It has belonged to +the Marlowes from generation to generation. Who can tell but the dead +come back to the place where they've lived so long? If you can, keep it +for my sake." + +"I promise it," she answered. "I will never sell it." + +"Perhaps I shall lose my power to speak to you," he went on, "but don't +you fret as if I did not forgive him as robbed me. He learnt to talk on +his fingers for my sake, and I'll say 'God bless him' for your sake. If +we meet one another in the next world I'll forgive him freely, and if +need be I'll ask pardon for him. Phebe, I do forgive him." + +As he spoke there was a brighter light in his sunken eyes, and a smile +on his face such as she had not seen since the day he had helped Roland +Sefton to escape. She took both of his hands into hers and kissed them +fondly. But by and by, though it was yet clear day, he crept feebly +up-stairs to his dark little loft under the thatched roof, and lay down +on the bed where his father and grandfather had died before him. + +At first he was able to talk a little in short, brief sentences; but +very soon that which he had dreaded came upon him. His fingers grew too +stiff to form the signs, and his eyes too dim to discern even the +slowest movement of her dear hands. There was now no communication +between them but that of touch, and he could not bear to miss the gentle +clasp of Phebe's hand. When she moved away from him he tossed wearily +from side to side, groping restlessly with his thin fingers. In utter +silence and darkness, but hand to hand with her, he at last passed away. + +The next few days was a strange and bewildering time to Phebe. +Neighbors were coming and going, and taking the arrangements for the +funeral into their own hands, with little reference to her. The +clergyman of the parish, who lived three miles off, rode over the hills +to hold a solemn interview with her. Mrs. Nixey would not leave her +alone, and if she could have had her way would have carried her off to +her own house. But this Phebe would not submit to; except the two nights +she had been away when she went to the sea-side to break the news of +Roland's death to Felicita and her mother, she had never been absent for +a night from home. Why should she be afraid of that quiet, still form, +which even in death was dearer to her than any other upon earth? + +But Mrs. Nixey walked beside her, next the coffin, when the small +funeral procession wound its way slowly over the uplands to the country +churchyard, where the deaf and dumb old wood-carver was laid in a grave +beside his wife. It was almost impossible to shake her off on their +return, but Phebe could bear companionship no longer. She must walk +back alone along the familiar fields, where the green corn was springing +among the furrows, and under the brown hedgerows where all the buds were +swelling, to the open moor lying clear and barren in an unbroken plain +before her. How often had she walked along these narrow sheep-tracks +with her father pacing on in front, speechless, but so full of silent +sympathy with her that words were not missed between them. Their little +homestead lay like an island in a sea of heather and fern, with no other +dwelling in sight; but, oh, how empty and desolate it seemed! + +The old house-dog crept up quietly to her, and whined softly; and the +cow, as she went into the shed to milk her, turned and licked her hand +gently, as if these dumb creatures knew her sorrow. There were some +evening tasks to be performed, for the laborer, who had been to the +funeral, was staying in the village with the other men who had helped to +carry her father's coffin, to rest themselves and have some refreshment +in the little inn there. She lingered over each duty with a dreary sense +of the emptiness of the house haunting her, and of the silence of the +hearth where all the long evening must be spent alone. + +It was late in February, and though the fern and heather and gorse were +not yet in bud, there was a purple tinge upon the moor fore-telling the +quickly coming spring. The birds that had been silent all winter were +chirping under the eaves, or fluttered up from the causeway where she +had been scattering corn, at the sound of her footsteps across the +little farm-yard. The sun, near its setting, was shining across the +uplands, and throwing long shadows from every low bush and brake. Phebe +mounted the old horse-block by the garden wicket, and looked around her, +shading her eyes with her hands. The soft west wind, blowing over many +miles of moor and meadows and kissing her cheek, seemed like the touch +of a dear old friend, and the thin gray cloud overhead appeared only as +a slight veil scarcely hiding a beloved face. It would not have startled +her if she had seen her father come to the door, beckoning to her with +his quiet smile, or if she had caught sight of Roland Sefton crossing +the moor, with his swift, strong stride, and his face all aglow with +the delight of his mountain ramble. + +"But they are both dead," she said to herself. "If only Mr. Roland had +been living in Riversborough he would have told me what to do." + +She was too young to connect her father's death in any way with Roland +Sefton's crime. They two were the dearest persons in the world to her; +and both were now gone into the mysterious darkness of the next world, +meeting there perhaps with all earthly discords forgiven and forgotten +more perfectly than they could have been here. She remembered how her +father's dull, joyless face used to brighten when Roland was talking to +him--talking with slow, unaccustomed fingers, which the dumb man would +watch intently, and catch the meaning of the phrase before it was half +finished, flashing back an eager answer by signs and changeful +expression of his features. There would be no need of signs and gestures +where they had gone. Her father, perhaps, was speaking to him now. + +Phebe had passed into a reverie, as full of pleasure as of pain, and +she fancied she heard her father's voice--that voice which she had never +heard. She started, and awoke herself. It was growing dusk, and she was +faint with hunger and fatigue. The wintry sun had sunk some time since +behind the brow of the hill, leaving only a few faint lines of clouds +running across a clear amber light. She stepped down from the +horse-block reluctantly, and with slow steps loitered up the garden-path +to the deserted cottage. + +It might have been better, she thought, if she had let Mrs. Nixey come +home with her; but, oh, how tired she was of her aimless chatter, which +seemed to din the ear and drive away all quiet thought from the heart. +She had been very weary of all the fuss that had made a Babel of the +little homestead since her father's death. But now she was absolutely +alone, the loneliness seemed awful. + +It was quite dark before the fire burned up and threw its flickering +light over her old home. She sat down on the hearth opposite her +father's empty chair, in her own place--the place which had been hers +ever since she could remember. How long would it be hers? She knew that +one volume of her life was ended and closed; the new volume was all +hidden from her. She was not afraid of opening it, for there was a fund +of courage and hope in her nature of which she did not know all the +wealth. There was also the simple trust of a child in the goodness of +God. + +She had finished her tea and was sitting apparently idle, with her hands +lying on her lap, when a sudden knock at the door startled and almost +frightened her. Until this moment she had never thought of the +loneliness of the house as possessing any element of danger; but now she +turned her eyes to the uncurtained window, through which she had been so +plainly visible, and wished that she had taken the precaution of putting +the bar on the door. It was too late, for the latch was already lifted, +and she had scarcely time to say with a tremulous voice, "Come in." + +"It's me--Simon Nixey," said a loud, familiar voice, as the door opened +and the tall ungainly figure of the farmer filled up the doorway. He +had been at her father's funeral, and was still in his Sunday suit, +standing sheepishly within the door and stroking the mourning-band round +his hat, as he gazed at her with a shamefaced expression, altogether +unlike the bluntness of his usual manner. + +"Is there anything the matter, Mr. Nixey?" asked Phebe. "Have you time +to take a seat?" + +"Oh, ay! I'll sit down," he answered, stepping forward readily and +settling himself down in her father's chair, in spite of her hasty +movement to prevent it. "Mother thought as you'd be lonesome," he +continued; "her and me've been talking of nothing else but you all +evening. And mother said your heart'ud be sore and tender to-night, and +more likely to take to comfort. And I'd my best clothes on, and couldn't +go to fodder up, so I said I'd step up here and see if you was as +lonesome as we thought. You looked pretty lonesome through the window. +You wouldn't mind me staying a half hour or so?" + +"Oh, no," said Phebe simply; "you're kindly welcome." + +"That's what I'd like to be always," he went on, "and there's a deal +about me to make me welcome, come to think on it. Our house is a good +one, and the buildings they're all good; and I got the first prize for +my pigs at the last show, and the second prize for my bull the show +before that. Nobody can call me a poor farmer. You recollect painting my +prize-bull for me, don't you, Phebe?" + +"To be sure I do," she answered. + +"Ay! and mother shook like a leaf when I told her you'd gone into his +shed, and him not tied up. 'Never you mind, mother,' I says, 'there's +neither man nor beast'ud hurt little Phebe.' You'd enjoy painting my +prize-pigs, I know; and there'd be plenty o' time. Wouldn't you now?" + +"Very much," she said, "if I have time." + +"That's something to look forward to," he continued. "I'm always +thinking what you'd like to paint, and make a picture of. I should like +to be painted myself, and mother; and there'll be plenty o' time. For +I'm not a man to see you overdone with work, Phebe. I've been thinking +about it for the last five year, ever since you were a pretty young +lass of fifteen. 'She'll be a good girl,' mother said, 'and if old +Marlowe dies before you're wed, Simon, you'd best marry Phebe.' I've put +it off, Phebe, over and over again, when there's been girls only waiting +the asking; and now I'm glad I can bring you comfort. There's a home all +ready for you, with cows and poultry for you to manage and get the good +of, for mother always has the butter money and the egg money, and you'll +have it now. And there's stores of linen, mother says, and everything +that any farmer's wife could desire." + +Phebe laughed, a low, gentle, musical laugh, which had surprise in it, +but no derision. The sight of the gaunt embarrassed man opposite to her, +his face burning red, and his clumsy hands twisting and untwisting as he +uttered his persuasive sentences, drove her sadness away for the moment. +Her pleasant, surprised laugh made him laugh too. + +"Ay! mother was right; she always is," said Nixey, rubbing his great +hands gleefully. "'There'll be scores of lads after her,' says mother, +'for old Marlowe has piles o' money in Sefton's Old Bank, everybody +knows that.' But, Phebe, there aren't a many houses like mine for you to +step right into. I'm glad I came to bring you comfort to-night." + +"But father lost all his money in the Old Bank nine months ago," +answered Phebe. + +"Lost all his money!" repeated Nixey slowly and emphatically. There was +a deep silence in the little house, while he gazed at her with open +mouth and astonished eyes. Phebe had covered her face with her hands, +forgetting him and everything else in the recollection of that bitter +sorrow of hers nine months ago; worse than her sorrow now. Nixey spoke +again after a few minutes, in a husky and melancholy voice. + +"It shan't make no difference, Phebe," he said; "I came to bring you +comfort, and I'll not take it away again. There they all are for you, +linen and pigs, and cows and poultry. I don't mind a straw what +mother'ill say. Only you wipe away those tears and laugh again, my +pretty dear. Look up at Simon and laugh again." + +"It's very good of you," she answered, looking up into his face with +her blue eyes simply and frankly, "and I shall never forget it. But I +could not marry you. I could not marry anybody." + +"But you must," he said imperiously; "a pretty young girl like you can't +live alone here in this lonesome place. Mother says it wouldn't be +decent or safe. You'll want a home, and it had best be mine. Come, now. +You'll never have a better offer if you've lost all your money. But your +land lies nighest to my farm, and it's worth more to me than anybody +else. It wouldn't be a bad bargain for me, Phebe; and I've waited five +years for you besides. If you'll only say yes, I'll go down and face +mother, and have it out with her at once." + +But Phebe could not be brought to say yes, though Nixey used every +argument and persuasion he could think. He went away at last, in +dudgeon, leaving her alone, but not so sad as before. The new volume of +her life had already been opened. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +ANOTHER OFFER. + + +The next day Phebe locked up her house and rode down to Riversborough. +As she descended into the valley and the open plain beyond her +sorrowfulness fell away from her. Her social instincts were strong, and +she delighted in companionship and in the help she could render to any +fellow-creature. If she overtook a boy trudging reluctantly to school +she would dismount from her rough pony and give him a ride; or if she +met with a woman carrying a heavy load, she took the burden from her, +and let her pony saunter slowly along, while she listened to the homely +gossip of the neighborhood. Phebe was a great favorite along these +roads, which she had traversed every week during summer to attend +Riversborough market for the last eight years. Her spirits rose as she +rode along, receiving many a kindly word, and more invitations to spend +a little while in different houses than she could have accepted if she +had been willing to give twelve months to visiting. It was market-day at +Riversborough, and the greetings there were still more numerous, and, if +possible, more kindly. Everybody had a word for Phebe Marlowe; +especially to-day, when her pretty black dress told of the loss she had +suffered. + +She made her way to Whitefriars Road. The Old Bank was not so full as it +had formerly been, for immediately after the panic last May a new bank +had been opened more in the centre of the town, and a good many of the +tradesmen and farmers had transferred their accounts to it. The outer +office was fairly busy, but Phebe had not long to wait before being +summoned to see Mr. Clifford. The muscles of his stern and careworn +features relaxed into something approaching a smile as she entered, and +he caught sight of her sweet and frank young face. + +"Sit down, Phebe," he said. "I did not hear of your loss before +yesterday; and I was just about to send for you to see your father's +will. It is in our strong room. You are not one-and-twenty yet?" + +"Not till next December, sir," she replied. + +"Roland Sefton is the only executor appointed," he continued, his face +contracting for an instant, as if some painful memory flashed across +him; "and, since he is dead, I succeed to the charge as his executor. +You will be my ward, Phebe, till you are of age." + +"Will it be much trouble, sir?" she asked anxiously. + +"None at all," he answered; "I hope it will be a pleasure; for, Phebe, +it will not be fit for you to live alone at Upfold Farm; and I wish you +to come here--to make your home with me till you are of age. It would be +a great pleasure to me, and I would take care you should have every +opportunity for self-improvement. I know you are not a fine young lady, +my dear, but you are sensible, modest, and sweet-tempered, and we should +get on well together. If you were happy with me I should regard you as +my adopted daughter, and provide accordingly for you. Think of it for a +few minutes while I look over these letters. Perhaps I seem a grim and +surly old man to you; but I am not naturally so. You would never +disappoint me." + +He turned away to his desk, and appeared to occupy himself with his +letters, but he did not take in a single line of them. He had set his +heart once more on the hope of winning love and gratitude from some +young wayfarer on life's rough road, whose path he could make smooth and +bright. He had been bitterly disappointed in his own son and his +friend's son. But if this simple, unspoiled, little country maiden would +leave her future life in his keeping, how easy and how happy it should +be! + +"It's very good of you," said Phebe, in a trembling voice; "and I'm not +afraid of you, Mr. Clifford, not in the least; but I could not keep from +fretting in this house. Oh, I loved them so, every one of them; but Mr. +Roland most of all. No one was ever so good to me as he was. If it +hadn't been for him I should have learned nothing, and father himself +would have been a dull, ignorant man. Mr. Roland learnt to talk to +father, and nobody else could talk with him but me. I used to think it +was as much like our Lord Jesus Christ as anything any one could do. Mr. +Roland could not open father's ears, but he learned how to talk to him, +to make him less lonely. That was the kindest thing any one on earth +could do." + +"Do you believe Mr. Roland was innocent?" asked Mr. Clifford. + +"I know he was guilty," answered Phebe sadly. "He told me all about it +himself, and I saw his sorrow. Before that he always seemed to me more +like what I think Jesus Christ was than any one else. He could never +think of himself while there were other people to care for. And I know," +she went on, with simple sagacity, "that it was not Mr. Roland's sin +that fretted father, but the loss of the money. If he had made six +hundred pounds by using it without his consent, and said, 'Here, +Marlowe, are twelve hundred pounds for you instead of six; I did not put +your money up as you wanted, but used it instead;' why, father would +have praised him up to the skies, and could never have been grateful +enough." + +Mr. Clifford's conscience smote him as he listened to Phebe's unworldly +comment on Roland Sefton's conduct. If Roland had met him with the +announcement of a gain of ten thousand pounds by a lucky though +unauthorized speculation, he knew very well his own feeling would have +been utterly different from that with which he had heard of the loss of +ten thousand pounds. The world itself would have cried out against him +if he had prosecuted a man by whose disregard of the laws he had gained +so large a profit. Was it, then, a simple love of justice that had +actuated him? Yet the breach of trust would have been the same. + +"But if you will not come to live with me, my dear," he said, "what do +you propose to do? You cannot live alone in your old home." + +"May I tell you what I should like to do?" she asked. + +"Certainly," he answered. "I am bound to know it." + +"Those two who are dead," she said, "thought so much of my painting. +Mr. Roland was always wishing I could go to a school of art, and father +said when he was gone he should wish it too. But now we have lost our +money, the next best thing will be for me to go to live as servant to +some great artist, where I could see something of painting till I've +saved enough money to go to school. I can let Upfold Farm for fifteen +pounds a year to Simon Nixey, so I shall soon have money enough. I +promised father I would never sell our farm, that has belonged to +Marlowes ever since it was inclosed from the common. And if I go to +London, I shall be near Madame and the children, and Mrs. Roland +Sefton." + +The color had come back to Phebe's face, and her voice was steady and +musical again. There was a clear, frank shining in her blue eyes, +looking so pleasantly into his, that Mr. Clifford sighed regretfully as +he thought of his solitary and friendless life--self-chosen partly, but +growing more dreary as old age, with its infirmities, crept on. + +"No, no; you need not go into service," he said; "there is money enough +of your own to do what you wish with. Mrs. Roland refuses to receive +the income from her marriage settlement till every claim against her +husband is paid off. I shall pay your claim off at the rate of one +hundred a year, or more, if you like. You may have a sum sufficient to +keep you at an art school as long as you need be there." + +"Why, I shall be very rich!" exclaimed Phebe; "and father dreaded I +should be poor." + +"I will run up to London and see what arrangements I can make for you," +he continued. "Perhaps Mrs. Roland Sefton could find a corner for you in +her own house, small as it is, and Madame would make you as welcome as a +daughter. You are more of a daughter to her than Felicita. Only I must +make a bargain, that you and the children come down often to see me here +in the old house. I should have grown very fond of you, Phebe; and then +you would have married some man whom I detested, and disappointed me +bitterly again. It is best as it is, I suppose. But if you will change +your mind now, and stay with me as my adopted daughter, I'll run the +risk." + +"If it was anywhere else!" she answered with a wistful look into his +face, "but not here. If Mrs. Roland Sefton could find room for me I'd +rather live with them than anywhere else in the world. Only don't think +I'm ungrateful because I can't stay here." + +"No, no, Phebe," he replied; "it was for my own sake I asked it. As you +grow older, child, you'll find out that the secret root of nine tenths +of the benevolence you see is selfishness." + +Six weeks later all the arrangements for Phebe leaving her old home and +entering upon an utterly new life were completed. Simon Nixey, after +vainly urging her to accept himself, and to give herself and her little +farm and her restored fortune to him, offered to become her tenant at +£10 a year for the land, leaving the cottage uninhabited; for Phebe +could not bear the idea of any farm laborer and his family dwelling in +it, and destroying or injuring the curious carvings with which her +father had lined its walls. The spot was far out of the way of tramps +and wandering vagabonds, and there was no danger of damage being done +to it by the neighbors. Mrs. Nixey undertook to see that it was kept +from damp and dirt, promising to have a fire lighted there occasionally, +and Simon would see to the thatch being kept in repair, on condition +that Phebe would come herself once a year to receive her rent, and see +how the place was cared for. There was but a forlorn hope in Mrs. +Nixey's heart that Phebe would ever have Simon now she was going to +London; but it might possibly come about in the long run if he met with +no girl to accept him with as much fortune. + +Before leaving Upfold Farm Phebe received the following letter from +Felicita: + + "DEAR PHEBE: I shall be very glad to have you under my + roof. I believe I see in you a freshness and truthfulness of nature + on which I can rely for sympathy. I have always felt a sincere + regard for you, but of late I have learned to love you, and to + think of you as my friend. I love you next to my children. Let me + be a friend to you. Your pursuits will interest me, and you must + let me share them as your friend. + + "But one favor I must ask. Never mention my husband's name to me. + Madame will feel solace in talking of him, but the very sound of his + name is intolerable to me. It is my fault; but spare me. You are the + dearer to me because you love him, and because he prized your + affections so highly; but he must never be mentioned, if possible + not thought of, in my presence. If you think of him I shall feel it, + and be wounded. I say this before you come that you may spare me as + much pain as you can. + + "This is the only thing I dread. Otherwise your coming to us would + be the happiest thing that has befallen me for the last year. + + "Yours faithfully, + + "Felicita." + +If Felicita was glad to have her, Phebe knew that Madame and the +children would be enraptured. Nor had she judged wrongly. Madame +received her as if she had been a favorite child, whose presence was the +very comfort and help she stood most in need of. Though she devoted +herself to Felicita, there was a distance between them, an impenetrable +reserve, that chilled her spirits and threw her love back upon herself. +But to Phebe she could pour out her heart unrestrainedly, dwelling upon +the memory of her lost son, and mourning openly for him. And Phebe never +spoke a word that could lead Roland's mother to think she believed him +to be guilty. With a loving tact she avoided all discussion on that +point; and, though again and again the pang of her own loss made itself +poignantly felt, she knew how to pour consolation into the heart of +Roland's mother. + +But to Felix and Hilda Phebe's companionship was an endless delight. She +came from her lonely homestead on the hills into the full stream of +London life, and it had a ceaseless interest for her. She could not grow +weary of the streets with their crowd of passers-by; and the shop +windows filled with wealth and curiosities fascinated her. All the stir +and tumult were joyous to her, and the faces she met as she walked along +the pavement possessed an unceasing influence over her. The love of +humanity, scarcely called into existence before, developed rapidly in +her. Felix and Hilda shared in her childish pleasure without +understanding the deep springs from which it came. + +It was an education in itself for the children. A drive in an omnibus, +with its frequent stoppages and its constant change of passengers, was +delightful to Phebe, and never lost its charm for her. She and the +children explored London, seeing all its sights, which Phebe, in her +rustic curiosity, wished to see. From west to east, from north to south, +they became acquainted with the great capital as few children, rich or +poor, have a chance of doing. They sought out all its public buildings, +every museum and picture gallery, the birthplaces of its famous men, the +places where they died, and their tombs if they were within London. +Westminster Abbey was as familiar to them as their own home. It seemed +as if Phebe was compensating herself for her lonely girlhood on the +barren and solitary uplands. Yet it was not simply sight-seeing, but the +outcome of an intelligent and genuine curiosity, which was only +satisfied by understanding all she could about the things and places she +saw. + +To the children, as well as to Madame, she often talked of Roland +Sefton. Felix loved nothing more than to listen to her recollections of +his lost father, who had so strangely disappeared out of his life. On a +Sunday evening when, of course, their wanderings were over, she would +sit with them in summer by the attic window, which, overlooked the +river, and in winter by the fireside, recounting again and again all she +knew of him, especially of how good he always was to her. There were a +vividness and vivacity in all she said of him which charmed their +imagination and kept the memory of him alive in their hearts. Phebe gave +dramatic effect to her stories of him. Hilda could scarcely remember +him, though she believed she did; but to Felix he remained the tall, +handsome, kindly father, who was his ideal of all a man should be; while +Phebe, perhaps unconsciously, portrayed him as all that was great and +good. + +For neither Madame nor Phebe could find it in their hearts to tell the +boy, so proud and fond of his father's memory, that any suspicion had +ever been attached to his name. Madame, who had mourned so bitterly over +his premature death in her native land, but so far from his own, had +never believed in his guilt; and Phebe, who knew him to be guilty, had +forgiven him with that forgiveness which possesses an almost sacred +forgetfulness. If she had been urged to look back and down into that +dark abyss in which he had been lost to her, she must have owned +reluctantly that he had once done wrong. But it was hard to remember +anything against the dead. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +AT HOME IN LONDON. + + +Every summer Phebe went down to her own home on the uplands, according +to her promise to the Nixeys. Felix and Hilda always accompanied her, +for a change was necessary for the children, and Felicita seldom cared +to go far from London, and then only to some sea-side resort near at +hand, when Madame always went with her. Every summer Simon Nixey +repeated his offer the first evening of Phebe's residence under her own +roof; for, as Mrs. Nixey said, as long as she was wed to nobody else +there was a chance for him. Though they could see with sharp and envious +eyes the change that was coming over her, transforming her from the +simple, untaught country girl into an educated and self-possessed woman, +marking out her own path in life, yet the sweetness and the frankness +of Phebe's nature remained unchanged. + +"She's growing a notch or two higher every time she comes down," said +Mrs. Nixey regretfully; "she'll be far above thee, lad, next summer." + +"She's only old Dummy's daughter after all," answered Simon; "I'll never +give her up." + +To Phebe they were always old friends, whom she must care for as long as +she lived, however far she might travel from them or rise above them. +The free, homely life on the hills was as dear to her and the children +as their life in London. The little house, with its beautiful and +curious decorations; the small fields and twisted trees surrounding it; +the wide, purple moors, and all the associations Phebe conjured up for +them connected with their father, made the dumb old wood-carver's place +a second home to them. + +The happiest season of the year to Mr. Clifford was that when Phebe and +Roland Sefton's children were in his neighborhood. Felicita remained +firm to her resolution that Felix should have nothing to do with his +father's business, and the boy himself had decided in his very childhood +that he would follow in the footsteps of his ancestor, Felix Merle, the +brave pastor of the Jura. There was no hope of having him to train up +for the Old Bank. But every summer they spent a few days with him, in +the very house where their father had lived, and where Felix could still +associate him with the wainscoted rooms and the terraced garden. When +Felix talked of his father and asked questions about him, Mr. Clifford +always spoke of him in a regretful and affectionate tone. No hint +reached the boy that his father's memory was not revered in his native +town. + +"There is no stone to my father in the church," he said, one Sunday, +after he had been looking again and again at a tablet to his grandfather +on the church walls. + +"No; but I had a granite cross put over his grave in Engelberg," +answered Mr. Clifford; "when you can go to Switzerland you'll have no +trouble in finding it. Perhaps you and I may go there together some day. +I have some thoughts of it." + +"But my mother will not hear a word of any of us ever going to +Switzerland," said Felix. "I've asked her how soon she would think us +old enough to go, and she said never! Of course we don't expect she +would ever bear to go to the place where he was killed; but Phebe would +love to go, and so would I. We've saved enough money, Phebe and I; and +my mother will not let me say one word about it. She says I am never, +never to think of such a thing." + +"She is afraid of losing you as well as him," replied Mr. Clifford; "but +when you are more of a man she will let you go. You are all she has." + +"Except Hilda," said the boy fondly, "and I know she loves me most of +all. I do not wonder she cannot bear to hear about my father. My mother +is not like other women." + +"Your mother is a famous woman," rejoined Mr. Clifford; "you ought to be +proud of her." + +For as years passed on Felicita had attained some portion of her +ambition. In Riversborough it seemed as if she was the first writer of +the age; and though in London she had not won one of those extraordinary +successes which place an author suddenly at the top of the ladder, she +was steadily climbing upward, and was well known for her good and +conscientious work. The books she wrote were clever, though cynical and +captious; yet here and there they contained passages of pathos and +beauty which insured a fair amount of favor. Her work was always welcome +and well paid, so well that she could live comfortably on the income she +made for herself, without falling back on her marriage settlement. +Without an undue strain upon her mental powers she could earn a thousand +a year, which was amply sufficient for her small household. + +Though Roland Sefton had lavished upon his high-born wife all the pomp +and luxury he considered fitting to the position she had left for him, +Felicita's own tastes and habits were simple. Her father, Lord +Riversford, had been but a poor baron with an encumbered estate, and his +only child had been brought up in no extravagant ways. Now that she had +to earn most of the income of the household, for herself she had very +few personal expenses to curtail. Thanks to Madame and Phebe, the house +was kept in exquisite order, saving Felicita the shock of seeing the +rooms she dwelt in dingy and shabby. Excepting the use of a carriage, +there was no luxury that she greatly missed. + +As she became more widely known, Felicita was almost compelled to enter +into society, though she did it reluctantly. Old friends of her +father's, himself a literary man, sought her out; and her cousins from +Riversford insisted upon visiting her and being visited as her +relations. She could not altogether resist their overtures, partly on +account of her children, who, as they grew up, ought not to find +themselves without friends. But she went from home with unwillingness, +and returned to the refuge of her quiet study with alacrity. + +There was only one house where she visited voluntarily. A distant cousin +of hers had married a country clergyman, whose parish was about thirty +miles from London, in the flat, green meadows of Essex. The Pascals had +children the same age as Felix and Hilda; and when they engaged a tutor +for their own boys and girls they proposed to Felicita that her children +should join them. In Mr. Pascal's quiet country parsonage were to be met +some of the clearest and deepest thinkers of the day, who escaped from +the conventionalities of London society to the simple and pleasant +freedom they found there. Mr. Pascal himself was a leading spirit among +them, with an intellect and a heart large and broad enough to find +companionship in every human being who crossed his path. There was no +pleasure in life to Felicita equal to going down for a few days' rest to +this country parsonage. + +That she was still mourning bitterly for the husband, whose name could +never be mentioned to her, all the world believed. It made those who +loved her most feel very tenderly toward her. Though she never put on a +widow's garb she always wore black dresses. The jewels Roland had bought +for her in profusion lay in their cases, and never saw the light. She +could not bring herself to look at them; for she understood better now +the temptation that had assailed and conquered him. She knew that it was +for her chiefly, to gratify an ambition cherished on her account, that +he had fallen into crime. + +"I worship my mother still," said Felix one day to Phebe, "but I feel +more and more awe of her every day. What is it that separates her from +us? It would be different if my father had not died." + +"Yes, it would have been different," answered Phebe, thinking of how +terrible a change it must have made in their young lives if Roland +Sefton had not died. She, too, understood better what his crime had +been, and how the world regarded it; and she thanked God in her secret +soul that Roland was dead, and his wife and children saved from sharing +his punishment. It had all been for the best, sad as it was at the time. +Madame also was comforted, though she had not forgotten her son. It was +the will of God: it was God who had called him, as He would call her +some day. There was no bitterness in her grief, and she did not perplex +her soul with brooding over the impenetrable mystery of death. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +DEAD TO THE WORLD. + + +In an hospital at Lucerne a peasant had been lying ill for many weeks of +a brain fever, which left him so absolutely helpless that it was +impossible to turn him out into the streets on his recovery from the +fever, as he had no home or friends to go to. When his mind seemed clear +enough to give some account of himself, he was incoherent and bewildered +in the few statements he made. He did not answer to his own name, Jean +Merle; and he appeared incapable of understanding even a simple +question. That his brain had been, perhaps, permanently affected by the +fever was highly probable. + +When at length the authorities of the hospital were obliged to discharge +him, a purse was made up for him, containing enough money to keep him +in his own station for the next three months. + +By this time Jean Merle was no longer confused and unintelligible when +he opened his lips, but he very rarely uttered a word beyond what was +absolutely necessary. He appeared to the physicians attending him to be +bent on recollecting something that had occurred in the past before his +brain gave way. His face was always preoccupied and moody, and scarcely +any sound would catch his ear and make him lift up his head. There must +be mania somewhere, but it could not be discovered. + +"Have you any plans for the future, Merle?" he was asked the day he was +discharged as cured. + +"Yes, Monsieur," he replied; "I am a wood-carver by trade." + +"And where are you going to now?" was the next question. + +"I must go to Engelberg," answered Merle, with a shudder. + +"Ah! to Monsieur Nicodemus; then," said the doctor, "you must be a good +hand at your work to please him, my good fellow." + +"I am a good hand," replied Merle. + +The valley of Engelberg lies high, and is little more than a cleft in +the huge mass of mountains; a narrow gap where storms gather, and bring +themselves into a focus. In the summer thunder-clouds draw together, and +fill up the whole valley, while rain falls in torrents, and the streams +war and rage along their stony channels. But when Jean Merle returned to +it in March, after four months' absence, the valley was covered with +snow stretching up to the summits of the mountains around it, save only +where the rocks were too precipitous for it to lodge. + +He had come back to Engelberg because there was the grave of the +friendless man who bore his former name. It had a fascination for him, +this grave, where he was supposed to be at rest. The handsome granite +cross, bearing only the name of Roland Sefton and the date of his death, +attracted him, and held him by an irresistible spell. At first, in the +strange weakness of his mind, he could hardly believe but that he was +dead, and this inexplicable second life as Jean Merle was an illusion. +It would not have amazed him if he had been invisible and inaudible to +those about him. That which filled him with astonishment and terror was +the fact that the people took him to be what he said he was, a Swiss +peasant, and a wood-carver. + +He had no difficulty in getting work as soon as he had done a piece as a +specimen of his skill. Monsieur Nicodemus recognized a delicate and +cultivated hand, and a faithful delineator of nature. As he acquired +more skill with steady practice he surpassed the master's most dexterous +helper, and bid fair to rival Monsieur Nicodemus himself. But Jean Merle +had no ambition; there was no desire to make himself known, or put his +productions forward. He was content with receiving liberal wages, such +as the master, with the generosity of a true artist, paid to him. But +for the unflagging care he expended upon his work, his fellow-craftsmen +would have thought him indifferent to it. + +For nine months in the year Jean Merle remained in Engelberg, giving +himself no holiday, no leisure, no breathing time. He lived on the +poorest fare, and in the meanest lodging. His clothing was often little +better than rags. His wages brought him no relaxation from toil, or +delivered him from self-chosen wretchedness. Silent and morose, he lived +apart from all his fellows, who regarded him as a half-witted miser. + +When the summer season brought flights of foreign tourists, Merle +disappeared, and was seen no more till autumn. Nobody knew whither he +went, but it was believed he acted as a guide to some of the highest and +most perilous of the Alps. When he came back to his work at the end of +the season, his blackened and swarthy face, from which the skin had +peeled, and his hands wounded and torn as if from scaling jagged cliffs, +bore testimony to these conjectures. + +He never entered the church when mass was performed, or any congregation +assembled; but at rare intervals he might be seen kneeling on the steps +before the high altar, his shaggy head bent down, and his frame shaken +with repressed sobs which no one could hear. The curé had tried to win +his confidence, but had failed. Jean Merle was a heretic. + +When he was spoken to he would speak, but he never addressed himself to +any one. He was not a native-born Swiss, and he did not seek +naturalization, or claim any right in the canton. He did not seek +permission to marry or to build a house, but as he was skilful and +industrious and thrifty, a man in the prime of life, the commune left +him alone. + +He seemed to have taken it as a self-imposed task that he should have +the charge of the granite cross, erected over the man whose death he had +witnessed. He was recognized in Engelberg as the man who had spent the +last hours with the buried Englishman, but no suspicion attached to him. +So careful was he of the monument that it was generally rumored he +received a sum of money yearly for keeping it in order. No doubt the +friends of the rich Englishman, who had erected so handsome a stone to +his memory, made it worth the man's while to attend to it. Besides this +grave, which he could not keep himself from haunting, Engelberg +attracted him by its double association with Felicita. Here he had seen +her for the first and for the last time. There was no other spot in the +world, except the home he had lost forever, so full of memories of her. +He could live over again every instant of each interview with her, with +all the happy interval that lay between them. The rest of his life was +steeped in shadow; the earlier years before he knew Felicita were pale +and dim; the time since he lost her was unreal and empty, like a +confused dream. + +After a while a dull despondency succeeded to the acute misery of his +first winter and summer. His second fraud had been terribly successful; +in a certain measure he was duped by it himself. All the world believed +him to be dead, and he lived as a shadow among shadows. The wild and +solitary ice-peaks he sometimes scaled seemed to him the unsubstantial +phantasmagoria of a troubled sleep. He wondered with a dull amazement if +the crevasses which yawned before him would swallow him up, or the +shuddering violence of an avalanche bury him beneath it. His life had +been as a tale that is told, even to its last word, death. + + + + +PART II. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +AFTER MANY YEARS. + + +The busy, monotonous years ran through their course tranquilly, marked +only by a change of residence from the narrow little house suited to +Felicita's slender means to a larger, more commodious, and more +fashionable dwelling-place in a West End square. Both Felicita and Phebe +had won their share of public favor and a fair measure of fame; and the +new home was chosen partly on account of an artist's studio with a +separate entrance, through which Phebe could go in and out, and admit +her visitors and sitters, in independence of the rest of the household. + +Never once had Felix wavered in his desire to take orders and become a +clergyman, from the time his boyish imagination had been fired by the +stories of his great-grandfather's perils and labors in the Jura. +Felicita had looked coldly on his resolution, having a quiet contempt +for English clergymen, in spite of her friendship for Mr. Pascal, if +friendship it could be called. For each year as it passed over Felicita +left her in a separation from her fellow-creatures, always growing more +chilly and dreary. It seemed to herself as if her lips were even losing +the use of language, and that only with her pen could she find vent in +expression. And these written thoughts of hers, printed and published +for any eye to read, how unutterably empty of all but bitterness she +found them. She almost marvelled at the popularity of her own books. How +could it be that the cynical, scornful pictures she drew of human nature +and human fellowship could be read so eagerly? She felt ashamed of her +children seeing them, lest they should learn to distrust all men's truth +and honor, and she would not suffer a word to be said about them in her +own family. + +But Madame Sefton, in her failing old age, was always ready to +sympathize with Felix, and to help to keep him steady to her own simple +faith; and Phebe was on the same side. These two women, with their +quiet, unquestioning trust in God, and sweet charity toward their +fellow-men, did more for Felix than all the opposing influences of +college life could undo; and when his grandmother's peaceful and happy +death set the last seal on her truthful life, Felix devoted himself with +renewed earnestness to the career he had chosen. To enter the lists in +the battle against darkness, and ignorance, and sin, wherever these foes +were to be met in close quarters, was his ambition; and the enthusiasm +with which he followed it made Felicita smile, yet sigh with unutterable +bitterness as she looked into the midnight gloom of her own soul. + +It became quite plain to Felicita as the years passed by that her son +was no genius. At present there was a freshness and singleness of +purpose about him, which, with the charm of his handsome young face and +the genial simplicity of his manners, made him everywhere a favorite, +and carried him into circles where a graver man and a deeper thinker +could not find entrance; but let twenty years pass by, and Felix, she +said to herself, would be nothing but a commonplace country clergyman, +looking after his glebe lands and riding lazily about his parish, +talking with old women and consulting farmers about his crops and +cattle. She felt disappointed in him; and this disappointment removed +him far away from her. The enchanted circle of her own isolation was +complete. + +The subtle influence of Felicita's dissatisfaction was vaguely felt by +Felix. He had done well at Oxford, and had satisfied his friend and +tutor, Mr. Pascal; but he knew that his mother wished him to make a +great name there, and he had failed to do it. Every day, when he spent a +few minutes in Felicita's library, lined with books which were her only +companions, their conversation grew more and more vapid, unless his +mother gave utterance to some of her sarcastic sayings, which he only +half understood and altogether disliked. + +But in Phebe's studio all was different; he was at home there. Though it +was separate from the house, it had from the first been the favorite +haunt of all the other members of the family. Madame had been wont to +bring her knitting and sit beside Phebe's easel, talking of old times, +and of the dear son she had lost so sorrowfully. Felix had read his +school-boy stories aloud to her whilst she was painting; and Hilda +flitted in and out restlessly, carrying every bit of news she picked up +from her girl friends to Phebe. Even Felicita was used to steal in +silently in the dusk, when no one else was there, and talk in her low +sad voice as she talked to no one else. + +As soon as Felix was old enough, within a few months of Madame's death, +he took orders, and accepted a curacy in a poor and densely populated +London district. It was not much more than two miles from home, but it +was considered advisable that he should take lodgings near his vicar's +church, and dwell in the midst of the people with whom he had to do. The +separation was not so complete as if he had gone into a country parish, +but it brought another blank into the home, which had not yet ceased to +miss the tranquil and quiet presence of the old grandmother. + +"I shall not have to fight with wolves like Felix Merle, my +great-grandfather," said Felix, the evening before he left home, as he +and Phebe were sitting over her studio fire. "I think sometimes I ought +to go out as a missionary to some wild country. Yet there are dangers to +meet here in London, and risks to run; ay! and battles to fight. I shall +have a good fist for drunken men beating helpless women in my parish. I +couldn't stand by and see a woman ill-used without striking a blow, +could I, Phebe?" + +"I hope you'll strike as few blows as you can," she answered, smiling. + +"How could I help standing up for a woman when I think of my mother, and +you, and little Hilda, and her who is gone?" asked Felix. + +"Is there nobody else?" inquired Phebe, with a mischievous tone in her +pleasant voice. + +"When I think of the good women I have known," he answered evasively, +"the sweet true, noble women, I feel my blood boil at the thought of any +man ill-using any woman. Phebe, I can just remember my father speaking +of it with the utmost contempt and anger, with a fire in his eyes and a +sternness in his voice which made me tremble with fear. He was in a +righteous passion; it was the other side of his worship of my mother." + +"He was always kind and tender toward all women," answered Phebe. "All +the Seftons have been like that; they could never be harsh to any woman. +But your father almost worshipped the ground your mother trod upon; +nothing on earth was good enough for her. Look here, my dear boy, I've +been trying to paint a picture for you." + +She lifted up a stretcher which had been turned with the canvas to the +wall, and placed it on her easel in the full light of a shaded lamp. For +a moment she stood between him and it, gazing at it with tears in her +blue eyes. Then she fell back to his side to look at it with him, +clasping his hand in hers, and holding it in a warm, fond grasp. + +It was a portrait of Roland Sefton, painted from her faithful memory, +which had been aided by a photograph taken when he was the same age +Felix was now. Phebe could only see it dimly through her tears, and for +a moment or two both of them were silent. + +"My father?" said Felix, his face flushing and his voice faltering; "is +it like him, Phebe? Yes, yes! I recollect him now; only he looked +happier or merrier than he does there. There is something sad about his +face that I do not remember. What a king he was among men! I'm not +worthy to be the son of such a man and such a woman." + +"No, no; don't say that," she answered eagerly; "you're not as handsome, +or as strong, or as clever as he was; but you may be as good a man--yes, +a better man." + +She spoke with a deep, low sigh that was almost a sob, as the memory of +how she had seen him last--crushed under a weight of sin and flying from +the penalty of crime--flashed across her brain. She knew now why there +had lurked a subtle sadness in the face she had been painting, which she +had not been able to banish. + +"I think," she said, as if speaking to herself, "that the sense of sin +links us to God almost as closely as love does. I never understood Jesus +Christ until I knew something of the wickedness of the world, and the +frailty of our nature at its best. It is when a good man has to cry, +'Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy +sight,' that we feel something of the awful sinfulness of sin." + +"And have you this sense of sin, Phebe?" asked Felix in a low voice. "I +have thought sometimes that you, and my mother, and men like my father +and Mr. Pascal, felt but little of the inward strength of sin. Your +lives stand out so clear and true. If there is a stain upon them it is +so slight, so plainly a defect of the physical nature, that it often +seems to me you do not know what evil is." + +"We all know it," she answered, "and that shadow of sorrow you see in +your father's face must bear witness for him to you that he has passed +through the same conflict you may be fighting. The sins of good men are +greater than the sins of bad men. One lie from a truthful man is more +hurtful than all the lies of a liar. The sins of a man after God's own +heart have done more harm than all the crimes of all the Pagan +emperors." + +"It is true," he said thoughtfully. + +"If I told you a falsehood, what would you think of me?" + +"I believe it would almost break my heart if you or my mother told me a +falsehood," he answered. + +"I could not paint this portrait while your grandmother was living," +said Phebe, after a short silence; "I tried it once or twice, but I +could never succeed. See; here is the photograph your father gave me +when I was quite a little girl, because I cried so bitterly at his going +away for a few months on his wedding trip. There were only two taken, +and your mother has the other. They were both very young; he was only +your age, and your mother was not twenty. But Lord Riversford was dead, +and she was not happy with her cousins; and your grandfather, who was +living then, was eager for the match. Everybody said it was a great +match for your father." + +"They were very happy; they were not too young to be married," answered +Felix, with a deep flush on his handsome face. "Why should not people +marry young, if they love one another?" + +"I would ask Canon Pascal that question if I were you," she said, +smiling significantly. + +"I have a good mind to ask him to-night," he replied, stooping down to +kiss Phebe's cheek; "he is at Westminster, and Alice is there too. Bid +me good speed, Phebe." + +"God bless you, my Felix," she whispered. + +He turned abruptly away, though he lingered for a minute or two longer, +gazing at his father's portrait. How like him, and yet how unlike him, +he was in Phebe's eyes! Then, with a gentle pressure of her hand, he +went away in silence; while she took down the painting, and set it again +with its face to the wall, lest Felicita coming in should catch a sight +of it. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +CANON PASCAL. + + +The massive pile of the old Abbey stood darkly against the sky, with not +a glimmer of light shining through its many windows; whilst behind it +the Houses of Parliament, now in full session, glittered from roof to +basement with innumerable lamps. All about them there was the rush and +rattle of busy life, but the Abbey seemed inclosed in a magic circle of +solitude and stillness. Overhead a countless host of little silvery +clouds covered the sky, with fine threads and interspaces of dark blue +lying between them. The moon, pale and bright, seemed to be drifting +slowly among them, sometimes behind them, and faintly veiled by their +light vapor; but more often the little clouds made way for her, and +clustered round, in a circle of vaguely outlined cherub-heads, golden +brown in the halo she shed about her. These child-like angel-heads, +floating over the greater part of the sky, seemed pressing forward, one +behind the other, and hastening into the narrow ring of light, with a +gentle eagerness; and fading softly away as the moon passed by. + +Felix stood still for a minute or two looking up from the dark and +silent front of the Abbey to the silent and silvery clouds above it. +Almost every stone of the venerable old walls was familiar and dear to +him. For Phebe, when she came from the broad, grand solitude of her +native moors, had fixed at once upon the Abbey as the one spot in London +where she could find something of the repose she had been accustomed to +meet with in the sight of the far-stretching horizon, and the unbroken +vault of heaven overarching it. Felicita, too, had attended the +cathedral service every Sunday morning, since she had been wealthy +enough to set up a carriage, which was the first luxury she had allowed +herself. The music, the chants, the dim light of the colored windows, +the long aisle of lofty arches, and the many persistent and dominant +associations taking possession of her memory and imagination, made the +Abbey almost as dear to Felicita as it was through its mysterious and +sacred repose to Phebe. + +Felix had paced along the streets with rapid and headlong haste, but now +he hesitated before turning into Dean's Yard. When he did so, he +sauntered round the inclosure two or three times, wondering in what +words he could best move the Canon, and framing half a dozen speeches in +his mind, which seemed ridiculous to himself when he whispered them half +aloud. At last, with a sudden determination to trust to the inspiration +of the moment, he turned his steps hurriedly into the dark, low arches +of the cloisters. + +But he had not many steps to take. The tall, somewhat stooping figure of +Canon Pascal, so familiar to him, was leaving through one of the +archways, with head upturned to the little field of sky above the +quadrangle, where the moon was to be seen with her attendant clouds. +Felix could read every line in his strongly marked features, and the +deep furrows which lay between his thick brows. The tinge of gray in his +dark hair was visible in the moonlight, or rather the pale gleam caused +all his hair to seem silvery. His eyes were glistening with delight, and +as he heard steps pausing at his side, he turned, and at the sight of +Felix his harsh face melted into almost a womanly smile of greeting. + +"Welcome, my son," he said, in a pleasant and deep voice; "you are just +in time to share this glorious sight with me. Pity 'tis it vanishes so +soon!" + +He clasped Felix's hand with a warm, hearty pressure, such as few hands +know how to give; though it is one of the most tender and most refined +expressions of friendship. Felix grasped his with an unconscious grip +which made Canon Pascal wince, though he said nothing. For a few minutes +the two men stood gazing upward in reverent silence, each brain busy +with its own thoughts. + +"You were coming to see me?" said Canon Pascal at last. + +"Yes," answered Felix, in a voice faltering with eager emotion. + +"On some special errand?" pursued Canon Pascal. "Don't let us lose time +in beating about the bush, then. You cannot say anything that will not +be interesting to me, Felix; for I always find a lad like you, and at +your age, has something in his mind worth listening to. What is it, my +son?" + +"I don't want to beat about the bush," stammered Felix, "but oh! if you +only knew how I love Alice! More than words can tell. You've known me +all my life, and Alice has known me. Will you let her be my wife?" + +The smile was gone from Canon Pascal's face. A moment ago, and he, +gazing up at the moon, had been recalling, with a boyish freshness of +heart, the days of his own happy though protracted courtship of the dear +wife, who might be gazing at the same scene from her window in his +country rectory. His face grew almost harsh with its grave +thoughtfulness as his eyes fastened upon the agitated features of the +young man beside him. A fine-looking young fellow, he said to himself; +with a frank, open nature, and a constitution and disposition unspoiled +by the world. He needed nobody to tell him what his old pupil was, for +he knew him as well as he knew his own boys, but he had never thought +of him as any other than a boy. Alice, too, was a child still. This +sudden demand struck him into a mood of silent and serious thought; and +he paced to and fro for a while along the corridor, with Felix equally +silent and serious at his side. + +"You've no idea how much I love her!" Felix at last ventured to say. + +"Hush, my boy!" he answered, with a sharp, imperative tone in his voice. +"I loved Alice's mother before you were born; and I love her more every +day of my life. You children don't know what love means." + +Felix answered by a gesture of protest. Not know what love meant, when +neither day nor night was the thought of Alice absent from his inmost +heart! He had been almost afraid of the vehemence of his own passion, +lest it should prove a hindrance to him in God's service. Canon Pascal +drew his arm affectionately through his and turned back to pace the +cloister once more. + +"I'm trying to think," he said, in a gentler voice, "that Alice is out +of the nursery, and you out of the schoolroom. It is difficult, Felix." + + +"You were present at my ordination last week," exclaimed Felix, in an +aggrieved tone; "the Church, and the Bishop, and you did not think me +too young to take charge of souls. Surely you cannot urge that I am not +old enough to take care of one whom I love better than my own life!" + +Canon Pascal pressed Felix's arm closer to his side. + +"Oh, my boy!" he said, "you will discover that it is easier to commit +unknown souls to anybody's charge, than to give away one's child, body, +soul, and spirit. It is a solemn thing we are talking of; more solemn, +in some respects, than my girl's death. I would rather follow Alice to +the grave than see her enter into a marriage not made for her in +heaven." + +"So would I," answered Felix tremulously. + +"And to make sure that any marriage is made in heaven!" mused the Canon, +speaking as if to himself, with his head sunk in thought. "There's the +grand difficulty! For oh! Felix, my son, it is not love only that is +needed, but wisdom; yes! the highest wisdom, that which cometh down +from above, and is first pure, and then peaceable. For how could Christ +Himself be the husband of the Church, if He was not both the wisdom of +God and the love of God? How could God be the heavenly Father of us all, +if He was not infinite in wisdom? Know you not what Bacon saith; 'To +love and to be wise is not granted unto man?'" + +"I dare not say I am wise," answered Felix, "but surely such love as I +bear to Alice will bring wisdom." + +"And does Alice love you?" asked Canon Pascal. + +"I did not think it right to ask her?" he replied. + +"Then there's some hope still," said the Canon, more joyously; "the +child is scarcely twenty yet. Do not you be in a hurry, my boy. You do +not know what woman is yet; how delicately and tenderly organized; how +full of seeming contradictions and uncertainties, often with a blessed +meaning in them, ah, a heavenly meaning, but hard to be understood and +apprehended by the rougher portion of humanity. Study them a little +longer, Felix; take another year or two before you fix on your life +mistress." + +"You forget how many years I have lived under the same roof as Alice," +replied Felix eagerly, "and how many women I have lived with; my mother, +my grandmother, Phebe, and Hilda. Surely I know more about them than +most men." + +"All good women," he answered, "happy lad! blessed lad, I should rather +say. They have been better to thee than angels. Phebe has been more than +a guardian angel to thee, though thou knowest not all thou owest to her +yet. But a wife, Felix, is different, God knows, from mother, or sister, +or friend. God chooses our kinsfolk for us; but man chooses his own +wife; having free will in that choice on which hangs his own life, and +the lives of others. Yet the wisest of men said, 'Whoso findeth a wife +findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord.' Ay, a good wife +is the token of such loving favor as we know not yet in this world." + +The Canon's voice had fallen into a low and gentle tone, little louder +than a whisper. The dim, obscure light in the cloisters scarcely gave +Felix a chance of seeing the expression of his face; but the young man's +heart beat high with hope. + +"You don't say No to me?" he faltered. + +"How can I say No or Yes?" asked Canon Pascal, almost with an accent of +surprise. "I will talk it over with your mother and Alice's mother; but +the Yes or No must come from Alice herself. What am I that I should +stand between you two and God, if it is His will to bestow His sweet +boon upon you both? Only do not disturb the child, Felix. Leave her +fancy-free a little longer." + +"And you are willing to take me as your son? You do not count me +unworthy?" he exclaimed. + +"I've boys of my own," he answered, "whose up-growing I've watched from +the day of their birth, and who are precious to me as my own soul; and +you, Felix, come next to them. You've been like another son to me. But I +must see your mother. Who knows what thoughts she may not have for her +only son?" + +"None, none that can come between Alice and me," cried Felix +rapturously. "Father! yes, I shall know again what it is to have a +father." + +A sob rose to his throat as he uttered the word. He seemed to see his +own father again, as he remembered him in his childhood, and as Phebe's +portrait had recalled him vividly to his mind. If he had only lived till +now to witness, and to share in this new happiness! It seemed as if his +early death gathered an additional sadness about it, since he had left +the world while so much joy and gladness had been enfolded in the +future. Even in this first moment of ineffable happiness he promised +himself that he would go and visit his father's foreign grave. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +FELICITA'S REFUSAL. + + +Now there was no longer a doubt weighing upon his spirit, Felix longed +to tell his mother all. The slight cloud that had arisen of late years +between them was so gossamer-like yet, that the faintest breath could +drive it away. Though her boy was not the brilliant genius she had +secretly and fondly hoped he would prove, he was still dearer to +Felicita than ought else on earth or, indeed, in heaven; and her love +for him was deeper than she supposed. On his part he had never lost that +chivalrous tenderness, blended with deferential awe, with which he had +regarded her from his early boyhood. His love for Alice was so utterly +different from his devotion to her, that he had never compared them, and +they had not come into any kind of collision yet. + +Felix sought his mother in her library. Felicita was alone, reading in +the light of a lamp which shed a strong illumination over her. In his +eyes she was incomparably the loveliest woman he had ever seen, not even +excepting Alice; and the stately magnificence of her velvet dress, and +rich lace, and costly jewels, was utterly different from that of any +other woman he knew. For Mrs. Pascal dressed simply, as became the wife +of a country rector; and Phebe, in her studio, always wore a blouse or +apron of brown holland, which suited her well, making her homely and +domestic in appearance as she was in nature. Felicita looked like a +queen in his eyes. + +When she heard his voice speaking to her, having not caught the sound of +his step on the soft carpet, Felicita looked up with a smile in her dark +eyes. In a day or two her son was about to leave her roof, and her heart +felt very soft toward him. She had scarcely realized that he was a man, +until she knew that he had decided to have a place and a dwelling of his +own. + +She stretched out both hands to him, with a gesture of tenderness +peculiar to herself, and shown only to him. It was as if one hand could +not link them closely enough; could not bring them so nearly heart to +heart. Felix took them both into his own, and knelt down before her; his +young face flushed with eagerness, and his eyes, so like her own, +fastened upon hers. + +"Your face speaks for you," she said, pressing one of her rare kisses +upon it. "What is it my boy has to tell me?" + +"Oh, mother," he cried, "you will never think I love you less than I +have always done? See, I kiss your feet still as I used to do when I was +a boy." + +He bent his head to caress the little feet, and then laid it on his +mother's lap, while she let her white fingers play with his hair. + +"Why should you love me less than you have always done?" she asked, in a +sweet languid voice. "Have I ever changed toward you, Felix?" + +"No, mother, no," he answered, "but to-night I feel how different I am +from what I was but a year or two ago. I am a man now; I was a boy +then." + +"You will always be a boy to me," she said, with a tender smile. + +"Yet I am as old as my father was when you were married," he replied. + +Felicita's face grew white, and she leaned back in her chair with a +sudden feeling of faintness. It was years since the boy had spoken of +his father; why should he utter his name now? He had raised his head +when he felt her move, and her dim and failing eyes saw his face in a +mist, looking so like his father when she had known him first, that she +shrank from him, with a terror and aversion too deep to be concealed. + +"Roland!" she cried. + +He did not speak or move, being too bewildered and wonderstruck at his +mother's agitation. Felicita hid her face in her white hands, and sat +still recovering herself. The pang had been sudden, and poignant; it had +smitten her so unawares that she had betrayed its anguish. But, she felt +in an instant, her boy had no thought of wounding her; and for her own +sake, as well as his, she must conquer this painful excitement. There +must be no scene to awaken observation or suspicion. + +"Mother, forgive me," he exclaimed, "I did not mean to distress you." + +"No," she breathed with difficulty, "I am sure of it. Go on Felix." + +"I came to tell you," he said gravely, "that as long as I can +remember--at least as long as we have been in London and known the +Pascals--I have loved Alice. Oh, mother, I've thought sometimes you +seemed as fond of her as you are of Hilda. You will be glad to have her +as your daughter?" + +Felicita closed her eyes with a feeling of helpless misery. She could +hardly give a thought to Felix and the words he uttered; yet it was +those words which brought a flood of hidden memories and fears sweeping +over her shrinking soul. It was so long since she had thought much of +Roland! She had persuaded herself that as so many years had passed by +bringing to her no hint or token of his existence, he must be dead; and +as one dead passes presently out of the active thoughts, busy only with +the present, so had her husband passed away from her mind into some dim, +hidden cell of memory, with which she had long ceased to trouble +herself. + +Her husband seemed to stand before her as she had seen him last, a +haggard, way-worn, ruined man, beggared and stripped of all that makes +life desirable. And this was only six months after he had lost all. What +would he be after thirteen years if he was living still? + +But if it had appeared to her out of the question to face and bear the +ignominy and disgrace he had brought upon her thirteen years ago, how +utterly impossible it was now. She could never retrace her steps. To +confess the deception she had herself consented to, and taken part in, +would be to pull down with her own hands the fair edifice of her life. +The very name she had made for herself, and the broader light in which +her fame had placed her, made any repentance impossible. "A city that is +set on a hill cannot be hid." Her hill was not as lofty as she had once +fancied it would be; but still she was not on the low and safer level +of the plain. She was honorably famous. She could not stain her honor by +the acknowledgment of dishonor. The chief question, after all, was +whether Roland was alive or dead. + +Her colorless face and closed eyes, the expression of unutterable +perplexity and anguish in her knitted brows and quivering lips, filled +Felix with wonder and grief. He had risen from his kneeling posture at +her feet, and now his reverential awe of her yielded to the tender +compassion of a man for a weak and suffering woman. He drew her beloved +head on to his breast, and held her in a firm and loving grasp. + +"I would not grieve or pain you for worlds," he said falteringly, "nor +would Alice. I love you better than myself; as much as I love her. We +will talk of it another day, mother." + +She pressed close to him, and he felt her arms strained about him, as if +she could not hold him near enough to her. It seemed to him as if she +was striving to draw him into the very heart of her motherhood; but she +knew how deep the gulf was between her and him, and shuddered at her own +loneliness. + +"It is losing you, my son," she whispered with her quivering lips. + +"No, no," he said eagerly; "it is not losing me, but finding another +child. Don't take a gloomy view of it, mother. I shall be as happy as my +father was with you." + +He could not keep himself from thinking of his father, or of speaking of +him. He understood more perfectly now what his father's worship of his +mother had been; the tenderness of a stronger being toward a weaker one, +blended with the chivalrous homage of a generous nature to the one woman +chosen to represent all womanhood. There was a keener trouble to him +to-night, than ever before, in the thought that his mother was a widow. + +"Leave me now, Felix," she said, loosing him from her close embrace, and +shutting her eyes from the sight of him. "Do not let any one come to me +again to-night. I must be alone." + +But when she was alone it was only to let her thoughts whirl round and +round in one monotonous circle. If Roland was dead, her secret was +safe, and Felix might be happy. If he was not dead, Felix must not marry +Alice Pascal. She had not looked forward to this difficulty. There had +been an unconscious and vague feeling in her heart that her son loved +her too passionately to be easily pleased by any girl; and, almost +unawares to herself, she had been in the habit of comparing her own +attractions and loveliness with those of the younger women who crossed +his path. Yet there was no personal vanity in the calm conviction she +possessed that Felix had never seen a woman more beautiful and +fascinating than the mother he had always admired with so much +enthusiasm. + +She was not jealous of Alice Pascal, she said to herself, and yet her +heart was sore when she said it. Why could not Felix remain simply +constant to her? He was the only being she had ever really loved; and +her love for him was deeper than she had known it to be. Yet to crush +his hopes, to wound him, would be like the bitterness of death to her. +If she could but let him marry his Alice, how much easier it would be +than throwing obstacles in the way of his happiness; obstacles that +would seem but the weak and wilful caprices of a foolish mother. + +When the morning came, and Canon Pascal made his appearance, Felicita +received him in her library, apparently composed, but grave and almost +stern in her manner. They were old friends; but the friendship on his +side was warm and genial, while on hers it was cold and reserved. He +lost no time in beginning on the subject which had brought him to her. + +"My dear Felicita," he said, "Felix tells me he had some talk with you +last night. What do you think of our young people?" + +"What does Alice say?" she asked. + +"Oh, Alice!" he answered in an amused yet tender tone; "she would be of +one mind with Felix. There is something beautiful in the innocent, +unworldly love of children like these, who are ready to build a nest +under any eaves. Felicita, you do not disapprove of it?" + +"I cannot disapprove of Alice," she replied gloomily; "but I do +disapprove of Felix marrying so young. A man should not marry under +thirty." + +"Thirty!" echoed Canon Pascal; "that would be in seven years. It is a +long time; but if they do not object I should not. I'm in no hurry to +lose my daughter. But they will not wait so long." + +"Do not let them be engaged yet," she said in hurried and sad tones. +"They may see others whom they would love more. Early marriages and long +engagements are both bad. Tell them from me that it is better for them +to be free a while longer, till they know themselves and the world +better. I would rather Felix and Hilda never married. When I see Phebe +so free from all the gnawing cares and anxieties of this life, and so +joyous in her freedom, I wish to heaven I could have had a single life +like hers." + +"Why! Felicita!" he exclaimed; "this is morbid. You have never forgiven +God for taking away your husband. You have been keeping a grudge against +Him all these years of your widowhood." + +"No, no!" she interrupted; "it is not that. They married me too soon, my +uncle and Mr. Sefton. I never loved Roland as I ought. Oh! if I had +loved him, how different my life would have been, and his!" + +Her voice faltered and broke into deep sobs, which cut off all further +speech. For a few minutes Canon Pascal endeavored to reason with her and +comfort her, but in vain. At length he quietly went away and sent Phebe +to her. There could be no more discussion of the subject for the +present. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +TAKING ORDERS. + + +The darkness that had dwelt so long in the heart of Felicita began now +to cast its gloom over the whole household. A sharp attack of illness, +which followed immediately upon her great and inexplicable agitation, +caused great consternation to her friends, and above all to Felix. The +eminent physician who was called in said her brain had been over-worked, +and she must be kept absolutely free of all worry and anxiety. How +easily is this direction given, and how difficult, how impossible, in +many cases, is it to follow! That any soul, except that of a child, can +be freed from all anxiety, is possible only to the soul that knows and +trusts God. + +All further mention of his love for Alice was out of the question now +for Felix. Bitter as silence was, it was imperative; for while his +mother's objections and prejudices were not overcome, Canon Pascal +would not hear of any closer tie than that which already existed being +formed between the young people. He had, however, the comfort of +believing that Alice had heard so much of what had passed from her +mother, as that she knew he loved her, and had owned his love to her +father. There was a subtle change in her manner toward him; she was more +silent in his presence, and there was a tremulous tone in her voice at +times when she spoke to him, yet she lingered beside him, and listened +more closely to all he had to say; and when they left Westminster to +return to their country rectory the tears glistened in her eyes as they +had never done before when he bade her good-by. + +"Come and see us as soon as it will not vex your mother, my boy," said +Canon Pascal; "you may always think of our home as your own." + +The only person who was not perplexed by Felicita's inexplicable conduct +and her illness, was Phebe Marlowe, who believed that she knew the +cause, and was drawn closer to her in the deepest sympathy and pity. It +seemed to Phebe that Felicita was creating the obstacle, which existed +chiefly in her fancy; and with her usual frankness and directness she +went to Canon Pascal's abode in the Cloisters at Westminster, to tell +him simply what she thought. + +"I want to ask you," she said, with her clear, honest gaze fastened on +his face, "if you know why Mrs. Sefton left Riversborough thirteen years +ago?" + +"Partly," he answered; "my wife is a Riversdale, you know, Felicita's +second or third cousin. There was some painful suspicion attaching to +Roland Sefton." + +"Yes," answered Phebe sadly. + +"Was it not quite cleared up?" asked Canon Pascal. + +Phebe shook her head. + +"We heard," he went on, "that it was believed Roland Sefton's +confidential clerk was the actual culprit; and Sefton himself was only +guilty of negligence. Mr. Clifford himself told Lord Riversdale that +Sefton was gone away on a long holiday, and might not be back for +months; and something of the same kind was put forth in a circular +issued from the Old Bank. I had one sent to me; for some little business +of my wife's was in the hands of the firm. I recollect thinking it was +an odd affair, but it passed out of my mind; and the poor fellow's death +quite obliterated all accusing thoughts against him." + +"That is the scruple in Felicita's mind," said Phebe in a sorrowful +tone; "she feels that you ought to know everything before you consent to +Alice marrying Felix, and she cannot bring herself to speak of it." + +"But how morbid that is!" he answered; "as if I did not know Felix, +every thought of him, and every motion of his soul! His father was a +careless, negligent man. He was nothing worse, was he, Phebe?" + +"He was the best friend I ever had," she answered earnestly, though her +face grew pale, and her eyelids drooped, "I owe all I am to him. But it +was not Acton who was guilty. It was Felix and Hilda's father." + +"And Felicita knew it?" he exclaimed. + +"She knew nothing about it until I told her," answered Phebe. "Roland +Sefton came to me when he was trying to escape out of the country, and +my father and I helped him to get away. He told me all; and oh! he was +not so much to blame as you might think. But he was guilty of the crime; +and if he had been taken he would have been sent to jail. I would have +died then sooner than let him be taken to jail." + +"If I had only known this from the beginning!" said Canon Pascal. + +"What would you have done?" asked Phebe eagerly. "Would you have refused +to take Felix into your home? He has done no wrong. Hilda has done no +wrong. There would have been disgrace and shame for them if their father +had been sent to jail; but his death saved them from all danger of that. +Nobody would ever speak a word against Roland Sefton now. Yet this is +what is preying on Felicita's mind. If she was sure you knew all, and +still consented to Felix marrying Alice, she would be at peace again. +And I too think you ought to know all. But you-will not visit the sins +of the father upon the son----" + +"Divine providence does so," he interrupted; "if the fathers eat sour +grapes the teeth of the sons are set on edge. Phebe, Phebe, that is only +too true." + +"But Roland's death set the children free from the curse," answered +Phebe, weeping. "If he had been taken, they would have gone away to some +foreign land where they were not known; or even if he had not died, we +must have done differently from what we have done. But there is no one +now to bring this condemnation against them. Even old Mr. Clifford has +more than forgiven Roland; and if possible would have the time back +again, that he might act so as to reinstate him in his position. No one +in the world bears a grudge against Roland." + +"I'm not hard-hearted, God knows," he answered, "but no man likes to +give his child to the son of a felon, convicted or unconvicted." + +"Then I have done harm by telling you." + +"No, no; you have done rightly," he replied, "it was good for me to know +the truth. We will let things be for awhile. And yet," he added, his +grave, stern face softening a little, "if it would be good for Felicita, +tell her that I know all, and that after a battle or two with myself, I +am sure to yield. I could not see Alice unhappy; and that lad holds her +heart in his hands. After all, she too must bear her part in the sins of +the world." + +But though Phebe watched for an opportunity for telling Felicita what +she had done, no chance came. If Felicita had been reserved before, she +inclosed herself in almost unbroken silence now. During her illness she +had been on the verge of delirium; and then she had shut her lips with a +stern determination, which even her weak and fevered brain could not +break. She had once begged Phebe, if she grew really delirious, to +dismiss all other attendants, so that no ear but hers might hear her +wanderings; but this emergency had not arisen. And since then she had +sunk more and more into a stern silence. + +Felix had left home, and entered into his lodgings, taking his father's +portrait with him. He was not so far from home but that he either +visited it, or received visitors from it almost every day. His mother's +illness troubled him; or otherwise the change in his life, his first +step in independent manhood, would have been one of great happiness to +him. He did not feel any deep misgivings as to Alice, and the +blessedness of the future with her; and in the mean-time, while he was +waiting, there was his work to do. + +He had taken orders, not from ambition or any hope of worldly gain, +those lay quite apart from the path he had chosen, but from the simple +desire of fighting as best he might against the growing vices and +miseries of civilization. Step for step with the ever-increasing luxury +of the rich he saw marching beside it the gaunt degradation of the poor. +The life of refined self-indulgence in the one class was caricatured by +loathsome self-indulgence in the other. On the one hand he saw, young as +he was, something of the languor and weariness of life of those who have +nothing to do, and from satiety have little to hope or to fear; and on +the other the ignorance and want which deprived both mind and body of +all healthful activity, and in the pressure of utter need left but +little scope for hope or fear. He fancied that such civilization sank +its victims into deeper depths of misery than those of barbarism. + +Before him seemed to lie a huge, weltering mass of slime, a very +quagmire of foulness and miasma, in the depths and darkness of which he +could dimly discern the innumerable coils of a deadly dragon, breathing +forth poison and death into the air, which those beloved of God and +himself must breathe, and crushing in its pestilential folds the bodies +and souls of immortal men. He was one of the young St. Michaels called +by God to give combat to that old serpent, called the Devil and Satan, +which was deceiving the old world. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +A LONDON CURACY. + + +The district on which his vicar directed Felix to concentrate his +efforts was by no means a neglected one. It was rather suffering from +the multitude of laborers, who had chosen it as their part of the great +vineyard. Lying close to a wealthy and fashionable neighborhood, it had +long been a kind of pleasure-ground, or park for hunting sinners in, to +the charitable and religious inhabitants of the comfortable dwellings +standing within a stone's throw of the wretched streets. There was +interest and excitement to be found there for their own unoccupied time, +and a pleasant glow of approbation for their consciences. Every +denomination had a mission there; and the mission-halls stood thickly on +the ground. There were Bible-women, nurses, city missionaries, tract +distributors at work; mothers' meetings were held; classes of all sorts +were open; infirmaries and medical mission-rooms were established; and +coffee-rooms were to be found in nearly every street. Each body of +Christians acted as if there were no other workers in the field; each +was striving to hunt souls into its own special fold; and each +distributed its funds as if no money but theirs was being laid out for +the welfare of the poor district. Hence there were greater pauperism and +more complete poverty than in many a neglected quarter of the East End, +with all its untold misery. Spirit-vaults flourished; the low +lodging-houses were crowded to excess; rents rose rapidly; and the +narrow ill lighted streets swarmed with riff-raff after nightfall, when +the greater part of the wealthy district-visitors were spending their +evening hours in their comfortable homes, satisfied with their day's +work for the Lord. + +But Felix began his work in the evenings, when the few decent working +men, who still continued to live in the Brickfields, had come home from +their day's toil, and the throng of professional beggars and thieves, +who found themselves in good quarters there, poured in from their day's +prowling. It was well for him that he had an athletic and muscular +frame, well-knitted together, and strengthened by exercise, for many a +time he had to force his way out of houses, where he found himself +surrounded by a crew of half-drunken and dangerous men. Presently they +got to know and respect him both for his strength and forbearance, which +he exercised with good temper and generosity. He could give a blow, as +well as take one, when it was necessary. At one time his absence from +church was compulsory, because he had received a black eye when +defending a querulous old crone from her drunken son; he was seen about +the wretched streets of the Brickfields with this too familiar +decoration, but he took care not to go home until it was lost. + +With the more decent inhabitants of the district he was soon a great +favorite; but he was feared and abhorred by the others. Felix belonged +to the new school of philanthropic economy, which discerns, and protests +against thoughtless almsgiving; and above all, against doles to street +beggars. He would have made giving equally illegal with begging. But he +soon began to despair of effecting a reformation in this direction; for +even Phebe could not always refrain from finding a penny for some poor +little shivering urchin, dogging her steps on a winter's day. + +"You do not stop to think how cruel you are," Felix would say +indignantly; "if it was not for women giving to them, these poor little +wretches would never be sent out, with their naked feet on the frozen +pavement, and scarcely rags enough to hide their bodies, blue with cold. +If you could only step inside the gin-shops as I do, you would see a +drunken sinner of a father or a mother drinking down the pence you drop +into the children's hands. Your thoughtless kindness is as cruel as +their vice." + +But still, with all that fresh ardor and energy which is sneered at in +the familiar proverb, "A new broom sweeps clean," Felix swept away at +the misery, and the ignorance, and the vice of his degraded district. He +was not going to spare himself; it should be no sham fight with him. The +place was his first battlefield; and it had a strong attraction for him. + + +So through the pleasant months of spring, which for the last four years +had been spent at Oxford, and into the hot weeks of summer, Felix was +indefatigably at work, giving himself no rest and no recreation, besides +writing long and frequent letters to Mrs. Pascal, or rather to Alice. +For would not Alice always read those letters, every word of them? would +she not even often be the first to open them? it being the pleasant +custom of the Pascal household for most letters to be in common, +excepting such as were actually marked "private." And Mrs. Pascal's +answer might have been dictated by Alice herself, so exactly did they +express her mind. They did not as yet stand on the footing of betrothed +lovers; but neither of them doubted but that they soon would do so. + +It was not without a sharp pang, however, that Felix learned that the +Pascals were going to Switzerland for the summer. He had an intense +longing to visit the land, of which his grandmother had so often spoken +to him, and where his father's grave lay. But quite apart from his duty +to the district placed under his charge, there was an obstacle in the +absolute interdiction Felicita laid upon the country where her husband +had met with his terrible death. It was impossible even to hint at going +to Switzerland whilst she was in her present state of health. She had +only partially recovered from the low, nervous fever which had attacked +her during the winter; and still those about her strove their utmost to +save her from all worry and anxiety. + +The sultry, fervid days of August came; and if possible the narrow +thoroughfares of the Brickfields seemed more wretched than in the +winter. The pavements burned like an oven, and the thin walls of the +houses did not screen their inmates from the reeking heat. Not a breath +of fresh air seemed to wander through the low-lying streets, and a +sickly glare and heaviness brooded over them. No wonder there was fever +about. The fields were too far away to be reached in this tiring +weather; and when the men and women returned home from their day's work, +they sunk down in silent and languid groups on their door-steps, or on +the dirty flag-stones of the causeway. Even the professional beggars +suffered more than in the winter, for the tide of almsgiving is at its +lowest ebb during the summer, when the rich have many other and +pleasanter occupations. + +Felix walked through his "parish," as he called it, with slow and weary +steps. Yet his holiday was come, and this was the last evening he would +work thus for the present. The Pascals were in Switzerland; he had had a +letter from Mrs. Pascal, with a few lines from Alice herself in a +postscript, telling him she and her father were about to start for +Engelberg to visit his father's grave for him. It was a loving and +gracious thing to do, just suited to Canon Pascal's kindly nature; and +Felix felt his whole being lifted up by it to a happier level. Phebe and +Hilda were gone to their usual summer haunt, Phebe's quaint little +cottage on the solitary mountain-moor; where he was going to join them +for a day or two, before they went to Mr. Clifford, in the old house at +Riversborough. His mother alone, of all the friends he had, was +remaining in London; and she had refused to leave until Phebe and Hilda +had first paid their yearly visits to the old places. + +He reached his mission-room at last, through the close, unwholesome +atmosphere, and found it fairly filled, chiefly with working men, some +of whom had turned into it as being a trifle less hot and noisy than the +baking pavements without, crowded with quarrelsome children. It was, +moreover, the pay-night for a Providence club which Felix had +established for any, either men or women, who chose to contribute to it. +There was a short and simple lecture given first; and afterwards the +club-books were brought out, and a committee of working men received the +weekly subscriptions, and attended to the affairs of the little club. + +The lecture was near its close, when a drunken man, in the quarrelsome +stage of intoxication, stumbled in through the open door. Felix knew him +by sight well; a confirmed drunkard, a mere miserable sot, who hung +about the spirit-vaults, and lived only for the drink he could pour down +his throat. There had been a vague instinctive dread and disgust for the +man, mingled with a deep interest he could not understand, in Felix's +mind. He paused for an instant, looking at the dirty rags, and bleared +eyes, and degraded face of the drunkard standing just in the doorway, +with the summer's light behind him. + +"What's the parson's name?" he called in a thick, unsteady voice. "Is it +Sefton?" + +"Hush! hush!" cried two or three voices in answer. + +"I'll not hush! If it's Sefton, it were his father as made me what I am. +It were his father as stole every blessed penny of my earnings. It were +his father as drove me to drink, and ruined me, soul and body. Sefton! +I've a right to know the name of Sefton if any man on earth does. Curse +it!" + +Felix had ceased speaking, and stood facing his little congregation, +listening as in a dream. The men caught the drunken accuser by the arms, +and were violently expelling him, but his rough voice rose above the +noise of the scuffle. + +"Ay!" he shouted, "the parson won't hear the truth told. But take care +of your money, mates, or it'll go where mine went." + +"Don't turn him out," called Felix; "it's a mistake, my men. Let him +alone. He never knew my father." + +The drunkard turned round and confronted him, and the little assembly +was quiet again, with an intense quietness, waiting to hear what would +follow. + +"Your father's name was Roland Sefton?" said the drunkard. + +"Yes," answered Felix. + +"And he was banker of the Old Bank at Riversborough?" he asked. + +"Yes," said Felix. + +"Then what I've got to say is this," went on the rough, thick voice of +the half-drunken man; "and the tale's true, mates. Roland Sefton, o' +Riversborough, cheated me out o' all my hard earnings--one hundred and +nineteen pounds--as I'd trusted him with, and drove me to drink. I were +a steady man till then, as steady as the best of ye; and he were a fine, +handsome, fair-spoken gentleman as ever walked; and we poor folks +trusted him as if he'd been God Almighty. There was a old deaf and dumb +man, called Marlowe, lost six hundred pound by him, and it broke his +heart; he never held his head up after, and he died. Me, it drove to +drink. That's the father o' the parson who stands here telling you about +Jesus Christ, and maybe trusted with your money, as I trusted mine with +him as cheated me. It's a true tale, mates, if God Almighty struck me +dead for it this moment." + +There was such a tone of truth in the hoarse and passionate tones, which +grew steadier as the speaker gained assurance by the silence of the +audience, that there was not one there who did not believe the story. +Even Felix, listening with white face and flaming eyes, dared not cry +out that the accusation was a lie. Horrible as it was, he could not say +to himself that it was all untrue. There came flashing across his mind +confused reminiscences of the time when his father had disappeared from +out of his life. He remembered asking his mother how long he would be +away, and did he never write to her? and she had answered him that he +was too young to understand the truth about his father. Was it possible +that this was the truth? + +In after years he never forgot that sultry evening, with the close, +noisome atmosphere of the hot mission-hall, and the confused buzzing of +many voices, which after a short silence began to hum in his ears. The +drunkard was still standing in the doorway, the very wreck and ruin of a +man; and every detail of his loathsome, degraded appearance was burnt in +on Felix's brain. He felt stupefied and bewildered--as if he had +received almost a death-blow. But in his inmost soul a cry went up to +heaven, "Lord, Thou also hast been a man!" + +Then he saw that the cross lay before him in his path. "Whosoever will +come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow +me." It had seemed to Felix at times as if he had never been called upon +to bear any cross. But now it lay there close before him. He could not +take another step forward unless he lifted it up and laid it on his +shoulders, whatever its weight might be. The cross of shame--the bearing +of another's sin--his father's sin. His whole soul recoiled from it. Any +other cross but this he could have borne after Christ with willing feet +and rejoicing heart. But to know that his father was a criminal; and to +bear the shame of it openly! + +Yet he could not stand there longer, fighting his battle, in the +presence of these curious eyes so keenly fastened upon him. The clock +over the door showed upon its dial only a minute or two gone; but to +Felix the time consumed in his brief foretaste of the cross seemed +years. He gathered together so much of his self-possession as could be +summoned at a moment's notice, and looked straight into the faces of his +audience. + +"Friends," he said, "if this is true, it is as new to me as it is to +you. My father died when I was a boy of ten; and no one had a heart hard +enough to tell me then my father was a rogue. But if I find it is true, +I'll not rest day nor night till this man has his money again. What is +his name?" + +"Nixey," called out three or four voices; "John Nixey." + +Again Felix's heart sank, for he knew Simon Nixey, whose farm lay +nearest to Phebe's little homestead; and there was a familiar ring in +the name. + +"Ay, ay!" stammered Nixey; "but old Clifford o' the Bank paid me the +money back all right; only I'd sworn a dreadful oath I'd never lay by +another farthin', and it soon came to an end. It were me as were lost as +well as the money." + +"Then what do you come bothering here for," asked one of the men, "if +you've had your money back all right? Get out with you." + +For a minute or two there was a scuffle, and then the drunkard was +hustled outside and the door shut behind him. For another half hour +Felix mechanically conducted the business of the club, as if he had been +in a dream; and then, bidding the members of the little committee good +night, he paced swiftly away from his district in the direction of his +home. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS. + + +"But why go home?" Felix stopped as he asked himself this question. He +could not face his mother with any inquiry about the mystery that +surrounded his father's memory, that mystery which was slowly +dissipating like the mists which vanish imperceptibly from a landscape. +He was beginning to read his mother's life in a more intelligible light, +and all along the clearer line new meanings were springing into sight. +The solitude and sadness, the bitterness of spirit, which had separated +her from the genial influences of a society that had courted her, was +plain to him now at their fountain-head. She had known--if this terrible +thing was true--that shame, not glory, was hers; confusion of face, not +the bearing of the palm. His heart ached for her more than for himself. + +In his heart of hearts, Felix had triumphed greatly in his mother's +fame. From his very babyhood the first thought impressed upon his mind +had been that his mother was different from other women; far above them. +It had been his father who had given him that first impression, but it +had grown with strong and vigorous growth from its deep root, through +all the years which had passed since his father died. Even his love for +Alice had not touched his passionate loyalty and devotion to his mother. +He had rejoiced in thinking that she was known, not in England alone, +but in other countries into whose language her books had been +translated. Her celebrity shone in his eyes with a very strong and +brilliant splendor. How could he tell her that he had been thrust into +the secret of his father's infamy! + +There was only Phebe to whom he could just yet lay open the doubt and +terror of his soul. If it was true that her father, old Marlowe, had +died broken-hearted from the loss of his money, she would be sure to +know of it. His preparations for his journey to-morrow morning were +complete; and if he chose there was time enough for him to catch the +night train, and start at once for Riversborough. There would be no +sleep for him until some of these tormenting questions were answered. + +It was a little after sunrise when he reached Riversborough, where with +some difficulty he roused up a hostler and obtained a horse at one of +the inns. Before six he was riding up the long, steep lanes, fresh and +cool with dew, and overhung with tall hedgerows, which led up to the +moor. He had not met a living soul since he left the sleeping town +behind him, and it seemed to him as if he was in quite a different world +from the close, crowded, and noisome streets he had traversed only a few +hours ago. In the natural exhilaration of the sweet mountain air, and +the silence broken only by the singing of the birds, his fears fell from +him. There must be some mistake which Phebe would clear up. It was +nothing but the accusation of a besotted brain which had frightened him. + +He shouted boyishly when the quaint little cottage came in sight, with a +thin column of blue smoke floating upward from its ivy-clad chimney. +Phebe herself came to the door, and Hilda, with ruffled hair and a +sleepy face, looked out of the little window in the thatched roof. There +was nothing in his appearance a few hours earlier than he was expected +to alarm them, and their surprise and pleasure were complete. Even to +himself it seemed singular that he should sit down at the little +breakfast-table with them, the almost level rays of the morning sun +shining through the lattice window, instead of in the dingy parlor of +his London lodgings. + +"Come with me on to the moors, Phebe," he said as soon as breakfast was +over. + +She went out with him bareheaded, as she had been used to do when a girl +at home, and led him to a little knoll covered with short heath and +ferns, from which a broad landscape of many miles stretched under their +eyes to a far-off horizon. The hollow of the earth curved upwards in +perfect lines to meet the perfect curve of the blue dome of the sky +bending over it. They were resting as some small bird might rest in the +rounded shelter of two hands which held it safely. For a few minutes +they sat silent, gazing over the wide sweep of sky and land, till Felix +caught sight of a faint haze, through which two or three spires were +dimly visible. It was where Riversborough was lying. + +"Phebe," he said, "I want you to tell me the naked truth. Did my father +defraud yours of some money?" + +"Felix!" she cried, in startled tones. + +"Say only yes or no to me first," he continued; "explain it afterward. +Only say yes or no." + +Through Phebe's brain came trooping the vivid memories of the past. She +saw Roland again hurrying over the moors from his day's shooting to +mount his horse, which she had saddled for him, and to ride off down the +steep lanes, with a cheery shout of "Good-night" to her when he reached +the last point where she could catch sight of him; and she saw him as +his dark form walked beside her pony that night when he was already +crushed down beneath his weight of sin and shame, pouring out his +burdened heart into her ears. If Felix had asked her this question in +London it might have hurt her less poignantly; but here, where Roland +and her father filled all the place with the memory of their presence, +it wounded her like the thrust of a sword. She burst into a passion of +tears. + +"Yes or no?" urged Felix, setting his face like a flint, and striking +out blindly and pitilessly. + +"Yes!" she sobbed; "but, oh, your father was the dearest friend I ever +had!" + +The sharp, cruel sound of the yes smote him with a deadly force. He +could not tell himself what he had expected to hear; but now for a +certainty, his father, whom he had been taught to regard as a hero and a +saint, proved no other than a rogue. + +It was a long time before he spoke again, or lifted up his head; so long +that Phebe ceased weeping, and laid her hand tenderly on his to comfort +him by her mute sympathy. But he took no notice of her silent fellowship +in his suffering; it was too bitter for him to feel as yet that any one +could share it. + +"I must give up Alice!" he groaned at last. + +"No, no!" said Phebe. "I told Canon Pascal all, and he does not say so. +It is your mother who cannot give her consent, and she will do it some +day." + +"Does he know all?" cried Felix. "Is it possible he knows all, and will +let me love Alice still? I think I could bear anything if that is true. +But, oh! how could I offer to her a name stained like mine?" + +"Nay, the name was saved by his death," answered Phebe sadly. "There are +only three who knew he was guilty--Mr. Clifford, and your mother, and I. +If he had lived he might have been brought to trial and sent to a +convict prison; I suppose he would; but his death saved him and you. +Down in Riversborough yonder some few uncharitable people might tell you +there was some suspicion about him, but most of them speak of him still +as the kindest and the best man they ever knew. It Was covered up +skilfully, Felix, and nobody knew the truth but we three." + +"Alice is visiting my father's grave this very day," he said +falteringly. + +"Ah! how like that is to Canon Pascal!" answered Phebe; "he will not +tell Alice; no, she will never know, nor Hilda. Why should they be told? +But he will stand there by the grave, sorrowing over the sin which +drove your father into exile, and brought him to his sorrowful death. +And his heart will feel more tenderly than ever for you and your mother. +He will be devising some means for overcoming your mother's scruples and +making you and Alice happy." + +"I never ran be happy again," he exclaimed. "I never thought of such a +sorrow as this." + +"It was the sorrow that fell to Christ's lot," she answered; "the burden +of other people's sins." + +"Phebe," he said, "if I felt the misery of my fellow-man before, and I +did feel it, how can I bear now to remember the horrible degradation of +the man who told me of my father's sin? It was a drunkard----" + +"John Nixey," she interrupted; "ay, but he caught at your father's sin +as an excuse for his own. He was always a drinking man. No man is forced +into sin. Nothing can harm them who are the followers of God. Don't lay +on your father's shoulders more than his own wrong-doing. Sin spreads +misery around it only when there is ground ready for the bad seed. Your +father's sin opened my soul to deeper influences from God; I did not +love him less because he had fallen, but I learned to trust God more, +and walk more closely with Him. You, too, will be drawn nearer to God by +this sorrow." + +"Phebe," he said, "can I speak to Mr. Clifford about it? It would be +impossible to speak to my mother." + +"Quite impossible," she answered emphatically. "Yes, go down to +Riversborough, and hear what Mr. Clifford can tell you. Your father +repented of his sin bitterly, and paid a heavy price for it; but he was +forgiven. If my poor old father could not withhold his forgiveness, +would our heavenly Father fall short of it? You, too, must forgive him, +my Felix." + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AN OLD MAN'S PARDON. + + +To forgive his father--that was a strange inversion of the attitude of +Felix's mind in regard to his father's memory. He had been taught to +think of him with reverence, and admiration, and deep filial love. As +Felicita looked back on the long line of her distinguished ancestry with +an exaltation of feeling which, if it was pride, was a legitimate pride, +so had Felix looked back upon the line of good men from whom his own +being had sprung. He had felt himself pledged to a Christian life by the +eminently Christian lives of his forefathers. + +Now, suddenly, with no warning, he was called upon to forgive his father +for a crime which had made him amenable to the penal laws of his +country; a mean, treacherous, cowardly crime. Like Judas, he had borne +the bag, and his fellow-pilgrims had trusted him with their money; and, +like Judas, he had been a thief. Felix could not understand how a +Christian man could be tempted by money. To attempt to serve Mammon as +well as God seemed utterly comtemptible and incredible to him. + +His heart was very heavy as he rode slowly down the lanes and along the +highway to Riversborough, which his father had so often traversed before +him. When he had come this way in the freshness and stillness of the +early morning there had been more hope in his soul than he had been +aware of, that Phebe would be able to remove this load from him; but now +he knew for a certainty that his father had left to him a heritage of +dishonor. She had told him all the circumstances known to her, and he +was going to learn more from Mr. Clifford. + +He entered his old home with more bitterness of spirit than he had ever +felt before in his young life. Here, of all places in the world, +clustered memories of his father; memories which he had fondly cherished +and graved as deeply as he could upon his mind. He could almost hear the +joyous tones of his father's voice, and see the summer gladness of his +face, as he remembered them. How was it possible that with such a hidden +load of shame he could have been so happy. + +Mr. Clifford, though a very old man, was still in full and clear +possession of his faculties, and had not yet given up an occasional +attention to the business of the bank. He was nearly eighty years of +age, and his hair was white, and the cold, stern blue eyes were watery +and sunken in their sockets. Some years ago, when Samuel Nixey had given +up his last hope of winning Phebe, and had married a farmer's daughter, +his mother, Mrs. Nixey, had come to the Old Bank as housekeeper to Mr. +Clifford, and looked well after his welfare. Felix found him sitting in +the wainscoted parlor, a withered, bent, old man, seldom leaving the +warm hearth, but keen in sight and memory, living over again in his +solitude the many years that had passed over him from his childhood +until now. He welcomed Felix with delight, holding his hands, and +looking earnestly into his face, with the half-childlike affection of +old age. + +"I've not seen you since you became a parson," he said, with a sigh; +"ah, my lad, you ought to have come to me. You don't get half as much as +my cashier, and not a tenth part of what I give my manager. But there! +that's your mother's fault, who would never let you touch business. She +would never hear of you taking your father's place." + +"How could she?" said Felix, indignantly. "Do you think my mother would +let me come into the house my father had disgraced and almost ruined?" + +"So you've plucked that bitter apple at last!" he answered, in a tone of +regret. "I thought it was possible you might never have to taste it. +Felix, my boy, your mother paid every farthing of the money your father +had, with interest and compound interest; even to me, who begged and +entreated to bear the loss. Your mother is a noble woman." + +A blessed ray of comfort shot across the gloom in Felix's heart, and lit +up his dejected face with a momentary smile; and Mr. Clifford stretched +out his thin old hand again, and clasped his feebly. + +"Ah, my boy!" he said, "and your father was not a bad man. I know how +you are sitting in judgment upon him, as young people do, who do not +know what it is to be sorely tempted. I judged him, and my son before +him, as harshly as man could do. Remember we judge hardest where we love +the most; there's selfishness in it. Our children, our fathers, must be +better than other folk's children and fathers. Don't begin to reckon up +your father's sins before you are thirty, and don't pass sentence till +you're fifty. Judges ought to be old men." + +Felix sat down near to the old man, whose chair was in the oriel window, +on which the sun was shining warmly. There below him lay the garden +where he had played as a child, with the river flowing swiftly past it, +and the boat-house in the corner, from which his father and he had so +often started for a pleasant hour or two on the rapid current. But he +could never think of his father again without sorrow and shame. + +"Sin hurts us most as it comes nearest to us," said old Mr. Clifford; +"the crime of a Frenchman does not make our blood boil as the crime of +an Englishman; our neighbor's sin is not half as black as our kinsman's +sin. But when we have to look it in the face in a son, in a father, then +we see the exceeding sinfulness of it. Why, Felix, you knew that men +defrauded one another; that even men professing godliness were +sometimes dishonest." + +"I knew it," he answered, "but I never felt it before." + +"And I never felt it till I saw it in my son," continued the old man, +sadly; "but there are other sins besides dishonesty, of a deeper dye, +perhaps, in the sight of our Creator. If Roland Sefton had met with a +more merciful man than I am he might have been saved." + +For a minute or two his white head was bowed down, and his wrinkled +eyelids were closed, whilst Felix sat beside him as sorrowful as +himself. + +"I could not be merciful," he burst out with a sudden fierceness in his +face and tone, "I could not spare him, because I had not spared my own +son. I had let one life go down into darkness, refusing to stretch out +so much as a little finger in help, though he was as dear to me as my +own life; and God required me yet again to see a life perish because of +my hardness of heart. I think sometimes if Roland had come and cast +himself on my mercy, I should have pardoned him; but again I think my +heart was too hard then to know what mercy was. But those two, Felix, my +son Robert, who died of starvation in the streets of Paris, and your +father, who perished on a winter's night in Switzerland, they are my +daily companions. They sit down beside me here, and by the fireside, and +at my solitary meals; and they watch beside me in the night. They will +never leave me till I see them again, and confess my sin to them." + +"It was not you alone whom my father wronged," said Felix, "there were +others besides you who might have prosecuted him." + +"Yes, but they were ignorant, simple men," replied Mr. Clifford, "they +need never have known of his crime. All their money could have been +replaced without their knowledge; it was of me Roland was afraid. If the +time could come over again--and I go over and over it in my own mind all +in vain--I would act altogether differently. I would make him feel to +the utmost the sin and peril of his course; but I would keep his secret. +Even Felicita should know nothing. It was partly my fault too. If I had +fulfilled my duty, and looked after my affairs instead of dreaming my +time away in Italy, your father, as the junior partner, could not have +fallen into this snare. When a crime is committed the criminal is not +the only one to be blamed. Consciously or unconsciously those about him +have been helping by their own carelessness and indolence, by cowardice, +by indifference to right and wrong. By a thousand subtle influences we +help our brother to disobey God; and when he is found out we stand aloof +and raise an outcry against him. God has made every one of us his +brother's keeper." + +"Then you too have forgiven him," said Felix, with a glowing sense of +comfort in his heart. + +"Forgiven him? ay!" he answered, "as he sits by me at the fireside, +invisible to all but me, I say to him again and again in words inaudible +to all but him: + + 'Even as I hope for pardon in that day, + When the great Judge of heaven in scarlet sits, + So be thou pardoned.'" + +The tremulous, weak old voice paused, and the withered hands lay feebly +on his knees as he looked out on the summer sky, seeing nothing of its +brightness, for the thoughts and memories that were flocking to his +brain. Felix's younger eyes caught every familiar object on which the +sun was shining, and knitted them up for ever with the memory of that +hour. + +"God help me!" he cried, "I forgive my father too; but I have lost him. +I never knew the real man." + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG. + + +On the same August morning when Felix was riding up the long lovely +lanes to Phebe Marlowe's little farmstead, Canon Pascal and Alice were +starting by the earliest boat which left Lucerne for Stansstad, in the +dewy coolness of the dawn. The short transit was quickly over, and an +omnibus carried them into Stans, where they left their knapsacks to be +sent on after them during the day. The long pleasant walk of fourteen +miles to Engelberg lay before them, to be taken leisurely, with many a +rest in the deep cool shades of the woods, or under the shadow of some +great rock. The only impediment with which Alice burdened herself was a +little green slip of ivy, which Felix had gathered from the walls of her +country home, and which she had carried in a little flower-pot filled +with English soil, to plant on his father's grave. It had been a sacred, +though somewhat troublesome charge to her, as they had travelled from +place to place, and she had not permitted any one to take the care of it +off her hands. This evening, with her own hands, she was going to plant +it upon the foreign grave of Roland Sefton; which had been so long +neglected, and unvisited by those whom he had left behind him. That +Felicita should never have made a pilgrimage to this sacred spot was a +wonder to her; but that she should so steadily resist the wish of Felix +to visit his father's resting-place, filled Alice's heart with grave +misgivings for her own future happiness. + +But she was not troubling herself with any misgivings to-day, as they +journeyed onward and upward through the rich meadows and thick forests +leading to the Alpine valley which lay under the snowy dome of the +Titlis. Her father's enjoyment of the sweet solitude and changeful +beauty of their pathway was too perfect for her to mar it by any +mournful forebodings. He walked beside her under the arched aisles of +the pine-woods bareheaded, singing snatches of song as joyously as a +school-boy, or waded off through marshy and miry places in quest of some +rare plant which ought to be growing there, splashing back to her +farther on in the winding road, scarcely less happy if he had not found +it than if he had. How could she be troubled whilst her father was +treading on enchanted ground? + +But the last time they allowed themselves to sit down to rest before +entering the village, Canon Pascal's face grew grave, and his manner +toward his daughter became more tender and caressing than usual. The +secret which Phebe had told him of Roland Sefton had been pondered over +these many weeks in his heart. If it had concerned Felix only he would +have felt himself grieved at this story of his father's sin, but he knew +too well it concerned Alice as closely. This little ivy-slip, so +carefully though silently guarded through all the journey, had been a +daily reminder to him of his girl's love for her old playfellow and +companion. Though she had not told him of its destiny he had guessed it, +and now as she screened it from the too direct rays of the hot sun it +spoke to her of Felix, and to him of his father's crime. + +He had no resolve to make his daughter miserable by raising obstacles to +her marriage with Felix, who was truly as dear to him as his own sons. +But yet, if he had only known this dishonest strain in the blood, would +he, years ago, have taken Felix into his home, and exposed Alice to the +danger of loving him? Felix was out of the way of temptation; there was +no stream of money passing through his hands, and it would be hard and +vile indeed for him to fall into any dishonest trickery. But it might be +that his children, Alice's children, might tread in the steps of their +forefather, Roland Sefton, and pursue the same devious course. Thieves +breed thieves, it was said, in the lowest dregs of social life. Would +there be some fatal weakness, some insidious improbity, in the nature of +those descending from Roland Sefton? + +It was a wrong against God, a faithless distrust of Him, he said to +himself, to let these dark thoughts distress his mind, at the close of a +day such as that which had been granted to him, almost as a direct and +perfect gift from heaven itself. He looked into the sweet, tranquil face +of his girl, and the trustful loving eyes which met his anxious gaze +with so open and frank an expression; yet he could not altogether shake +off the feeling of solicitude and foreboding which had fallen upon his +spirit. + +"Let us go on, and have a quiet dinner by ourselves," said Alice, at +last, "and then we shall have all the cool of the evening to wander +about as we please." + +They left their resting-place, and walked on in silence, as if they were +overawed by the snow-clad mountains and towering peaks hanging over the +valley. A little way off the road they saw a poor and miserable hut, +built on piles of stones, with deep, sheltering eaves, but with a broken +roof, and no light except such as entered it by the door. In the dimness +of the interior they just caught sight of a gray-headed man, sitting on +the floor, with his face hidden on his knees. It was an attitude telling +of deep wretchedness, and heaviness of heart; and though neither of them +spoke of the glimpse they had had, they drew nearer to one another, and +walked closely together until they reached the hotel. + +It was still broad daylight, though the sun had sunk behind the lofty +mountains when they strolled out again into the picturesque, irregular +street of the village. The clear blue sky above them was of the color of +the wild hyacinth, the simplest, purest blue, against which the pure and +simple white of the snowy domes and pinnacles of the mountain ranges +inclosing the valley stood out in sharp, bold outlines; whilst the dark +green of the solemn pine-forests climbing up the steep slopes looked +almost black against the pale grey peaks jutting up from among them, +with silver lines of snow marking out every line and crevice in their +furrowed and fretted architecture. Canon Pascal bared his head, as if he +had been entering his beloved Abbey in Westminster. + +"God is very glorious!" he said, in a low and reverent tone. "God is +very good!" + +In silence they sauntered on, with loitering steps, to the little +cemetery, where lay the grave they had come to seek. They found it in a +forlorn and deserted corner, but there was no trace of neglect about the +grey unpolished granite of the cross that marked it. No weeds were +growing around it, and no moss was gathering upon it; the lettering, +telling the name, and age, and date of death, of the man who lay beneath +it, was as clear as if it had just come from the chisel of the graver. +The tears sprang to Alice's eyes as she stood before it with reverently +bowed head, looking down on Roland Sefton's grave. + +"Did you ever see him, father?" she asked, almost in a whisper. + +"I saw him once," he answered, "at Riversdale Towers, when Felix was +still only a baby. He was a finer and handsomer man than Felix will ever +be; and there was more foreign blood in his veins, which gave him greater +gaiety and simpler vivacity than Englishmen usually have. I remember how +he watched over Felicita, and waited on her in an almost womanly fashion; +and fetched his baby himself for us to see, carrying him in his own arms +with the deft skill of a nurse. Felix is as tender-hearted, but he would +not make a show of it so openly." + +"Cousin Felicita must have loved him with her whole heart," sighed +Alice, "yet if I were in her place, I should come here often; it would +be the one place I loved to come to. She is a hard woman, father; hard, +and bitter, and obstinate. Do you think Felix's father would have set +himself against me as she has done?" + +She turned to him, her sad and pensive face, almost the dearest face in +the world to him; and he gazed into it with penetrating and loving eyes. +Would it not be best to tell the child the secret this grave covered, +here, by the grave itself? Better for her to know the truth concerning +the dead, than cherish hard and unjust thoughts of the living. Even if +Felicita consented, he could not let her marry Felix ignorant of the +facts which Phebe had disclosed to him. Felix himself must know them +some day; and was not this the hour and the place for revealing them to +Alice? + +"My darling," he said, "I know why Felicita never comes here, nor lets +her children come; and also why she is at present opposed to the thought +of Felix marrying. Roland Sefton, her husband, the unhappy man whose +body lies here, was guilty of a crime; and died miserably while a +fugitive from our country. His death consigned the crime to oblivion; no +one remembered it against her and her children. But if he had lived he +would have been a convict; and she, and Felix, and Hilda would have +shared his ignominy. She feels that she must not suffer Felix to enter +our family until she has told me this; and it is the mere thought and +dread of such a disclosure that has made her ill. We must wait till her +mind recovers its strength." + +"What was it he had done?" asked Alice, with quivering lips. + +"He had misappropriated a number of securities left in his charge," +answered Canon Pascal, "Phebe says to the amount of over £10,000; most +of it belonging to Mr. Clifford." + +"Is that all?" cried Alice, the color rushing back again to her face, +and the light to her eyes, "was it only money? Oh! I thought it was more +dreadful than that. Why! we should never blame cousin Felicita because +her husband misappropriated some securities belonging to old Mr. +Clifford. And Felix is not to blame at all; how could he be? Poor +Felix!" + +"But, Alice," he said, with a half smile, "if, instead of being buried +here, Roland Sefton had lived, and been arrested, and sent to a convict +prison for a term of imprisonment, Felicita's life, and the life of her +children, would have been altogether overshadowed by the disgrace and +infamy of it. There could have been no love between you and Felix." + +"It was a good thing that he died," she answered, looking down on the +grave again almost gladly. "Does Felix know this? But I am sure he does +not," she added quickly, and looking up with a heightened color into her +father's face, "he is all honor, and truth, and unselfishness. He could +not be guilty of a crime against any one." + +"I believe in Felix; I love him dearly," her father said, "but if I had +known of this I do not think I could have brought him up in my own home, +with my own boys and girls. God knows it would have been a difficult +point to settle; but it was not given to my poor wisdom to decide." + +"I shall not love Felix one jot less," she said, "or reverence him less. +If all his forefathers had been bad men I should be sure still that he +was good. I never knew him do or say anything that was mean or selfish. +My poor Felix! Oh, father! I shall love him more than ever now I know +there is something in his life that needs pity. When he knows it he will +come to me for comfort; and I will comfort him. His father shall hear me +promise it by this grave here. I will never, never visit Roland +Sefton's sin on his son; I will never in my heart think of it as a thing +against him. And if all the world came to know it, I would never once +feel a moment's shame of him." + +Her voice faltered a little, and she knelt down on the parched grass at +the foot of the cross, hiding her face in her hands. Canon Pascal laid +his hand fondly on her bowed head; and then he left her that she might +be alone with the grave, and God. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE LOWEST DEEPS. + + +The miserable, delapidated hut at the entrance of Engelberg, with no +light save that which entered by the doorway, had been Jean Merle's +home since he had fixed his abode in the valley, drawn thither +irresistibly by the grave which bore Roland Sefton's name. There was +less provision for comfort in this dark hovel than in a monk's cell. A +log of rough, unbarked timber from the forest was the only seat, and a +rude framework of wood filled with straw or dry ferns was his bed. The +floor was bare, except near the door, the upper half of which usually +stood open, and here it was covered with fine chips of box and oak-wood, +and the dust which fell from his busy graver, the tool which was never +out of his fingers while the light served him. There was no more +decoration then there was comfort; except that on the smoke-stained +walls the mildew had pencilled out some strange and grotesque lines, as +if some mural painting had mouldered into ruin there. Two or three +English books alone, of the cheap continental editions, lay at one end +of a clumsy shelf; with the few cooking utensils which were absolutely +necessary, piled together on the other. There was a small stove in one +corner of the hovel, where a handful of embers could be seen at times, +like the eye of some wild creature lurking in the deep gloom. + +Jean Merle, though still two or three years under fifty, was looked upon +by his neighbors as being a man of great, though unknown age. Yet, +though he stooped in the shoulders a little, and walked with his head +bent down, he was not infirm, nor had he the appearance of infirmity. +His long mountain expeditions kept his muscles in full force and +activity. But his grey face was marked with many lines, so fine as to be +seen only at close quarters; yet on the whole forming a wrinkled and +aged mask as of one far advanced in life. In addition to this +singularity of aspect there was the extraordinary seclusion and sordid +miserliness of his mode of existence, more in harmony with the +passiveness of extreme old age, than with the energy of a man still in +the prime of his days. The village mothers frightened their children +with tales about Jean Merle's gigantic strength, which made him an +object of terror to them. He sought acquaintanceship with none of his +neighbors; and they avoided him as a heretic and a stranger. + +The rugged, simple, narrow life of his Swiss forefathers gathered around +him, and hedged him in. They had been peasant-farmers, with the +exception of the mountain-pastor his grandfather, and he still +well-remembered Felix Merle, after whom his boy had been called. All of +them had been men toiling with their own hands, with a never-ceasing +bodily activity, which had left them but little time or faculty for any +mental pursuit. This half of his nature fitted him well for the life +that now lay before him. As his Swiss ancestors had been for many +generations toil-worn and weather-beaten men, whose faces were sunburnt +and sun-blistered, whose backs were bent with labor, and whose weary +feet dragged heavily along the rough paths, so he became. The social +refinement of the prosperous Englishman, skin deep as it is, vanished in +the coarse and narrow life to which he had partly doomed himself, had +partly been doomed, by the dull, despondent apathy which had possessed +his soul, when he first left the hospital in Lucerne. + +His mode of living was as monotonous as it was solitary. His work only +gave him some passing interest, for in the bitterness of his spirit he +kept himself quite apart from all relation with his fellow-men. As far +as in him lay he shut out the memory of the irrevocable past, and +forbade his heart to wander back to the years that were gone. He strove +to concentrate himself upon his daily toil, and the few daily wants of +his body; and after a while a small degree of calm and composure had +been won by him. Roland Sefton was dead; let him lie motionless, as a +corpse should do, in the silence of his grave. But Jean Merle was +living, and might continue to live another twenty years or more, thus +solitarily and monotonously. + +But there was one project which he formed early in his new state of +existence, which linked him by a living link to the old. As soon as he +found he could earn handsome wages for his skilled and delicate work, +wages which he could in no way spend, and yet continue the penance which +he pronounced upon himself, the thought came to him of restoring the +money which had been intrusted to him by old Marlowe, and the other poor +men who had placed their savings in his care. To repay the larger amount +to which he was indebted to Mr. Clifford would be impossible; but to +earn the other sums, though it might be the work of years, was still +practicable, especially if from time to time he could make safe and +prudent speculations, such as his knowledge of the money-market might +enable him to do, so as to insure more rapid returns. At the village inn +he could see the newspapers, with their lists of the various continental +funds, and the share and stock markets; and without entering at all into +the world he could direct the buying in and selling out of his stock +through some bankers in Lucerne. + +Even this restitution must be made in secret, and be so wrapped up in +darkness and stealth that no one could suspect the hand from which it +came. For he knew that the net he had woven about himself was too strong +and intricate to be broken through without deadly injury to others, and +above all to Felicita. The grave yonder, and the stone cross above it, +barred the way to any return by the path he had come. But would it be +utterly impossible for him to venture back, changed as he was by these +many years, to England? It would be only Jean Merle who would travel +thither, there could be no resurrection for Roland Sefton. But could not +Jean Merle see from afar off the old home; or Phebe Marlowe's cottage on +the hill-side; or possibly his mother, or his children; nay, Felicita +herself? Only afar off; as some banished, repentant soul, drawing a +little nearer to the walls of the eternal city, might be favored with a +glimpse of the golden streets, and the white-robed citizens therein, the +memory of which would dwell within him for evermore. + +As he drew nearer the end he grew more eager to reach it. The dull +apathy of the past thirteen years was transformed into a feverish +anticipation of his secret journey to England with the accumulated +proceeds of his work and his speculations; which in some way or other +must find their way into the hands of the men who had trusted him in +time past. But at this juncture the bankers at Lucerne failed him, as +he had failed others. It was not simply that his speculations turned +out badly; but the men to whom he had intrusted the conduct of them, +from his solitary mountain-home, had defrauded him; and the bank broke. +The measure he had meted out to others had been measured to him again. +Whatsoever he had done unto men they had done unto him. + +For three days Jean Merle wandered about the eternal frosts of the +ice-bound peaks and snow-fields of the mountains around him, living he +did not himself know how. It was not money he had lost. Like old Marlowe +he realized how poor a symbol money was of the long years of ceaseless +toil, the days of self-denial, the hours of anxious thoughts it +represented. And besides this darker side, it stood also for the hopes +he had cherished, vaguely, almost unconsciously, but still with strong +earnestness. He had fled from the penalty the just laws of his country +demanded from him, taking refuge in a second and more terrible fraud, +and now God suffered him not to make this small reparation for his sin, +or to taste the single drop of satisfaction that he hoped for in +realizing the object he had set before him. There was no place of +repentance for him; not a foot-hold in all the wide wilderness of his +banishment on which he could stand, and repair one jot a little of the +injury he had inflicted upon his fellow-men. + +What passed through his soul those three days, amidst the ice-solitudes +where no life was, and where the only sounds that spoke to him were the +wild awful tones of nature in her dreariest haunts, he could never tell; +he could hardly recall it to his own memory. He felt as utterly alone as +if no other human being existed on the face of the earth; yet as if he +alone had to bear the burden of all the falsehood, and dishonesty and +dishonor of the countless generations of false and dishonorable men +which this earth has seen. + +All hope was dead now. There was nothing more to work for, or to look +forward to. Nothing lay before him but his solitary blank life in the +miserable hut below. There was no interest in the world for him but +Roland Sefton's grave. + +He descended the mountain-side at last. For the first time since he had +left the valley he noticed that the sun was shining, and that the whole +landscape below him was bathed in light. The village was all astir, and +travellers were coming and going. It was not in the sight of all the +world that he could drag his weary feet to the cemetery, where Roland +Sefton's grave was; and he turned aside into his own hut to wait till +the evening was come. + +At last the sun went down upon his misery, and the cool shades of the +long twilight crept on. He made a circuit round the village to reach the +spot he longed to visit. His downcast eyes saw nothing but the rough +ground he trod, and the narrow path his footsteps had made to the +solitary grave, until he was close to it; and then, looking up to read +the name upon the cross, he discerned the figure of a girl kneeling +before it, and carefully planting a little slip of ivy into the soil +beneath it. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +ALICE PASCAL. + + +Alice Pascal looked up into Jean Merle's face with the frank and easy +self-possession of a well-bred English woman; coloring a little with +girlish shyness, yet at the same time smiling with a pleasant light in +her dark eyes. The oval of her face, and the color of her hair and eyes, +resembled, though slightly, the more beautiful face of Felicita in her +girlhood; it was simply the curious likeness which runs through some +families to the remotest branches. But her smile, the shape of her eyes, +the kneeling attitude, riveted him to the spot where he stood, and +struck him dumb. A fancy flashed across his brain, which shone like a +light from heaven. Could this girl be Hilda, his little daughter, whom +he had seen last sleeping in her cot? Was she then come, after many +years, to visit her father's grave? + +There had always been a corroding grief to him in the thought that it +was Felicita herself who had erected that cross over the tomb of the +stranger, with whom his name was buried. He did not know that it was Mr. +Clifford alone who had thus set a mark upon the place where he believed +that the son of his old friend was lying. It had pained Jean Merle to +think that Felicita had commemorated their mutual sin by the erection +of an imperishable monument; and it had never surprised him that no one +had visited the grave. His astonishment came now. Was it possible that +Felicita had revisited Switzerland? Could she be near at hand, in the +village down yonder? His mother, also, and his boy, Felix, could they be +treading the same soil, and breathing the same air as himself? An agony +of mingled terror and rapture shot through his inmost soul. His lips +were dry, and his throat parched: he could not articulate a syllable. + +He did not know what a gaunt and haggard madman he appeared. His grey +hair was ragged and tangled, and his sunken eyes gleamed with a strange +brightness. The villagers, who were wont at times to call him an +imbecile, would have been sure they were right at this moment, as he +stood motionless and dumb, staring at Alice; but to her he looked more +like one whose reason was just trembling in the balance. She was alone, +her father was no longer in sight; but she was not easily frightened. +Rather a sense of sacred pity for the forlorn wretch before her filled +her heart. + +"See!" she said, in clear and penetrating accents, full, however, of +gentle kindness, and she spoke unconsciously in English, "see! I have +carried this little slip of ivy all the way from England to plant it +here. This is the grave of a man I should have loved very dearly." + +A rapid flush of color passed over her face as she spoke, leaving it +paler than before, while a slight sadness clouded the smile in her eyes. + +"Was he your father?" he articulated, with an immense effort. + +"No," she answered; "not my father, but the father of my dearest +friends. They cannot come here; but it was his son who gathered this +slip of ivy from our porch at home, and asked me to plant it here for +him. Will it grow, do you think?" + +"It shall grow," he muttered. + +It was not his daughter, then; none of his own blood was at hand. But +this English girl fascinated him; he could not turn away his eyes, but +watched every slight movement as she carefully gathered the soil about +the root of the little plant, which he vowed within himself should +grow. She was rather long about her task, for she wished this madman to +go away, and leave her alone beside Roland Sefton's grave. What her +father had told her about him was still strange to her, and she wanted +to familiarize it to herself. But still the haggard-looking peasant +lingered at her side, gazing at her with his glowering and sunken eyes; +yet neither moving nor speaking. + +"You know English?" she said, as all at once it occurred to her that she +had spoken to him as she would have spoken to one of the villagers in +their own country churchyard at home, and that he had answered her. He +replied only by a gesture. + +"Can you find me some one who will take charge of this little plant?" +she asked. + +Jean Merle raised his head and lifted up his dim eyes to the eastern +mountain-peaks, which were still shining in the rays of the sinking sun, +though the twilight was darkening everywhere in the valley. Only last +night he had slept among some juniper-bushes just below the boundary of +that everlasting snow, feeling himself cast out forever from any glimpse +of his old Paradise. But now, if he could only find words and +utterance, there was come to him, even to him, a messenger, an angel +direct from the very heart of his home, who could tell him all that last +night he believed that he should never know. The tears sprang to his +eyes, blessed tears; and a rush of uncontrollable longing overwhelmed +him. He must hear all he could of those whom he loved; and then, whether +he lived long or died soon, he would thank God as long as his miserable +life continued. + +"It is I who take care of this grave," he said; "I was with him when he +died. He spoke to me of Felix and Hilda and his mother; and I saw their +portraits. You hear? I know them all." + +"Was it you who watched beside him?" asked Alice eagerly. "Oh! sit down +here and tell me all about it; all you can remember. I will tell it all +again to Felix, and Hilda, and Phebe Marlowe; and oh! how glad, and how +sorry they will be to listen!" + +There was no mention of Felicita's name, and Jean Merle felt a terrible +dread come over him at this omission. He sank down on the ground beside +the grave, and looked up into Alice's bright young face, with eyes that +to her were no longer lit up with the fire of insanity, however intense +and eager they might seem. It was an undreamed-of chance which had +brought to her side the man who had watched by the death-bed of Felix's +father. + +"Tell me all you remember," she urged. + +"I remember nothing," he answered, pressing his dark hard hand against +his forehead, "it is more than thirteen years ago. But he showed to me +their portraits. Is his wife still living?" + +"Oh, yes!" she answered, "but she will not let either of them come to +Switzerland; neither Felix nor Hilda. Nobody speaks of this country in +her hearing; and his name is never uttered. But his mother used to talk +to us about him; and Phebe Marlowe does so still. She has painted a +portrait of him for Felix." + +"Is Roland Sefton's mother yet alive?" he asked, with a dull, aching +foreboding of her reply. + +"No," she said. "Oh! how we all loved dear old Madame Sefton! She was +always more like Felix and Hilda's mother than Cousin Felicita was. We +loved her more a hundred times than Cousin Felicita, for we are afraid +of her. It was her husband's death that spoiled her whole life and set +her quite apart from everybody else. But Madame--she was not made so +utterly miserable by it; she knew she would meet her son again in +heaven. When she was dying she said to Cousin Felicita, 'He did not +return to me, but I go to him; I go gladly to see again my dear son.' +The very last words they heard her say were, 'I come, Roland!'" + +Alice's voice trembled, and she laid her hand caressingly on the name of +Roland Sefton graved on the cross above her. Jean Merle listened, as if +he heard the words whispered a long way off, or as by some one speaking +in a dream. The meaning had not reached his brain, but was travelling +slowly to it, and would surely pierce his heart with a new sorrow and a +fresh pang of remorse. The loud chanting of the monks in the abbey close +by broke in upon their solemn silence, and awoke Alice from the reverie +into which she had fallen. + +"Can you tell me nothing about him?" she asked. "Talk to me as if I was +his child." + +"I have nothing to tell you," answered Jean Merle. "I remember nothing +he said." + +She looked down on the poor ragged peasant at her feet, with his gaunt +and scarred features, and his slowly articulated speech. There seemed +nothing strange in such a man not being able to recall Roland Sefton's +dying words. It was probable that he barely understood them; and most +likely he could not gather up the meaning of what she herself was +saying. The few words he uttered were English, but they were very few +and forced. + +"I am sorry," she said gently, "but I will tell them you promised to +take care of the ivy I have planted here." + +She wished the dull, gray-headed villager would go home, and leave her +alone for awhile in this solemn and sacred place; but he crouched still +on the ground, stirring neither hand nor foot. When at last she moved as +if to go away, he stretched out a toil-worn hand, and laid it on her +dress. + +"Stay," he said, "tell me more about Roland Sefton's children; I will +think of it when I am tending this grave." + +"What am I to tell you?" she asked gently, "Hilda is three years younger +than me, and people say we are like sisters. She and Felix were brought +up with me and my brothers in my father's house; we were like brothers +and sisters. And Felix is like another son to my father, who says he +will be both good and great some day. Good he is now; as good as man can +be." + +"And you love him!" said Jean Merle, in a low and humble voice, with his +head turned away from her, and resting on the lowest step of the cross. + +Alice started and trembled as she looked down on the grave and the +prostrate man. It seemed to her as if the words had almost come out of +this sad, and solitary, and forsaken grave, where Roland Sefton had lain +unvisited so many years. The last gleam of daylight had vanished from +the snowy peaks, leaving them wan and pallid as the dead. A sudden chill +came into the evening air which made her shiver; but she was not +terrified, though she felt a certain bewilderment and agitation creeping +through her. She could not resist the impulse to answer the strange +question. + +"Yes, I love Felix," she said simply. "We love each other dearly." + +"God bless you!" cried Jean Merle, in a tremulous voice. "God in heaven +bless you both, and preserve you to each other." + +He had lifted himself up, and was kneeling before her, eagerly scanning +her face, as if to impress it on his memory. He bent down his gray head +and kissed her hand humbly and reverently, touching it only with his +lips. Then starting to his feet he hastened away from the cemetery, and +was soon lost to her sight in the gathering gloom of the dusk. + +For a little while longer Alice lingered at the grave, thinking over +what had passed. It was not much as she recalled it, but it left her +agitated and disturbed. Yet after all she had only uttered aloud what +her heart would have said at the grave of Felix's father. But this +strange peasant, so miserable and poverty-stricken, so haggard and +hopeless-looking, haunted her thoughts both waking and sleeping. Early +the next morning she and Canon Pascal went to the hovel inhabited by +Jean Merle, but found it deserted and locked up. Some laborers had seen +him start off at daybreak up the Trübsee Alps, from which he might be +either ascending the Titlis or taking the route to the Joch-Pass. There +was no chance of his return that day, and Jean Merle's absence might +last for several days, as he was eccentric, and bestowed his confidence +on nobody. There was little more to be learned of him, except that he +was a heretic, a stranger, and a miser. Canon Pascal and Alice visited +once more Roland Sefton's grave, and then they went on their way over +the Joch-Pass, with some faint hopes of meeting with Jean Merle on their +route, hopes that were not fulfilled. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +COMING TO HIMSELF. + + +When he left the cemetery Jean Merle went home to his wretched chalet, +flung himself down on his rough bed, and slept for some hours the +profound and dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. The last three nights +he had passed under the stars, and stretched upon the low +juniper-bushes. He awoke suddenly, from the bright, clear moonlight of a +cloudless sky and dry atmosphere streaming in through his door, which he +had left open. There was light enough for him to withdraw some money +from a safe hiding-place he had constructed in his crazy old hut, and to +make up a packet of most of the clothing he possessed. There were +between twenty and thirty pounds in gold pieces of twenty francs +each--the only money he was master of now his Lucerne bankers had failed +him. A vague purpose, dimly shaping itself, was in his brain, but he was +in no hurry to see it take definite form. With his small bundle of +clothes and his leathern purse he started off in the earliest rays of +the dawn to escape being visited by the young English girl, whom he had +seen at the grave, and who would probably seek him out in the morning +with her father. Who they were he could find out if he himself returned +to Engelberg. + +_If_ he returned; for, as he ascended the steep path leading up to the +Trübsee Alp, he turned back to look at the high mountain-valley where he +had dwelt so long, as though he was looking upon it for the last time. +It seemed to him as if he was awaking out of a long lethargy and +paralysis. Three days ago the dull round of incessant toil and +parsimonious hoarding had been abruptly broken up by the loss of all he +had toiled for and hoarded up, and the shock had driven him out like a +maniac, to wander about the desolate heights of Engelberg in a mood +bordering on despair, which had made him utterly reckless of his life. +Since then news had come to him from home--stray gleams from the +Paradise he had forfeited. Strongest of them all was the thought that +these fourteen years had transformed his little son Felix into a man, +loving as he himself had loved, and already called to take his part in +the battle of life. He had never realized this before, and it stirred +his heart to the very depths. His children had been but soft, vague +memories to him; it was Felicita who had engrossed all his thought. All +at once he comprehended that he was a father, the father of a son and +daughter, who had their own separate life and career. A deep and +poignant interest in these beings took possession of him. He had called +them into existence; they belonged to him by a tie which nothing on +earth, in heaven, or in hell itself could destroy. As long as they lived +there must be an indestructible interest for him in this world. Felicita +was no longer the first in his thoughts. + +The dim veil which time had drawn around them was rent asunder, and they +stood before him bathed in light, but placed on the other side of a gulf +as fathomless, as impassable, and as death-like as the ice-crevasses +yawning at his feet. He gazed down into the cold, gleaming abyss, and +across it to the sharp and slippery margin where there could be no +foot-hold, and he pictured to himself the springing across that horrible +gulf to reach them on the other side, and the falling, with outstretched +hands and clutching fingers, into the unseen icy depths below him. For +the first time in his life he shrank back shivering and terror-stricken +from the edge of the crevasse, with palsied limbs and treacherous +nerves. He felt that he must get back into safer standing-ground than +this solitary and perilous glacier. + +He reached at last a point of safety, where he could lie down and let +his trembling limbs rest awhile. The whole slope of the valley lay below +him, with its rich meadows of emerald green, and its silvery streams +wandering through them. Little farms and chalets were dotted about, some +of them clinging to the sides of the rocks opposite to him, or resting +on the very edge of precipices thousands of feet deep, and looking as if +they were about to slip over them. He felt his head grow giddy as he +looked at them, and thought of the children at play in such dangerous +playgrounds. There were a few gray clouds hanging about the Titlis, and +caught upon the sharp horns of the rugged peaks around the valley. Every +peak and precipice he knew; they had been his refuge in the hours of his +greatest anguish. But these palsied limbs and this giddy head could not +be trusted to carry him there again. He had lost his last hope of making +any atonement. Hope was gone; was he to lose his indomitable courage +also? It was the last faculty which made his present life endurable. + +He lay motionless for hours, neither listening nor looking. Yet he +heard, for the memory of it often came back to him in after years, the +tinkling of innumerable bells from the pastures below him, and around +him; and the voices of many waterfalls rushing down through the +pine-forests into the valley; and the tossing to and fro of the +interwoven branches of the trees. And he saw the sunlight stealing from +one point to another, chased by the shadows of the clouds, that gathered +and dispersed, dimming the blue sky for a little time, and then leaving +it brighter and deeper than before. He was unconscious of it all; he was +even unaware that his brain was at work at all, until suddenly, like a +flash, there rose upon him the clear, resolute, unchangeable +determination, "I will go to England." + +He started up at once, and seized his bundle and his alpenstock. The +afternoon was far advanced, but there was time enough to reach the +Engstlenalp, where he could stay the night, and go on in the morning to +Meiringen. He could be in England in three days. + +Three days: so short a time separated him from the country and the home +from which he had been exiled so many years. Any day during those +fourteen years he might have started homeward as he was doing now; but +there had not been the irresistible hunger in his heart that at this +moment drove him thither. He had been vainly seeking to satisfy himself +with husks; but even these, dry and empty, and bitter as they were, had +failed him. He had lost all; and having lost all, he was coming to +himself. + +There was not the slightest fear of detection in his mind. A gray-haired +man with bowed shoulders, and seamed and marred face, who had lost every +trace of the fastidiousness, which had verged upon foppery in the +handsome and prosperous Roland Sefton, ran no risk of recognition, more +especially as Roland Sefton had been reckoned among the dead and buried +for many a long year. The lineaments of the dead die with them, however +cunningly the artist may have used his skill to preserve them. The face +is gone, and the memory of it. Some hearts may long to keep it engraven +sharp and clear in their remembrance; but oh, when the "inward eye" +comes to look for it how dull and blurred it lies there, like a +forgotten photograph which has grown faded and stained in some +seldom-visited cabinet! + +Jean Merle travelled, as a man of his class would travel, in a +third-class wagon and a slow train; but he kept on, stopping nowhere for +rest, and advancing as rapidly as he could, until on the third day, in +the gray of the evening, he saw the chalk-line of the English coast +rising against the faint yellow light of the sunset; and as night fell +his feet once more trod upon his native soil. + +So far he had been simply yielding to his blind and irresistible longing +to get back to England, and nearer to his unknown children. He had heard +so little of them from Alice Pascal, that he could no longer rest +without knowing more. How to carry out his intention he did not know, +and he had hardly given it a thought. But now, as he strolled slowly +along the flat and sandy shore for an hour or two, with the darkness +hiding both sea and land from him, except the spot on which he stood, he +began to consider what steps he must take to learn what he wanted to +know, and to see their happiness afar off without in any way endangering +it. He had purchased it at too heavy a price to be willing to place it +in any peril now. + +That Felicita had left Riversborough he had heard from her own lips, but +there was no other place where he was sure of discovering her present +abode, for London was too wide a city, even if she had carried out her +intention of living there, for him to ascertain where she dwelt. Phebe +Marlowe would certainly know where he could find them, for the English +girl at Roland Sefton's grave had spoken of Phebe as familiarly as of +Felix and Hilda--spoken of her, in fact, as if she was quite one of the +family. There would be no danger in seeking out Phebe Marlowe. If his +own mother could not have recognized her son in the rugged peasant he +had become, there was no chance of a young girl such as Phebe had been +ever thinking of Roland Sefton in connection with him; and he could +learn all he wished to know from her. + +He was careful to take the precaution of exchanging his foreign garb of +a Swiss peasant for the dress of an English mechanic. The change did not +make him look any more like his old self, for there was no longer any +incongruity in his appearance. No soul on earth knew that he had not +died many years ago, except Felicita. He might saunter down the streets +of his native town in broad daylight on a market-day, and not a +suspicion would cross any brain that here was their old townsman, Roland +Sefton, the fraudulent banker. + +Yet he timed his journey so as not to reach Riversborough before the +evening of the next day; and it was growing dusk when he paced once more +the familiar streets, slowly, and at every step gathering up some sharp +reminiscence of the past. How little were they changed! The old +grammar-school, with its gray walls and mullioned windows, looked +exactly as it had done when he was yet a boy wearing his college-cap and +carrying his satchel of school-books. His name, he knew, was painted in +gold on a black tablet on the walls inside as a scholar who had gained +a scholarship. Most of the shops on each side of the streets bore the +same names and looked but little altered. In the churchyard the same +grave-stones were standing as they stood when he, as a child, spelt out +their inscriptions through the open railings which separated them from +the causeway. There was a zigzag crack in one of the flag-stones, which +was one of his earliest recollections; he stood and put his clumsy boot +upon it as he had often placed his little foot in those childish years, +and leaning his head against the railings of the churchyard, where all +his English forefathers for many a generation were buried, he waited as +if for some voice to speak to him. + +Suddenly the bells in the dark tower above him rang out a peal, clanging +and clashing noisily together as if to give him a welcome. They had rung +so the day he brought Felicita home after their long wedding journey. It +was Friday night, the night when the ringers had always been used to +practise, in the days when he was churchwarden. The pain of hearing them +was intolerable; he could bear no more that night. Not daring to go on +and look at the house where he was born, and where his children had been +born, but which he could never more enter, he sought out a quiet inn, +and shut himself up in a garret there to think, and at last to sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE. + + +I cannot tell whether it was fancy merely, but the morning light which +streamed into his room seemed more familiar and home-like to him than +it had ever done in Switzerland. He was awakened by one of those sounds +which dwell longest in the memory--the chiming of the church bells +nearest home, which in childhood had so often called to him to shake off +his slumbers, and which spoke to him now in sweet and friendly tones, as +if he was still an innocent child. The tempest-tossed, sinful man lay +listening to them for a minute or two, half asleep yet. He had been +dreaming that he was in truth dead, but that the task assigned to him +was that of an invisible guardian and defender to those who had lost +him. He had been present all these years with his wife, and mother, and +children, going out and coming in with them, hearing all their +conversation, and sharing their family life, but himself unseen and +unheard, felt only by the spiritual influence he could exercise over +them. It had been a blissful dream, such as had never visited him in his +exile; and as the familiar chiming of the bells, high up in the belfry +not far from his attic, fell upon his ear, the dream for a brief moment +gathered a stronger sense of reality. + +It was with a strange feeling, as if he was himself a phantom mingling +with creatures of flesh and blood, that he went out into the streets. +His whole former life lay unrolled before him, but there was no point at +which he could touch it. Every object and every spot was commonplace, +yet invested with a singular and intense significance. Many a man among +the townsfolk he knew by name and history, whose eyes glanced at him as +a stranger, with no surprise at his appearance, and no show of suspicion +or of welcome. Certainly he was nothing but a ghost revisiting the +scenes of a life to which there was no possible return. Yet how he +longed to stretch out his hand and grasp those of these old towns-people +of his! Even the least interesting of the shopkeepers in the streets, +bestirring themselves to meet the business of a new day, seemed to him +one of the most desirable of companions. + +His heart was drawing him to Whitefriars Road, to that spot on earth of +all others most his own, but his resolution failed him whenever he +turned his face that way. He rambled into the ancient market square, +where stood a statue of his Felicita's great uncle, the first Baron +Riversdale. The long shadow of it fell across him as he lingered to look +in at a bookseller's window. He and the bookseller had been +school-fellows together at the grammar-school, and their friendship had +lasted after each was started in his own career. Hundreds of times he +had crossed this door-sill to have a chat with the studious and quiet +bookworm within whose modest life was so great a contrast with his own. +Jean Merle stopped at the well-remembered shop-window. + +His eyes glanced aimlessly along the crowded shelves, but suddenly his +attention was arrested, and his pulses, which had been beating somewhat +fast, throbbed with eager rapidity. A dozen volumes or more, ranged +together, were labelled, "Works by Mrs. Roland Sefton." Surprise, and +pride, and pleasure were in the rapid beatings of his heart. By +Felicita! He read over the titles with a new sense of delight and +admiration; and in the first glow of his astonishment he stepped quickly +into the shop, with erect head and firm tread, and found himself face +to face with his old school-fellow. The sight of his blank, +unrecognizing gaze brought him back to the consciousness of the utter +change in himself. He looked down at his coarse hands and mechanic's +dress, and remembered that he was no longer Roland Sefton. His tongue +was parched; it was difficult to stammer out a word. + +"Do you want anything, my good man?" asked the bookseller quietly. + +There was something in the words "my good man" that brought home to him +at once the complete separation between his former life and the present, +and the perfect security that existed for him in the conviction that +Roland Sefton was dead. With a great effort he commanded himself, and +answered the bookseller's question collectedly. + +"There are some books in the window by Mrs. Roland Sefton," he said, +"how much are they?" + +"That is the six shilling edition," replied the bookseller. + +Jean Merle was on the point of saying he would take them all, but he +checked himself. He must possess them all, and read every line that +Felicita had ever written, but not now, and not here. + +"Which do you think is the best?" he asked. + +"They are all good," was the answer; "we are very proud of Mrs. Roland +Sefton, who belongs to Riversborough. That is her great uncle yonder, +the first Lord Riversdale; and she married a prominent townsman, Roland +Sefton, of the Old Bank. I have a soiled copy or two, which I could sell +to you for half the price of the new ones." + +"She is famous then?" said Jean Merle. + +"She has won her rank as an author," replied the bookseller. "I knew her +husband well, and he always foretold that she would make her mark; and +she has. He died fourteen years ago; and, strange to say, there was +something about your step as you came in which reminded me of him. Do +you belong to Riversborough?" + +"No," he answered; "but my name is Jean Merle, and I am related to +Madame Sefton, his mother. I suppose there is some of the same blood in +Roland Sefton and me." + +"That is it," said the bookseller cordially. "I thought you were a +foreigner, though you speak English so well." + +"There was some mystery about Roland Sefton's death?" remarked Jean +Merle. + +"No, no; at least not much," was the answer. "He went away on a long +holiday, unluckily without announcing it, on account of bank business; +but Mr. Clifford, the senior partner, was on his way to take charge of +affairs. There was but one day between Roland Sefton's departure and Mr. +Clifford's arrival, but during that very day, for some reason or other +unknown, the head clerk committed suicide, and there was a panic and a +run upon the bank. Unfortunately there was no means of communicating +with Sefton, who had started at once for the continent. Mr. Clifford did +not see any necessity for his return, as the mischief was done; but just +as his six months' absence was over--not all holiday, as folks said, for +there was foreign business to see after--he died by accident in +Switzerland. I knew the truth better than most people; for Mr. Clifford +came here often, and dropped many a hint. Some persons still say the +police were seeking for Roland; but that is not true. It was an +unfortunate concatenation of circumstances." + +"You knew him well?" said Jean Merle. + +"Yes; we were school-fellows and friends," answered the bookseller, "and +a finer fellow never breathed. He was always eager to get on, and to +help other people on. We have not had such a public-spirited man amongst +us since he died. It cuts me to the heart when anybody pretends that he +absconded. Absconded! Why! there were dozens of us who would have made +him welcome to every penny we could command. But I own appearances were +against him, and he never came back to clear them up, and prove his +innocence." + +"And this is his wife's best book," said Jean Merle, holding it with +shaking, nerveless hands. Felicita's book! The tears burned under his +eyelids as he looked down on it. + +"I won't say it is the best; it is my favorite," replied the bookseller. +"Her son, Felix Sefton, a clergyman now, was in here yesterday, asking +the same question. If you are related to Madame Sefton, you'll be very +welcome at the Old Bank; and you'll find both of Madame's grand-children +visiting old Mr. Clifford. I'll send one of my boys to show you the +house." + +"Not now," said Jean Merle. If Mr. Clifford was living yet he must be +careful what risks he ran. Hatred has eyes as keen as love; and if any +one could break through his secret it would be the implacable old man, +who had still the power of sending him to a convict prison. + +A shudder ran through him at the dread idea of detection. What would it +be to Felicita now, when her name was famous, to have it dragged down to +ignominy and utter disgrace? The dishonor would be a hundred-fold the +greater for the fair reputation she had won, and the popularity she had +secured. And her children too! Worse for them past all words would it be +than if they were still little creatures, ignorant of the value of the +world's opinion. He bade the bookseller good-morning, and threaded his +way through many alleys and by-lanes of the old town until he reached a +ferry and a boat-house, where many a boat lay ready for him, as they +had always done when he was a boy. He seated himself in one of them, and +taking the oars fell down with the current to the willows under the +garden-wall of his old home. + +He steered his boat aside into a small creek, where the willow-wands +grew tall and thick, from which he could see the whole river frontage of +the old house. Was there any change in it? His keen, despairing gaze +could not detect one. The high tilted gables in the roof stood out clear +against the sky, with their spiral wooden rods projecting above them. +The oriel window cast its slowly moving shadow on the half-timber walls; +and the many lattice casements, with their small diamond-shaped panes, +glistened in the sun as in the days gone by. The garden-plots were +unchanged, and the smooth turf on the terraces was as green and soft as +when he ran along them at his mother's side. The old house brought to +his mind his mother rather than his wife. It was full of associations +and memories of her, with her sweet, humble, self-sacrificing nature. +There was repose and healing in the very thought of her, which seemed +to touch his anguish with a strong and soothing hand. Was there an echo +of her voice still lingering for him about the old spot where he had +listened to it so often? Could he hear her calling to him by his name, +the name he had buried irrecoverably in a foreign grave? For the first +time for many years he bent down his face upon his hands, and wept many +tears; not bitter ones, full of grief as they were. His mother was dead; +he had not wept for her till now. + +Presently there came upon the summer silence the sound of a young, +clear, laughing voice, calling "Phebe;" and he lifted up his head to +look once more at the house. An old man, with silvery white hair was +pacing slowly to and fro on the upper terrace, and a slight girlish +figure was beside him. That was old Clifford, his enemy; but could that +girl be Hilda? A face looked out of one of the windows, smiling down +upon this young girl, which he knew again as Phebe Marlowe's. By and by +she came down to the terrace, with a tall, fine-looking young man +walking beside her; and all three, bidding farewell to the old man, +descended from terrace to terrace, becoming every minute more distinct +to his eyes. Yes, there was Phebe; and these others must be his girl +Hilda and his son Felix. They were near to him, every word they spoke +reached his ears, and penetrated to his heart. They seemed more +beautiful, more perfect than any young creatures he had ever beheld. He +listened to them unfastening the chain which secured the boat, and to +the creaking of the row-locks as they fitted the oars into them. It was +as if one of his own long-lost days was come back again to earth, when +he had sat where Felix was now sitting, with Felicita instead of Hilda +dipping her little white hand into the water. He had scarcely eyes for +Phebe; but he was conscious that she was there, for Hilda was speaking +to her in a low voice which just reached him. "See," she said, "that man +has one of my mother's books! And he is quite a common man!" + +"As much a common man, perhaps, as I am a common woman," answered Phebe, +in a gentle though half-reproving tone. + +As long as his eyes could see them they were fastened upon the receding +boat; and long after, he gazed in the direction in which they had gone. +He had had the passing glimpse he longed for into the Paradise he had +forfeited. This had been his place, appointed to him by God, where he +could have served God best, and served Him in as perfect gladness and +freedom as the earth gives to any of her children. What lot could have +been more blessed? The lines had fallen unto him in pleasant places; he +had had a goodly heritage, and he had lost it through grasping +dishonestly at a larger share of what this world called success. The +madness and the folly of his sin smote him with unutterable bitterness. + +He could bear to look at it no longer. The yearning he had felt to see +his old home was satisfied; but the satisfaction seemed an increase of +sorrow. He would not wait to witness the return of his children. The old +man was gone into the house, and the garden was quiet and deserted. With +weary strokes he rowed back again up the river; and with a heavier +weight of sorrow and a keener consciousness of sin he made his way +through the streets so familiar to his tread. It was as if no eye saw +him, and no heart warmed to him in his native town. He was a stranger in +a strange place; there was none to say to him, here or elsewhere on +earth, "You are one of us." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +A LONDON GARRET. + + +There was one other place he must see before he went out again from this +region of many memories, to which all that he could call life was +linked--the little farmstead on the hills, which, of all places, had +been his favorite haunt when a boy, and which had been the last spot he +had visited before fleeing from England. Phebe Marlowe he had seen; if +he went away at once he could see her home before her return to it. Next +to his mother and his wife, he knew that Phebe was most likely to +recognize him, if recognition by any one was possible. Most likely old +Marlowe was dead; but if not, his senses would surely be too dull to +detect him. + +The long, hot, white highway, dusty with a week's drought, carried back +his thoughts so fully to old times that he walked on unconscious of the +noontide heat and the sultriness of the road. Yet when he came to the +lanes, green overhead and underfoot, and as silent as the +mountain-heights round Engelberg, he felt the solace of the change. All +the recollections treasured up in the secret cells of memory were +springing into light at every step; and these were remembrances less +bitter than those the sight of his lost home had called to mind. He felt +himself less of a phantom here, where no one met him or crossed his +path, than in the streets where many faces looking blankly at him wore +the well-known features of old comrades. By the time he gained the +moorlands, and looked across its purple heather and yellow gorse, his +mind was in a healthier mood than it had been for years. The low +thatched roof of the small homestead, and the stunted and twisted trees +surrounding it, seemed like a possible refuge to him, where for a little +while he might find shelter from the storm of life. He pressed on with +eagerness, and found himself quickly at the door, which he had never met +with fastened. + +But it was locked now. After knocking twice he tried the latch, but it +did not open. He went to the little window, uncurtained as usual and +peered in, but all was still and dark; there was not a glimmer of light +on the hearth, where he had always seen some glimmering embers. There +was no sign of life about the place; no dog barking, no sheep bleating, +or fowls fluttering about the little farm-yard. All the innocent, +joyous gayety of the place had vanished; yet he could see that it was +not falling into decay; the thatch was in repair, the dark interior, +dimly visible through the window, was as it used to be. It was not a +ruin, but it was not a home. A home might have received him with its +hospitable walls, or a ruin might have given him an hour's shelter. But +Phebe's door was shut against him, though it would have done him good to +stand within it once more, a penitent man. + +He was turning away sadly, when a loud rustic voice called to him; and +Simon Nixey, almost hidden under a huge load of dried ferns, came into +sight. Jean Merle stepped down the stone causeway of the farm-yard to +open the gate for him. + +"What are you doing here?" he inquired suspiciously. + +"A wood-carver, called old Marlowe, used to live here," he answered, +"what has become of him?" + +"Dead!" said Simon; "dead this many a year. Why, if you know anything +you ought to know that." + +"What did he die of?" asked Jean Merle. + +"A broken heart, if ever man did," answered Simon; "he'd saved a mint o' +money by scraping and moiling; and he lost it all when there was a run +on the Old Bank over thirteen years ago. He couldn't talk about it like +other folks, poor old Dummy! and it struck inwards, as you may say. It +killed him as certain as if they'd shot a bullet into him." + +Jean Merle staggered as if Simon had struck him a heavy blow. He had not +thought of anything like this, old Marlowe dying broken-hearted, and +Phebe left alone in the world. Simon Nixey seemed pleased at the +impression his words had produced. + +"Ay!" he said, "it was hard on old Marlowe; and drove my cousin, John +Nixey, into desperate ways o' drinking. Not but all the money was paid +up; only it was too late for them two. Every penny was paid, so as folks +had nothing to say against the Old Bank. Only money won't bring a dead +man back to life again. I offered Phebe to make her my wife before I +knew it'ud be paid back; but she always said no, till I grew tired of +it, and married somebody else." + +"And where is she now?" inquired Jean Merle. + +"Oh! she's quite the fine lady," answered Simon. "Mrs. Roland Sefton, +Lord Riversdale's daughter that was, took quite a fancy to her, and had +her to live with her in London; not as a servant, you know, but as a +friend; and she paints pictures wonderful. My mother, who lives +housekeeper with Mr. Clifford, hears say she can get sixty pounds or +more for one likeness. Think of that now! If she'd been my wife what a +fortune she'd have been to me!" + +"Has she sold this place?" asked Jean Merle. + +"There it is," he replied; "she gave her father a faithful promise never +to part with it, or I'd have bought it myself. She comes here once a +year with Miss Hilda and Mr. Felix, and they stay a week or two; and +it's shut up all the rest of the time. I've got the key here if you'd +like to look inside at old Dummy's carving." + +How familiar, yet how different, the interior of the cottage seemed! He +knew all these carvings, curious and beautiful, which lined the walls +and decorated every article of the old oak furniture. But the hearth was +cold, and there was no pleasant disorder about the small house telling +its story of daily work. In the deep recess of the window-frame, where +the western sun was already shining, stood old Marlowe's copy of a +carved crucifix, which he had himself once brought from the Tyrol, and +lent to him before finding a place for it in his own home. The sacred +head was bowed down so low as to be almost hidden under the shadow of +the crown of thorns. At the foot of the cross, in delicately small old +English letters, the old man had carved the words, "Come unto me all ye +that be weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He remembered +pointing out the mistake that he had made to old Marlowe. + +"I like it best," said the dumb man; "I have often been weary, but not +with labor; weary of myself, weary of the world, weary of life, weary of +everything but my Phebe. That is what Christ says to me." + +Jean Merle could see the old man's speaking face again, and the fingers +moving less swiftly when spelling out the words to him, than when he was +talking to Phebe. Weary! weary! was it not so with him? Could any man on +earth be more weary than he was? + +He loitered back to Riversborough through the cool of the evening, with +the pale stars shining dimly in the twilight of the summer sky; +pondering, brooding over what he had seen and heard that day. He had +already done much of what he had come to England to do; but what next? +What was the path he ought to take now? He was in a labyrinth, where +there were many false openings leading no-whither; and he had no clue to +guide him. All these years he had lain as one dead in the coil he had +wound about himself, but now he was living again. There was agony in the +life that he had entered into, but it was better than the apathy of his +death in life. + +He returned to London, and hired a garret for a small weekly rent, where +he would lodge until he could resolve what to do. But week after week +passed without bringing to his mind the solution of the problem. +Remorse had given place to repentance; but despair had not been +succeeded by hope. There was nothing to hope for. The irrevocable past +stood between him and any reparation for his sin which his soul +earnestly desired to make. An easy thing, and light, it would have been +to put himself into the power of his enemy, Mr. Clifford, and bear the +penalty of the law. He had suffered a hundred fold more than justice +would have exacted. The broken law demanded satisfaction, and it would +have been a blessed relief to him to give it. But that could never be. +He could never bear the penalty of his crime without dragging Felicita +into depths of shame and suffering deeper than they would have been if +he had borne it at first. The fame she had won for herself would lift up +his infamy and hers to the intolerable gaze of a keen and bitter +publicity. He must blacken her fair reputation if he sought to appease +his own conscience. + +He made no effort to find out where she and his children were living. +But one after another, in the solitude of his garret, he read every book +Felicita had written. They gave him no pleasure, and awoke in him no +admiration, for he read them through different eyes from her other +readers. There was great bitterness of soul for him in many of the +sentences she had penned; now and then he came upon some to which he +alone held the true key. He felt that he, her husband, was dwelling in +her mind as a type of subtle selfishness and weak ambition. When she +depicted a good or noble character it was almost invariably a woman, not +a man; it was never a man past his early manhood. However varied their +circumstances and temperaments, they were in the main worldly and mean; +sometimes they were successful hypocrites, deceiving those nearest and +dearest to them. + +It was a wholesome penance to him, perhaps, but it shook and troubled +his soul to its very depths. His sin had ruined the poor weakminded +drunkard, John Nixey, and hastened the end of dumb old Marlowe; these +consequences of it must, at any time, have clouded his own after-life. +But it had also wrought a baneful change in the spirit of the woman whom +he loved. It was he who had slain within her the hope, and the love, and +the faith in her fellow-men which had been needed for the full +perfecting of her genius. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +HIS FATHER'S SIN. + + +When Felix returned from his brief and clouded holiday to his work in +that corner of the great vineyard, so overcrowded with busy husbandmen +that they were always plucking up each others' plants, and pruning and +repruning each others' vines, till they made a wilderness where there +should have been a harvest, he found that his special plot there had +suffered much damage. John Nixey, following up the impression he had so +successfully made, had spread his story abroad, and found ears willing +to listen to it, and hearts willing to believe it. The small Provident +Club, instituted by Felix to check the waste and thriftlessness of the +people, had already, in his short absence, elected another treasurer of +its scanty funds; and the members who formed it, working men and women +who had been gathered together by his personal influence, treated him +with but scant civility. His evening lectures in the church +mission-house were sometimes scarcely attended, whilst on other days +there was an influx of hearers, among whom John Nixey was prominent, +with half-a-dozen rough and turbulent fellows like himself, hangers-on +at the nearest spirit-vaults, who were ready for any turn that might +lead to a row. The women and children who had been accustomed to come +stayed away, or went to some other of the numerous preaching-places, as +though afraid of this boisterous element in his little congregation. + +Now and then, too, he heard his name called out aloud in the streets by +some of Nixey's friends, as he passed the prospering gin-palaces with +their groups of loungers about the doors; but though he could catch the +sound of the laugh and the sneer that followed him, he could take no +notice. He could not turn round in righteous indignation and tell the +fellows, and the listening bystanders, that what they said of his father +was a lie. The poor young curate, with his high hopes and his +enthusiastic love of the work he had chosen for the sake of his +fellow-men, was compelled to pass on with bowed head, and silent lips, +and a heart burdened with the conviction that his influence was +altogether blighted and uprooted. + +"It isn't true, sir, is it, what folks are tellin' about your father?" +was a question put to him more than once, when he entered some squalid +home, in the hope of giving counsel, or help, or comfort. There was +something highly welcome and agreeable to these people, themselves +thieves or bordering on thievedom, in the idea that this fine, handsome, +gentlemanly young clergyman, who had set to work among them with so much +energy and zeal, was the son of a dishonest rogue, who ought to have +been sent to jail as many of them had been. Felix had not failed to make +enemies in the Brickfields by his youthful intolerance of idleness, +beggary, and drunkenness. The owners of the gin-palaces hated him, and +not a few of the rival religious sects were, to say the least, +uncharitably disposed towards one who had drawn so many of their +followers to himself. There was very little common social interest in +the population of the district, for the tramping classes of the lowest +London poor, such as were drawn to the Brickfields by its overflowing +charities, have as little cohesion as a rope of sand; but Felix was so +conspicuous a figure in its narrow and dirty streets, that even +strangers would nudge one another's elbows, and almost before he was +gone by narrate Nixey's story, with curious additions and alterations. + +It was gall and wormwood to Felix that he was unable to contradict the +story in full. He could say that his father had never been a convict; +but no inducement on earth could have wrung from him the declaration +that his father had never been guilty of fraud. Sometimes he wondered +whether it would not be well to own the simple truth, and endure the +shame: if he had been the sole survivor of his father's sin this he +would have done, and gone on toilsomely regaining the influence he had +lost. But the secret touched his mother even more closely than himself, +and Hilda was equally concerned in it. It had been sacredly kept by +those older than he was, and it was not for him to betray it. "My poor +mother!" he called her. Never, before he learned the secret burden she +had borne, had he called her by that tender and pitiful epithet; but as +often as he thought of her now his heart said, "My poor mother!" + +As soon as Canon Pascal returned to England Felix took a day's holiday, +and ran down by train to the quiet rectory in Essex, where he had spent +the greater portion of his boyhood. Only a few years separated him from +that careless and happiest period of his life; yet the last three months +had driven it into the far background. He almost smiled at the +recollection of how young he was half-a-year ago, when he had declared +his love for Alice. How far dearer to him she was now than then! The one +letter he had received from her, written in Switzerland, and telling him +in loving detail of her visit to his father's grave, would be forever +one of his most precious treasures. But he was not going to share his +blemished name with her. He had had nothing worthy of her, or of his +father, to lay at her feet, whilst he was yet in utter ignorance of the +shame he had inherited; and now? He must never more think of her as his +wife. + +She was at home, he knew; but he sternly forbade himself to seek for +her. It was Canon Pascal he had come down to see, and he went straight +on to his well-known study. He was busy in the preparation of next +Sunday's sermons, but at the sight of Felix's dejected, unsmiling face, +he swept away his books and papers with one hand, whilst he stretched +out his hand to give him such a warm, strong, hearty grip as he might +have given to a drowning man. + +"What is it, my son?" he asked. + +There was such a full sympathetic tone in the friendly voice speaking to +him, that Felix felt his burden already shared, and pressing less +heavily on his bruised spirit. He stood a little behind Canon Pascal, +with his hand upon his shoulder, as he had often placed himself before +when he was pleading for some boyish indulgence, or begging pardon for +some boyish fault. + +"You have been like a true father to me, and I come to tell you a great +trouble," he began in a tremulous voice. + +"I know it, my boy," replied Canon Pascal; "you have found out how true +it is, 'The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are +set on edge.' Ah! Felix, life teaches us so, as well as this wise old +Book." + +"You know it?" stammered Felix. + +"Phebe told me," he interrupted, "six months since. And now you and I +can understand Felicita. There was no prejudice against our Alice in her +mind; no unkindness to either of you. But she could not bring herself to +say the truth against the husband whom she has wept and mourned over so +long. And your mother is the soul of truth and honor; she could not let +you marry whilst we were ignorant of this matter. It has been a terrible +cross to bear, and she has borne it in silence. I love and revere your +mother more than ever." + +"Yes!" said Felix with a sob. He had not yet seen her since coming to +this fateful knowledge; for Phebe and Hilda had joined her at the +sea-side where they were still staying. But if his father had gone down +into depths of darkness, his mother had risen so much the higher in his +reverence and love. She had become a saint and a martyr in his eyes; and +to save her from a moment's grief seemed to be a cause worth dying for. + +"I came to tell you all," he went on, "and to say I cannot any more hope +that you will give Alice to me. God alone knows what it costs me to give +her up: and she will suffer too for a while, a long while, I fear; for +we have grown together so. But it must be. Alice cannot marry a man who +has not even an unblemished name to offer to her." + +"You should ask Alice herself about that," said Canon Pascal quietly. + +A thrill of rapture ran through Felix, and he grasped the shoulder, on +which his hand still rested, more firmly. What! was it possible that +this second father of his knew all his disgrace and dishonor, how his +teeth were set on edge by the sour grapes which he had not eaten, and +yet was willing that Alice should share his name and his lot? There was +no fear as to what Alice would say. He recollected how Phebe spoke, as +if her thoughts dwelt more on his father's sorrow and sad death, than on +his sin; and Alice would be the same. She would cover it with a woman's +sweet charity. He could not command his voice to speak; and after a +minute's pause Canon Pascal continued-- + +"Yes! Alice, too, knows all about it. I told her beside your father's +grave. And do you suppose she said, 'Here is cause enough for me to +break with Felix'? Nay, I believe if the sin had been your own, Alice +would have said it was her duty to share it, and your repentance. Shall +our Lord come to save sinners, and we turn away from their blameless +children? Yet I thought it must be so at first, I own it, Felix; at +first, while my eyes were blinded and my heart hardened; and I looked at +it in the light of the world. But then I be-thought me of your mother. +Shall not she make good to you the evil your father has wrought? If he +dishonored your name in the eyes of a few, she has brought honor to it, +and made it known far beyond the limits it could have been known through +him. The world will regard you as her son, not as his." + +"But I came also to tell you that I wish to leave the country," said +Felix. "There is a difficulty in getting young men for our colonial +work; and I am young and strong, stronger than most young men in the +Church. I could endure hardships, and go in for work that feebler men +must leave untried; you have taken care of that for me. Such a life +would be more like old Felix Merle's than a London curacy. You let your +own sons emigrate, believing that the old country is getting +over-populated; and I thought I would go too." + +"Why?" asked Canon Pascal, turning round in his chair, and looking up +searchingly into his face. + +In a few words, and in short broken sentences, Felix told him of Nixey's +charge, and the change it had wrought in the London curacy, upon which +he had entered with so much enthusiasm and delight. + +"It will be the same wherever I go in England," he said in conclusion; +"and I cannot face them boldly and say it is all a falsehood." + +"You must live it down," answered Canon Pascal; "go on, and take no +notice of it." + +"But it hinders my work sadly," said Felix, "and I cannot go on in the +Brickfields. There might be a row any evening, and then the story would +come out in the police-courts; and what could I say? At least, I must +give up that." + +For a few minutes Canon Pascal was lost in thought. If Felix was right +in his apprehension, and the whole story came out in the police-court, +there were journals pandering to public curiosity that would gladly lay +hold of any gossip or scandal connected with Mrs. Roland Sefton. Her +name would ensure its publicity. And how could Felicita endure that, +especially now that her health was affected? If the dread of disclosing +her secret to him had wrought so powerfully upon her physical and mental +constitution, what would she suffer if it became a nine days' talk for +the world? + +"I will get your rector to exchange curates with me till we can see our +way clear," he said. "He is Alice's godfather, you know, and will do it +willingly. I am going up to Westminster in November, and you will be +here in my place, where everybody knows your face and you know theirs. +There will be no question here about your father, for you are looked +upon as my son. Now go away, and find Alice." + +When Felix turned out of Liverpool Street station that evening, a tall, +gaunt-looking workman man offered to carry his bag for him. It was +filled with choice fruit from the rectory garden, grown on trees grafted +and pruned by Canon Pascal's own hands; and Felix had helped Alice to +gather it for some of his sick parishioners in the unwholesome +dwelling-places he visited. + +"I am going no farther than the Mansion House," he answered, "and I can +carry it myself." + +"You'd do me a kindness if you'd let me carry it," said the man. + +It was not the tone of a common loafer, hanging about the station for +any chance job, and Felix turned to look at him in the light of the +street-lamp. It was the old story, he thought to himself, a decent +mechanic from the country, out of work, and lost in this great labyrinth +of a city. He handed his bag to him and walked on along the crowded +thoroughfare, soon forgetting that he was treading the flagged streets +of a city; he was back again, strolling through dewy fields in the cool +twilight, with Alice beside him, accompanying him to the quiet little +station. He thought no more of the stranger behind him, or of the bag he +carried, until he hailed an omnibus travelling westward. + +"Here is your bag, sir," said the man. + +"Ah! I'd forgotten it," exclaimed Felix. "Good night, and thank you." + +He had just time to drop a shilling into his hand before the omnibus was +off. But the man stood there in front of the Mansion House, motionless, +with all the busy sea of life roaring around him, hearing nothing and +seeing nothing. This coin that lay in his hand had been given to him by +his son; his son's voice was still sounding in his ears. He had walked +behind him taking note of his firm strong step, his upright carriage and +manly bearing. It had been too swift a march for him, full of exquisite +pain and pleasure, which chance might never offer to him again. + +"Move on, will you?" said a policeman authoritatively; and Jean Merle, +rousing himself from his reverie, went back to his lonely garret. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +HAUNTING MEMORIES. + + +Felicita was slowly recovering her strength at the sea-side. She had +never before felt so seriously shaken in health, as since she had known +of the attachment of Felix to Alice Pascal; an attachment which would +have been quite to her mind, if there was no loss of honor in allowing +it whilst she held a secret which, in all probability, would seem an +insuperable barrier in the eyes of Canon Pascal. + +This secret she had kept resolutely in the background of her own memory, +conscious of its existence, but never turning her eyes towards it. The +fact that it was absolutely a secret, suspected by no one, made this +more possible; for there was no gleam of cognizance in any eye meeting +hers which could awaken even a momentary recollection of it. It seemed +so certain that her husband was dead to every one but herself, that she +came at last almost to believe that it was true. + +And was it not most likely to be true? Through all these long years +there had come no hint to her in any way that he was living. She had +never seen or heard of any man lingering about her home where she and +her children lived, all whom Roland loved, and loved so passionately. +Certainly she had made no effort to discover whether he was yet alive; +but though it would be well for her if he was dead--a cause of rest +almost amounting to satisfaction--it was not likely that he would remain +content with unbroken and complete ignorance of how she and her children +were faring. If he had been living, surely he would have given her some +sign. + +There was a terrible duty now lying in her path. Before she could give +her consent to Felix marrying Alice, she must ascertain positively if +her husband was dead. Should it be so, her secret was safe, and would +die with her. Nobody need ever know of this fraud, so successfully +carried out. But if not? Then she knew in herself that her lips could +never confess the sin in which she had shared; and nothing would remain +for her to do but to oppose with all the energy and persistence possible +the marriage either of her son or daughter. And she fully believed that +neither of them would marry against her will. + +Her health had not permitted her hitherto to make the exertion necessary +for ascertaining this fact, on which her whole future depended--hers and +her children's. The physician whom she had consulted in London had urged +upon her the imperative necessity of avoiding all excitement and +fatigue, and had ordered her down to this dull little village of +Freshwater, where not even a brass band on the unfinished pier or the +arrival of an excursion steamer could disturb or agitate her. She had +nothing to do but to sit on the quiet downs, where no sound could +startle her, and no spectacle flutter her, until the sea-breezes had +brought back her usual tone of health. + +How long this promised restoration was in coming! Phebe, who watched for +it anxiously, saw but little sign of it. Felicita was more silent than +ever, more withdrawn into herself, gazing for hours upon the changeful +surface of the sea with absent eyes, through which the brain was not +looking out. Neither sound nor sight reached the absorbed soul, that was +wandering through some intricate mazes to which Phebe had no clue. But +no color came to Felicita's pale face, and no light into her dim eyes. +There was a painful and weird feeling often in Phebe's heart that +Felicita herself was not there; only the fair, frail form, which was as +insensible as a corpse, until this spirit came back to it. At such times +Phebe was impelled to touch her, and speak to her, and call her back +again, though it might be to irritability and displeasure. + +"Phebe," said Felicita, one day when they sat on the cliff, so near the +edge that nothing but the sea lay within the range of their sight, "how +should you feel if, instead of helping a fellow-creature to save himself +from drowning, you had thrust him back into the water, and left him, +sure that he would perish?" + +"But I cannot tell you how I should feel," answered Phebe, "because I +could never do it. It makes me shudder to think of such a thing. No +human being could do it." + +"But if you had thrust the one fellow-creature nearest to you, the one +who loved you the most," pursued Felicita, "into sin, down into a deeper +gulf than he could have fallen into but for you--" + +"My dear, my dear!" cried Phebe, interrupting her in a tone of the +tenderest pity. "Oh! I know now what is preying upon you. Because Felix +loves Alice it has brought back all the sorrowful past to you, and you +are letting it kill you. Listen! Let me speak this once, and then I will +never speak again, if you wish it. Canon Pascal knows it all; I told +him. And Felix knows it, and he loves you more than ever; you are dearer +to him a hundred times than you were before. And he forgives his +father--fully. God has cast his sin as a stone into the depths of the +sea, to be remembered against him no more forever!" + +A slight flush crept over Felicita's pale face. It was a relief to her +to learn that Canon Pascal and Felix knew so much of the truth. The +darker secret must be hidden still in the depths of her heart until she +found out whether she was altogether free from the chance of discovery. + +"It was right they should know," she said in a low and dreamy tone; "and +Canon Pascal makes no difficulty of it?" + +"Canon Pascal said to me," answered Phebe, "that your noble life and the +fame you had won atoned for the error of which Felix and Hilda's father +had been guilty. He said they were your children, brought up under your +training and example, not their father's. Why do you dwell so bitterly +upon the past? It is all forgotten now." + +"Not by me," murmured Felicita, "nor by you, Phebe." + +"No; I have never forgotten him," cried Phebe, with a passionate sorrow +in her voice. "How good he was to me, and to all about him! Yes, he was +guilty of a sin before God and against man; I know it. But oh! if he had +only suffered the penalty, and come back to us again, for us to comfort +him, and to help him to live down the shame! Possibly we could not have +done it in Riversborough; I do not know; but I would have gone with you, +as your servant, to the ends of the earth, and you would have lived +happy days again--happier than the former days. And he would have proved +himself a good man, in spite of his sin; a Christian man, whom Christ +would not have been ashamed to own." + +"No, no," said Felicita; "that is impossible. I never loved Roland; can +you believe that, Phebe?" + +"Yes," she answered in a whisper, and with downcast eyes. + +"Not as I think of love," continued Felicita in a dreary voice. "I have +tried to love you all; but you seem so far away from me, as if I could +never touch you. Even Felix and Hilda, they are like phantom children, +who do not warm my heart, or gladden it, as other mothers are made happy +by their children. Sometimes I have dreamed of what life would have been +if I had given myself to some man for whom I would have forfeited the +world, and counted the loss as nothing. But that is past now, and I feel +old. There is nothing more before me; all is gray and flat and cold, a +desolate monotony of years, till death comes." + +"You make me unhappy," said Phebe. "Ought we not to love God first, and +man for God's sake? There is no passion in that; but there is +inexhaustible faithfulness and tenderness." + +"How far away from me you are!" answered Felicita with a faint smile. + +She turned her sad face again towards the sea, and sat silent, watching +the flitting sails pass by, but holding Phebe's hand fast in her own, as +if she craved her companionship. Phebe, too, was silent, the tears +dimming her blue eyes and blotting out the scene before her. Her heart +was very heavy and troubled for Felicita. + +"Will you go to Engelberg with me by-and-by?" asked Felicita suddenly, +but in a calm and tranquil tone. + +"To Engelberg!" echoed Phebe. + +"I must go there before Felix thinks of marrying," she answered in short +and broken sentences; "but it cannot be till spring. Yet I cannot write +again until I have been there; the thought of it haunts me intolerably. +Sometimes, nay, often, the word Engelberg has slipped from my pen +unawares when I have tried to write; so I shall do no more work till I +have fulfilled this duty; but I will rest another few months. When I +have been to Engelberg again, for the last time, I shall be not happy, +but less miserable." + +"I will go with you wherever you wish," said Phebe. + +It was so great a relief to have said this much to Phebe, to have broken +through so much of the icy reserve which froze her heart, that +Felicita's spirits at once grew more cheerful. The dreaded words had +been uttered, and the plan was settled; though its fulfilment was +postponed till spring; a reprieve to Felicita. She regained health and +strength rapidly, and returned to London so far recovered that her +physician gave her permission to return to work. + +But she did not wish to take up her work again. It had long ago lost the +charm of novelty to her, and though circumstances had compelled her to +write, or to live upon her marriage settlement, which in her eyes was to +live upon the proceeds of a sin successfully carried out, her writing +itself had become tedious to her. "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity!" +and there is much vexation of spirit, as well as weariness of the flesh, +in the making of many books. She had made enemies who were spiteful, +and friends who were exacting; she, who felt equally the irksomeness of +petty enmities and of small friendships, which, like gnats buzzing +monotonously about her, were now and then ready to sting. The sting +itself might be trivial, but it was irritating. + +Felicita had soon found out how limited is the circle of fame for even a +successful writer. For one person who would read a book, there were +fifty who would go to hear a famous singer or actor, and a hundred who +would crowd to see a clever acrobat. As she read more she discovered +that what she had fondly imagined were ideas originated by her own +intellect, was, in reality, the echo only of thought long since given to +mankind by other minds, in other words, often better than her own. Her +own silent claim to genius was greatly modified; she was humbler than +she had been. But she knew painfully that her name was now a +hundred-fold better known than it had been while she was yet only the +wife of a Riversborough banker. All her work for the last fourteen years +had placed it more and more prominently before the public. Any scandal +attaching to it now would be blazoned farther and wider, in deeper and +more enduring characters, than if her life as an author had been a +failure. + +The subtle hope, very real, vague as it was, that her husband was in +truth dead, gathered strength. The silence that had engulfed him had +been so profound that it seemed impossible he should still be treading +the same earth as herself, and wearing through its slow and commonplace +days, sleeping and waking, eating and drinking like other men. Felicita +was not superstitious, but there was in her that deep-rooted, +instinctive sense of mystery in this double life of ours, dividing our +time into sleeping and waking hours, which is often apt to make our +dreams themselves omens of importance. She had never dreamed of Roland +as she did of those belonging to her who had already passed into the +invisible world about us. His spirit was not free, perhaps, from its +earthly fetters so as to be able to visit her, and haunt her sleeping +fancies. But now she began to dream of him frequently, and often in the +daytime flashes of memory darted vividly across her brain, lighting up +the dark forgotten past, and recalling to her some word of his, or a +glance merely. It was an inward persecution from which she could not +escape, but it seemed to her to indicate that her persecutor was no more +a denizen of this world. + +To get rid of these haunting memories as much as possible, she made such +a change in her mode of life as astonished all about her. She no longer +shut herself up in her library; as she had told Phebe, she resolved to +write no more, nor attempt to write, until she had been to Engelberg. +She seemed wishful to attract friends to her, and she renewed old +acquaintanceships with members of her own family which she had allowed +to drop during these many years. No sooner was it evident that Felicita +Sefton was willing to come out of the extremely quiet and solitary life +she had led hitherto, and take her place in society both as Lord +Riversdale's daughter and as the author of many popular books, than the +current of fashion set towards her. She was still a remarkably lovely +woman, possessing irresistible attractions in her refined face and soft +yet distant manners, as of one walking in a trance, and seeing and +hearing things invisible and inaudible to less favored mortals. Quite +unconsciously to herself she became the lion of the season, when the +next season opened. She had been so difficult to know, that as soon as +she was willing to be known invitations poured in upon her, and her +house was invaded by a throng of visitors, many of them more or less +distantly related to her. + +To Hilda this new life was one of unexpected and exquisite delight. +Phebe, also, with her genuine interest in her fellow-creatures, and her +warm sympathy in all human joys and sorrows, enjoyed the change, though +it perplexed her, and caused her to watch Felicita with anxiety. Felix +saw less of it than any one, for he was down in Essex, leading the +tranquil and not very laborious life of a country curate, chafing a +little now and then at his inactivity, yet blissful beyond words in the +close daily intercourse with Alice. There was no talk of their marriage, +but they were young and together. Their happiness was untroubled. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +THE VOICE OF THE DEAD. + + +In his lonely garret in the East End, Jean Merle was living in an +isolation more complete even than that of Engelberg. There he had known +at least the names of those about him, and their faces had grown +familiar to him. More than once he had been asked to help when help was +sorely needed, and he had felt, though not quite consciously, that there +was still a link or two binding him to his fellow-men. But here, an unit +among millions, who hustled him at every step, breathed the same air, +and shared the common light with him, he was utterly alone. "Isolation +is the sum total of wretchedness to man," and no man could be more +completely isolated than he. + +Strangely enough, his Swiss proclivities seemed to have fallen from him +like a worn-out garment. The narrow, humble existence of his peasant +forefathers, to which he had so readily adapted himself, was no longer +tolerable in his eyes. He felt all the force and energy of the life of +the great city which surrounded him. His birthright as an Englishman +presented itself to his imagination with a splendor and importance that +it had never possessed before, even in those palmy days when it was no +unthought-of honor that he might some day take his place in the House +of Commons. He called himself Jean Merle, for no other name belonged to +him; but he felt himself to be an Englishman again, to whom the life of +a Swiss peasant would be a purgatory. + +Other natural instincts were asserting themselves. He had been a man of +genial, social habits, glad to gather round him smiling faces and +friendly voices; and this bias of his was stirring into life and shaking +off its long stupor. He longed, with intense longing, for some mortal +ear into which he could pour the story of his sins and sufferings, and +for some human tongue to utter friendly words of counsel to him. It was +not enough to pour out his confessions before God in agonizing prayer; +that he had done, and was doing daily. But it was not all. The natural +yearning for man's forgiveness, spoken in living human speech, grew +stronger within him. There was no longer a chance for him to make even a +partial reparation of the wrong he had committed; he felt himself +without courage to begin the long conflict again. What his soul hungered +for now was to see his life through another man's eyes. + +But his money, economize it as he might, was slowly melting away. Unless +he could get work--and all his efforts to find it failed--it would not +do to remain in England. At Engelberg had secured a position as a wood +carver, and his livelihood was assured. There, too, he possessed a +scanty knowledge of the neighbors, and they of him. It would be his +wisest course to return there, to forget what he had been, and to draw +nearer to him the simple and ignorant people, who might yet be won over +to regard him with good-will. This must be done before he found himself +penniless as well as friendless. He set aside a certain sum, when that +was spent he must once more be an exile. + +Until then, it was his life to pace to and fro along the streets of +London. Somewhere in this vast labyrinth there was a home to which he +had a right; a hearth where he could plant himself and claim it for his +own. He was master of it, and of a wife, and children; he, the lonely, +almost penniless man. It would be a small thing to him to pay the +penalty the law could demand of him. A few years more or less in +Dartmoor Prison would be nothing to him, if at the end of them he saw a +home waiting for him to return to it. But he never sought to look at the +exterior even of that spot to which he had a right. He made no effort to +see Felicita. + +He stayed till he touched his last shilling. It was already winter, and +the short, dark days, with their thick fogs, made the wintry months +little better than one long night. To-morrow he must leave England, +never to return to it. He strayed aimlessly about the gloomy streets, +letting his feet bear him whither they would, until he found himself +looking down through the iron railings upon the deserted yard in front +of the Houses of Parliament. The dark mass of the building loomed +heavily through the yellow fog, but beyond it came the sound of bells +ringing in the invisible Abbey. It was the hour for morning prayer, and +Jean Merle sauntered listlessly onwards until he reached the northern +entrance and turned into the transept. The dim daylight scarcely lit up +the lofty arches in the roof or the farther end of the long aisles, but +he gave no heed to either. He sank down on a chair and bent his gray +head on the back of the chair before him; the sweet solemn chanting of +the white-robed choristers echoed under the roof, and the sacred and +soothing tones of prayer floated pest him. But he did not move or lift +his head. He sat there absorbed in his own thoughts, and the hours +seemed only as floating minutes to him. Visitors came and went, chatting +close beside him, and the vergers, with their quiet footsteps, came one +by one to look at this motionless, poverty-stricken form, whose face no +man could see, but nobody disturbed him. He had a right to be there, as +still, and as solitary, and as silent as he pleased. + +But when Canon Pascal came up the long aisle to evening prayers and saw +again the same gray head bowed down in the same despondent attitude as +he had left it in the morning, he could scarcely refrain himself from +pausing then and there, before the evening service proceeded, to speak +to this man. He had caught a momentary glimpse of his face, and it had +haunted him in his study in the interval, until he had half reproached +himself for not answering to that silent appeal its wretchedness had +made. But he had had no expectation of seeing it again. + +It was dark by the time the evening service was over, and Canon Pascal +hastily divested himself of his surplice, that he might not seem to +approach the stranger as a clergyman, but rather as an equal. The Abbey +was being cleared of its visitors, and the lights were being put out one +by one, when he sat down on the seat next to Jean Merle's, and laid his +hand with a gentle pressure on his arm. Jean Merle started and lifted up +his head. It was too dark for them to see each other well; but Canon +Pascal's voice was full of friendly urgency. + +"They are going to close the Abbey," he said; "and you've been here all +day, without food, my friend. Is there any special reason why you should +pass a long, dark winter's day in such a manner? I would be glad to +serve you if I can. Perhaps you are a stranger in London?" + +"I have been seeking the guidance of God," answered Jean Merle, in a +bewildered yet unutterably sorrowful voice. + +"That is good," replied Canon Pascal; "that is the best. But it is good +also at times to seek man's guidance. It is God, doubtless, who has sent +me to you. As His servant, I earnestly desire to serve you." + +"If you would listen to me under a solemn seal of secrecy!" cried Jean +Merle. + +"Are you a Catholic?" asked Canon Pascal. "Is it a confessor you want?" + +"I am not a Catholic," he answered; "but there is a strong desire in my +soul to confess. My burden would be lighter if any man would share it, +so far as to keep my secret." + +"Does it touch the life of any fellow-creature?" inquired Canon Pascal; +"is there any great crime in it?" + +"No; not what you are thinking," he said; "there is sin in it; ay, and +crime; but not a crime like that." + +"Then I will listen to it under a solemn promise of secrecy, whatever it +may be," replied Canon Pascal. "But the vergers are waiting to close the +Abbey. Come with me; my home is close by, within the precincts." + +Jean Merle had risen obediently as he spoke, but, exhausted and weary, +he staggered as he stood upon his feet. Canon Pascal drew his arm within +his own. This simple action was to him full of a friendliness to which +he had been long a stranger. To clasp another man's hand, to walk +arm-in-arm with him, he felt keenly how much of implied brotherhood was +in them. He was ready to go anywhere with Canon Pascal, almost as a +child guided and cared for by an older and wiser brother. + +They passed out of the Abbey into the cloisters, dimly lighted by the +lamps, which had been lit in good time this dark November evening. The +low, black-browed arches, which had echoed to the footsteps of +sorrow-stricken men for more than eight hundred years, resounded to +their tread as they walked beneath them in silence. Jean Merle suffered +himself to be led without a question, like one in a dream. There seemed +some faint reminiscence from the past of this man, with his harsh +features, and kindly, genial expression, the deep-set eyes, beaming with +a benign light from under the rugged eyebrows, and the firm yet friendly +pressure of his guiding arm; and his mind was groping about the dark +labyrinth of memory to seize his former knowledge of him, if there had +ever been any. There was a vague apprehension about him lest he should +discover that this friend was no stranger, and his tongue must be tied, +even though what he was about to say would be under the inviolable seal +of secrecy. + +They had not far to go, for Canon Pascal turned aside into a little +square, open to the black November sky, and stopping at a door in the +gray, old walls, opened it with a latch-key. They entered a narrow +passage, and Canon Pascal turned at once to his study, which was close +by. As he pushed open the door, he said, "Go in, my friend; I will be +with you in a moment." + +Jean Merle saw before him an old-fashioned room with a low ceiling. +There was no light besides the warm, red glow of a fire, which was no +longer burning with yellow flame, but which lit up sufficiently the +figure of a woman seated on a low stool on the hearth, with her head +resting on the hand that shaded her eyes. It was a figure familiar to +him in his old life--that life which lay on the other side of Roland +Sefton's grave. He had seen the same well-shaped head, with its soft +brown hair, and the round outline of the averted cheek and chin, a +thousand times in old Marlowe's cottage on the uplands, sitting in the +red firelight as she was sitting now. All the intervening years were +swept away in an instant--his bitter anguish and unavailing +repentance--the long solitude and gnawing remorse--all was swept clean +away from his mind. He felt the strength and freshness of his boyhood +come back to him, as if the breeze of the uplands was blowing softly yet +keenly across his throbbing and fevered temples. Even his voice caught +back for the moment the ring of his early youth as he stood on the +threshold, forgetting all else but the sight that filled his eyes. +"Phebe!" he cried; "little Phebe Marlowe!" + +The cry startled Phebe, but she did not move. It was the voice of one +long since dead that rang in her ears--dead, and faithfully mourned +over; and every nerve tingled, and her heart seemed to stay its +beating. Roland Sefton's voice! She did not doubt it or mistake it. The +call had been too real. She had answered to it too many times to be +mistaken now. In those days of utter silence, when dumb signs only had +passed between her and her father, Roland's pleasant voice had sounded +too gladly in her ears ever to be forgotten or confounded with another. +But how could she hear it now? The voice of the dead! how could it reach +her? A strange pang of mingled joy and terror paralyzed her. She sat +motionless and bewildered, with a thrill of passionate expectation +quivering through her. Let Roland speak again; she could not answer his +first call! + +"Phebe!" She heard the cry again; but this time the voice was low, and +lamentable, and despairing. For in the few seconds he had been standing, +arrested on the threshold, the whole past had flitted through his brain +in dismal procession. She lifted herself up slowly and mechanically from +her low seat, and turned her face reluctantly towards the spot from +which the startling call had come. In the dusky, red light stood the +form of the one friend to whom she had been faithful with the utter +faithfulness of her nature. Whence he came she knew not--she was afraid +of knowing. But he was there, himself, and not another like him. There +was a change, she could see that dimly; but not such a change as could +disguise him from her. Of late, whilst she had been painting his +portrait from memory, every recollection of him had been revived with +keener vividness. Yet the terror of beholding him again on this side of +death struck her dumb. She stretched out her hands towards him, but she +could not speak. + +"I must speak to Phebe Marlowe alone," said Jean Merle to Canon Pascal, +and speaking in a tone of irresistible earnestness. "I have that to say +to her which no one else can hear. She is God's messenger to me." + +"Shall I leave you with this stranger, Phebe?" asked Canon Pascal. + +She made a gesture simply; her lips were too parched to open. + +"My dear girl, I will stay, if you please," he said again. + +"No," she breathed, in a voice scarcely audible. + +"There is a bell close at your hand," he went on, "and I shall be within +hearing of it. I will come myself if you ring it however faintly. You +know this man?" + +"Yes," she answered. + +She saw him look across at her with an encouraging smile; and then the +door was shut, and she was alone with her mysterious visitor. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. + + +They stood silent for a few moments;--moments which seemed hours to +Phebe. The stranger--for who could be so great a stranger as one who +had been many years dead?--had advanced only a step or two from the +threshold, and paused as if some invisible barrier was set up between +them. She had shrunk back, and stood leaning against the wall for the +support her trembling limbs needed. It was with a vehement effort that +at last she spoke. + +"Roland Sefton!" she faltered. + +"Yes!" he answered, "I am that most miserable man." + +"But you died," she said with quivering lips, "fourteen years ago." + +"No, Phebe, no," he replied; "would to God I had died then." + +Once more an agony of mingled fear and joy overwhelmed her. This dear +voice, so lamentable and hopeless, so well remembered in all its tones, +told her that he was still living, whom she had mourned over so many +years. But what could this mystery mean? What had he passed through? +What was about to happen now? A tumult of thoughts thronged to her +brain. But clearest of all came the assurance that he was alive, +standing there, desolate, changed, and friendless. She ran to him and +clasped his hands in hers; stooping down and kissing them, those hard +worn hands, which he left unresistingly in her grasp. These loving, and +deferential caresses belonged to the time when she was a humble country +girl, and he the friend very far above her. + +"Come closer to the fire, your hands are cold, Mr. Roland," she said, +speaking in the old long-disused accent of her early days, as she might +have spoken to him while she was yet a child. She threw a few logs on +the fire, and drew up Canon Pascal's chair to the hearth for him. She +felt spell-bound; and as if she had been suddenly thrust back upon those +old times. + +"I am no longer Roland Sefton," he said, sinking down into the chair; +"he died, as you say, many a long year ago. Do not light the lamp, +Phebe; let us talk by the firelight." + +The flicker of the flames creeping round the dry wood played upon his +face, and her eyes were fastened on it. Could this man really be Roland +Sefton, or was she being tricked by her fancy? Here was a scarred and +wrinkled face, blistered and burnt by the summer's sun, and cut and +frost-bitten by the winter's cold; the hair was gray and ragged, and the +eyes far sunk in the head met her gaze with a despairing and uneasy +glance, as if he shrank from her close scrutiny. His bowed shoulders and +hands roughened by toil, and worn-out mechanic's dress, were such a +change, that perhaps, she acknowledged it reluctantly to herself, if he +had not spoken as he did she might have passed him by undiscovered. + +"I am Jean Merle," he said, "not Roland Sefton." + +"Jean Merle?" she repeated in a low, bewildered tone, "not Roland +Sefton, but Jean Merle?" + +But she could not be bewildered or in doubt much longer. This was Roland +indeed, the hero of her life, come back to her a broken-down, desolate, +and hopeless man. She knelt down on the hearth beside him, and laid her +hand compassionately on his. + +"But you are Roland himself to me!" she cried. "Oh! be quick, and tell +me all about it. Why did we ever think you were dead?" + +"It was best for them all," he answered. "God knows I believed it was +best. But it was a second sin, worse than the first, Phebe. I did the +man who died no wrong, for he told me as he lay dying that he had no +friends to grieve for him, and no property to leave. All he wanted was a +decent grave; and he has it, and my name with it. The grave at Engelberg +contains a stranger. And I, Jean Merle, have taken charge of it." + +"Oh!" cried Phebe, with a pang of dread, "how will Felicita bear it?" + +"Felicita has known it; she consented to it," said Jean Merle. "If she +had uttered one word against my desperate plan, I should have recoiled +from it. To be dead whilst you are yet in the body; to have eyes to see +and ears to hear with, and a thinking brain and a hungry heart, whilst +there is no sign, or sound, or memory, or love from your former life; +you cannot conceive what that is, Phebe. I was dead, yet I was too +keenly alive in Jean Merle, the poor wood-carver and miser. They thought +I was imbecile; and I was almost a madman. I could not tear myself away +from the grave where Roland Sefton was buried; but oh! what I have +suffered!" + +He ended with a long shuddering sigh, which pierced Phebe to the heart. +The joy of seeing him again was vanishing in the sight of his suffering; +but the thought uppermost in her mind was of Felicita. + +"And she has known all along that you were not dead?" she said, in a +tone of awe. + +"Yes, Felicita knew," he answered. + +"And has she never seen you, never written to you?" she asked. + +"She knows nothing of me," he replied. "I was to be dead to her, and to +every one else. We parted forever in Engelberg fourteen years ago this +very month. Perhaps she believes me to be dead in reality. But I could +live no longer without knowing something of you all, of Felix and Hilda; +and I came over to England in August. I have seen all of you, except +Felicita." + +"Oh! it was wicked! it was cruel!" sobbed Phebe, shivering. "Your mother +died, believing she was going to rejoin you; and I, oh! how I have +mourned for you!" + +"Have you, Phebe?" he said sorrowfully; "but Felicita has been saved +from shame, and has been successful. She is too famous now for me to +retrace my steps, and get back into truthfulness. I can find no place +for repentance, let me seek it ever so carefully and with tears." + +"But you have repented?" she whispered. + +"Before God? yes!" he answered, "and I believe He has forgiven me. But +there is no way by which I can retrieve the past. I have forfeited +everything, and I am now shut out even from the duties of life. What +ought I to have done, Phebe? There was this way to save my mother, and +my children, and Felicita; and I took it. It has prospered for all of +them; they hold a different position in the world this day than they +could have done if I had lived." + +"In this world, yes!" answered Phebe, with a touch of scorn in her +voice; "but cannot you see what you have done for Felicita? Oh! it would +have been better for her to have endured the shame of your first sin, +than bear such a burden of guilt. And you might have outlived the +disgrace. There are Christian people in the world who can forgive sin, +even as Christ forgives it. Even my poor father forgave it; and Mr. +Clifford, he is repenting now that he did not forgive you; it weighs him +down in his old age. It would have been better for you and Felicita if +you had borne the penalty of your crime." + +"And our children, Phebe?" he said. + +"Could not God have made it up to them?" she asked. "Did He make it +necessary for you to sin again on their account? Oh! if you had only +trusted Him! If you had only waited to see how Christ could turn even +the sins of the father into blessings for his children! They have missed +you; it may be, I cannot see clearly, they must miss you now all their +lives. It would break their hearts to learn all this. Whether they must +know it, I cannot tell." + +"To what end should they know it?" he said. "Don't you see, Phebe, that +the distinction Felicita has won binds us to keep this secret? It cannot +be disclosed either to her or to them. I came to tell it to the man who +brought me here under a seal of secrecy." + +"To Canon Pascal?" she exclaimed. + +"Pascal?" he repeated, "ay? I remember him now. It would have been +terrible to have told it to him." + +"Let me think about it," said Phebe, "it has come too suddenly upon me. +There must be something we ought to do, but I cannot see it yet. I must +have time to recollect it all. And yet I am afraid to let you go, lest +you should disappear again, and all this should seem like a dreadful +dream." + +"You care for me still, Phebe?" he answered mournfully. "No, I shall not +disappear from you; I shall hold fast by you, now you have seen me +again. If that poor wretch in hell who lifted up his eyes, being in +torments, had caught sight of some pitying angel, who would now and then +dip the tip of her finger in water and cool his tongue, would he have +disappeared from her vision? Wouldn't he rather have had a horrible +dread lest she should disappear? But you will not forsake me, Phebe?" + +"Never!" replied Phebe, with an intense and mournful earnestness. + +"Then I will go," he said, rising reluctantly to his feet. The deep +tones of the Abbey clock were striking for the second time since he had +entered Canon Pascal's study, and they had been left in uninterrupted +conversation. It was time for him to go; yet it seemed to him as if he +had still so much to pour into Phebe's ear, that many hours would not +give him time enough. Unconstrained speech had proved a source of +ineffable solace and strength to him. He had been dying of thirst, and +he had found a spring of living waters. To Phebe, and to her alone, he +was still a living man, unless sometimes Felicita thought of him. + +"If you are still my friend, knowing all," he said, "I shall no longer +despair. When will you see me again?" + +"I will come to morning service in the Abbey to-morrow," she answered. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT. + + +After speaking to Canon Pascal for a few minutes, with an agitation and +a reserve which he could not but observe, Phebe left the house to go +home. In one of the darkest corners of the cloisters she caught sight of +the figure of Jean Merle, watching for her to come out. For an instant +Phebe paused, as if to speak to him once more; but her heart was +over-fraught with conflicting emotions, whilst bewildering thoughts +oppressed her brain. She longed for a solitary walk homewards, along the +two or three miles of a crowded thoroughfare, where she could how feel +as much alone as she had ever done on the solitary uplands about her +birth-place. She had always delighted to ramble about the streets alone +after nightfall, catching brief glimpses of the great out-door +population, who were content if they could get a shelter for their heads +during the few, short hours they could give to sleep, without indulging +in the luxury of a home. When talking to them she could return to the +rustic and homely dialect of her childhood; and from her own early +experience she could understand their wants, and look at them from their +stand-point, whilst feeling for them a sympathy and pity intensified by +the education which had lifted her above them. + +But to-night she passed along the busy streets both deaf and dumb, +mechanically choosing the right way between the Abbey and her home, +nearly three miles away. There was only one circumstance of which she +was conscious--that Jean Merle was following her. Possibly he was afraid +in the depths of his heart that she would fail him when she came to +deliberately consider all he had told her. He wronged her, she said to +herself indignantly. Still, whenever she turned her head she caught +sight of his tall, bent figure and gray head, stealing after her at some +distance, but never losing her. So mournful was it to Phebe, to see her +oldest and her dearest friend thus dogging her footsteps, that once or +twice she paused at a street corner to give him time to overtake her; +but he kept aloof. He wished only to see where she lived, for there also +lived Felicita and Hilda. + +She turned at last into the square where their house was. It was +brilliantly lighted up, for Felicita was having one of her rare +receptions that evening, and in another hour or two the rooms would be +filled with guests. It was too early yet, and Hilda was playing on her +piano in the drawing-room, the merry notes ringing out into the quiet +night. There was a side door to Phebe's studio, by which she could go in +and out at pleasure, and she stood at it trying to fit her latch-key +into the lock with her trembling hands. Looking back she saw Jean Merle +some little distance away, leaning against the railings that enclosed +the Square garden. + +"Oh! I must run back to him! I must speak to him again!" she cried to +her own heart. In another instant she was at his side, with her hands +clasping his. + +"Oh!" she sobbed, "what can I do for you? This is too miserable for you; +and for me as well. Tell me what I can do." + +"Nothing," he answered. "Why, you make me feel as if I had sinned again +in telling you all this. I ought not to have troubled your happy heart +with my sorrow." + +"It was not you," she said, "you did not even come to tell me; God +brought you. I can bear it. But oh! to see you shut out, and inside, +yonder, Hilda is playing, and Felix, perhaps, is there. They will be +singing by-and-by, and never know who is standing outside, in the foggy +night, listening to them." + +Her voice broke into sobs, but Jean Merle did not notice them. + +"And Felicita?" he said. + +Phebe could not answer him for weeping. Just yet she could hardly bring +herself to think distinctly of Felicita; though in fact her thoughts +were full of her. She ran back to her private door, and this time opened +it readily. There was a low light in the studio from a shaded lamp +standing on the chimney-piece, which made the hearth bright, but left +all the rest of the room in shadow. Phebe threw off her bonnet and cloak +with a very heavy and troubled sigh. + +"What can make you sigh, Phebe?" asked a low-toned and plaintive voice. +In the chair by the fire-place, pushed out of the circle of the light, +she saw Felicita leaning back, and looking up at her. The beauty of her +face had never struck harshly upon Phebe until now; at this moment it +was absolutely painful to her. The rich folds of her velvet dress, and +the soft and costly lace of her head-dress, distinct from though +resembling a widow's cap, set off both her face and figure to the utmost +advantage. Phebe's eyes seemed to behold her more distinctly and vividly +than they had done for some years past; for she was looking through them +with a dark background for what she saw in her own brain. She was a +strikingly beautiful woman; but the thought of what anguish and dread +had been concealed under her reserved and stately air, so cold yet so +gentle, filled Phebe's soul with a sudden terror. What an awful life of +self-approved, stoical falsehood she had been living! She could see the +man, from whom she had just parted, standing without, homeless and +friendless, on the verge of pennilessness; a dead man in a living world, +cut off from all the ties and duties of the home and the society he +loved. But to Phebe he did not appear so wretched as Felicita was. + +She sank down on a seat near Felicita, with such a feeling of +heart-sickness and heart-faintness as she had never experienced before. +The dreariness and perplexity of the present stretched before her into +the coming years. For almost the first time in her life she felt +worn-out; physically weary and exhausted, as if her strength had been +overtaxed. Her childhood on the fresh, breezy uplands, and her happy, +tranquil temperament had hitherto kept her in perfect health. But now +she felt as if the sins of those whom she had loved so tenderly and +loyally touched the very springs of her life. She could have shared any +other burden with them, and borne it with an unbroken spirit and an +uncrushed heart. But such a sin as this, so full of woe and bewilderment +to them all, entangled her soul also in its poisonous web. + +"Why did you sigh so bitterly?" asked Felicita again. + +"The world is so full of misery," she answered, in a tremulous and +troubled voice; "its happiness is such a mockery!" + +"Have you found that out at last, dear Phebe?" said Felicita. "I have +been telling you so for years. The Son of Man fainting under the +Cross--that is the true emblem of human life. Even He had not strength +enough to bear His cross to the place called Golgotha. Whenever I think +of what most truly represents our life here, I see Jesus, faltering +along the rough road, with Simon behind Him, whom they compelled to bear +His cross." + +"He fainted under the sins of the world," murmured Phebe. "It is +possible to bear the sorrows of others; but oh! it is hard to carry +their sins." + +"We all find that out," said Felicita, her face growing wan and white +even to the lips. "Can one man do evil without the whole world suffering +for it? Does the effect of a sin ever die out? What is done cannot be +undone through all eternity. There is the wretchedness of it, Phebe." + +"I never felt it as I do now," she answered. + +"Because you have kept yourself free from earthly ties," said Felicita +mournfully; "you have neither husband nor child to increase your power +of suffering a hundred-fold. I am entering upon another term of +tribulation in Felix and Hilda. If I had only been like you, dear Phebe, +I could have passed through life as happily as you do; but my life has +never belonged to myself; it has been forced to run in channels made by +others." + +Somewhere in the house behind them a door was left open accidentally, +and the sound of Hilda's piano and of voices singing broke in upon the +quiet studio. Phebe listened to them, and thought of the desolate, +broken-hearted man without, who was listening too. The clear young +voices of their children fell upon his ears as upon Felicita's; so near +they were to one another, yet so far apart. She shivered and drew nearer +to the fire. + +"I feel as cold as if I was a poor outcast in the streets," she said. + +"And I, too," responded Felicita; "but oh! Phebe, do not you lose heart +and courage, like me. You have always seemed in the sunshine, and I have +looked up to you and felt cheered. Don't come down into the darkness to +me." + +Phebe could not answer, for the darkness was closing round her. Until +now there had happened no perplexity in her life which made it difficult +to decide upon the right or the wrong. But here was come a coil. The +long years had reconciled her to Roland's death, and made the memory of +him sacred and sorrowfully sweet, to be brooded over in solitary hours +in the silent depths of her loyal heart. But he was alive again, with +no right to be alive, having no explanation to give which could +reinstate him in his old position. And Felicita? Oh! what a cruel, +unwomanly wrong Felicita had been guilty of! She could not command her +voice to speak again. + +"I must go," said Felicita, at last. "I wish I had not invited visitors +for to-night." + +"I cannot come in this evening," Phebe answered; "but Felix is there, +and Canon Pascal is coming. You will do very well without me." + +She breathed more freely when Felicita was gone. The dimly-lighted +studio, with the canvases she was at work upon, and the pictures she had +painted hanging on the walls, and her easels standing as she had left +them three or four hours ago, when the early dusk came on, soothed her +agitated spirit now she was alone. She moved slowly about, putting +everything into its place, and feeling as if her thoughts grew more +orderly as she did so. When all was done she opened the outer door +stealthily, and peeped out. Yes; he was there, leaning against the +railings, and looking up at the brilliantly-lighted windows. Carriages +were driving up and setting down Felicita's guests. Phebe's heart cried +out against the contrast between the lives of these two. She longed to +run out and stand beside him in the darkness and dampness of the +November night. But what good could she do? she asked bitterly. She did +not dare even to ask him in to sit beside her studio fire. The same roof +could not cover him and Felicita, without unspeakable pain to him. + +It was late before the house was quiet, and long after midnight when the +last light was put out. That was in Phebe's bedroom, and once again she +looked out, and saw the motionless figure, looking black amidst the +general darkness, as if it had never stirred since she had seen it +first. But whilst she was gazing, with quivering mouth and tear-dimmed +eyes, a policeman came up and spoke to Jean Merle, giving him an +authoritative shake, which seemed to arouse him. He moved gently away, +closely followed by the policeman till he passed out of her sight. + +There was no sleep for Phebe; she did not want to sleep. All night long +her brain was awake and busy; but it found no way out of the coil. Who +can make a crooked thing straight? or undo that which has been done? + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE. + + +When Phebe entered Westminster Abbey the next day the morning service +was already begun. Upon the bench nearest the door sat a working-man, +in worn-out clothes, whose gray hair was long and ragged, and whose +whole appearance was one of poverty and suffering. She was passing by, +when a gleam of recognition in the dark and sunken eyes of this poor man +arrested her. Could he possibly be Roland Sefton? The night before she +had seen him only in a friendly obscurity, which concealed the ravages +time, and sorrow, and labor had effected; but now the daylight, in +revealing them, cast a chill shadow of doubt into her heart. It was his +voice she had known and acknowledged the night before; but now he was +silent, and, revealed by the daylight, she felt troubled and +distrustful. Such a man she might have met a thousand times without once +recalling to her memory the handsome, manly presence and prosperous +bearing of Roland Sefton. + +Yet she sat down beside him in answer to that appealing gleam in his +eyes, and as his well-known voice joined hers in the responses to the +prayers, she acknowledged him again in her heart of hearts. And now all +thought of the sacred place, and of the worship she was engaged in, fled +from her mind. She was a girl at home again, dwelling in the silent +society of her dumb father, with this voice of Roland Sefton's coming to +break the stillness from time to time, and to fill it with that sweetest +music, the sound of human speech. If he had lost every vestige of +resemblance to his former self, his voice only, calling "Phebe" as he +had done the evening before, must have betrayed him to her. Not an +accent of it had been forgotten. + +To Jean Merle Phebe Marlowe was little altered, save that she had grown +from a simple rustic maiden into a cultivated and refined woman. The +sweet and gentle face beside him, with the deep peaceful blue of her +eyes, and the sensitive mouth so ready to break into a smile, was the +same he had seen when, on that terrible evening so many years ago, he +had craved her help to escape from his dreaded punishment. "I will help +you, even to dying for you and yours," she had said. He remembered +vividly how mournfully the girlish fervor of her manner had impressed +him. Even now he had no one else to help him; this woman's little hand +alone could reach him in the gulf where he lay; only the simple, pitiful +wisdom of her faithful heart could find a way for him out of this misery +of his into some place of safety and peace. He was willing to follow +wherever she might guide him. + +"I can see only one duty before us," she said, when the service was +over, and they stood together before one of the monuments in the Abbey; +"I think Mr. Clifford ought to know." + +"What will he do, Phebe?" asked Jean Merle. "God knows if I had only +myself to think of I would go into a convict-prison as thankfully as if +it was the gate of heaven. It would be as the gate of heaven to me if I +could pay the penalty of my crime. But there are Felicita and my +children; and the greater shock and shame to them of my conviction now." + +"Yet if Mr. Clifford demanded the penalty it must even now be paid," +answered Phebe; "but he will not. One reason why he ought to know is +that he mourns over you still, day and night, as if he had been the +chief cause of your death. He reproaches himself with his implacability +both towards you and his son. But even if the old resentment should +awaken, it is right you should run the risk. Why need it be known to any +one but us two that Felicita knew you were still alive?" + +"If we could save her and the children I should be satisfied," said Jean +Merle. + +"It would kill her to know you were here," answered Phebe, looking round +her with a terrified glance, as if she expected to see Felicita; "she is +not strong, and a sudden agitation and distress might cause her death +instantly. No, she must never know. And I am not afraid of Mr. Clifford; +he will forgive you with all his heart; and he will be made glad in his +old age. I will go down with you this evening. There is a train at four +o'clock, and we shall reach Riversborough at eight. Be at the station to +meet me." + +"You know," said Jean Merle, "that the lapse of years does not free one +from trial and conviction? Mr. Clifford can give me into the hands of +the police at once; and to-night may see me lodged in Riversborough +jail, as if I had been arrested fourteen years ago. You know this, +Phebe?" + +"Yes, I know it, but I am not afraid of it," she answered. + +She had not the slightest fear of old Mr. Clifford's vindictiveness. As +she travelled down to Riversborough, with Jean Merle in a third-class +carriage of the same train, her mind was very busy with troubled +thoughts. There was an unquiet joy stirring in the secret depths of her +heart, but she was too full of anxiety and bewilderment to be altogether +aware of it. Though it was not more than twenty-four hours since she had +known otherwise, it seemed to her as if she had never believed that +Roland Sefton was dead, and it appeared incredible that the report of +his death should have received such full acceptance as it had everywhere +done. Yet though he had come back, there could be no welcome for him. To +her and to old Mr. Clifford only could this return from the grave +contain any gladness. And was she glad? she asked herself, after a long +deliberation over the difficulties surrounding this strange +reappearance. She had sorrowed for him and comforted his mother in her +mourning, and talked of him as one talks fondly of the dead to his +children; and all the sacred healing of time had softened the grief she +once felt into a tranquil and grateful memory of him, as of the friend +she had loved most, and whose care for her had most widely influenced +her life. But she could not own yet that she was glad. + +Old Mr. Clifford was sitting in the wainscoted dining-room, his favorite +room, when Phebe opened the door silently, and looked in with a pale and +anxious face. His sight was dim, and a blaze of light fell upon the +dark, old panels, and the old-fashioned silver tankards and bright brass +salvers on the carved sideboard. Two or three of Phebe's sunniest +pictures hung against the oaken panels. There was a blazing fire on the +hearth, and the old man, with his elbows resting on the arms of his +chair, and his hands clasped lightly, was watching the play and dance of +the flames as they shot up the chimney. Some new books lay on a table +beside him, but he was not reading. He was sitting there in utter +loneliness, with no companionship except that of his own fading +memories. Phebe's tenderness for the old man was very great; and she +paused on the threshold gazing at him pitifully; whilst Jean Merle, +standing in the hall behind her, caught a glimpse of the hearth so +crowded with memories for him, but occupied now by one desolate old man, +before the door was closed, and he was left without. + +"Why, it's little Phebe Marlowe!" cried Mr. Clifford gladly, looking +round at the light sound of a footstep, very different from Mrs. Nixey's +heavy tread; "my dear child, you can't tell what a pleasure this is to +me." + +He had risen up, and stood holding both her hands and looking fondly +into her face. + +"This moment I was thinking of you, my dear," he said; "I was inditing a +long letter to you in my head, which these lazy old fingers of mine +would have refused to write. Sandon, the bookseller, has been in here, +bringing these books; and he told me a queer story enough. He says that +in August last a relation of Madame Sefton's was here, in Riversborough; +and told him who he was, in his shop, where he bought one of Felicita's +books. Why didn't Sandon come here at once and tell us then, so that you +could have found him out, Phebe? You and Felix and Hilda were here. He +was a poor man, and seemed badly off; and I guess he came to inquire +after Madame. Sandon says he reminded him of Roland--poor Roland! Why, +I'd have given the poor fellow a welcome for the sake of that +resemblance; and I was just thinking how Phebe's tender heart would have +been touched by even so faint a likeness." + +"Yes," she murmured. + +"And we could have lifted him up a little; quite a poor man, Sandon +says," continued Mr. Clifford; "but sit down, my dear. There is no one +in the wide world would be so welcome to me as little Phebe Marlowe, who +refused to be my adopted daughter." + +He had drawn a chair close beside his own, for he would not loose her +hand, but kept it closely grasped by his thin and crooked fingers. + +"You have altogether forgiven Roland?" she said tremulously. + +"Altogether, my dear," he answered. + +"As Christ forgives us, bearing away our sins Himself?" she said. + +"As Christ forgave us," he replied, bowing his head solemnly. + +"And if it was possible--think it possible," she went on, "that he could +come back again, that the grave in Engelberg could give up its dead, he +would be welcome to you?" + +"If my old friend Sefton's son, could come back again," he said, "he +would be more welcome to me than you are, Phebe. How often do I fancy +him sitting yonder in Sefton's chair, watching me with his dear eyes!" + +"But suppose he had deceived us all," she continued, "if he had escaped +from your anger by another fraud; a worse fraud! If he had managed so as +to bury some one else in his name, and go on living under a false one! +Could you forgive that?" + +"If Roland could come back a repentant man, I would forgive him every +sin," answered Mr. Clifford, "and rejoice that I had not driven him to +seek death. But what do you mean, Phebe? why do you ask?" + +"Because," she answered, speaking almost in a whisper, with her face +close to his, "Roland did not die. That man, who was here in August, and +called himself Jean Merle, is Roland himself. He saw you, and all of us, +and did not dare to make himself known. I can tell you all about it. +But, oh! he has bitterly repented; and there is no place of repentance +for him in this world. He cannot come back amongst us, and be Roland +Sefton again." + +"Where is he?" asked the old man, trembling. + +"He is here; he came with me. I will go and fetch him," she answered. + +Mr. Clifford leaned back in his arm-chair, and gazed towards the +half-open door. His memory had gone back twenty years, to the last time +he had seen Roland Sefton, in the prime of his youth, handsome, erect, +and happy, who had made his heart ache as he thought of his own +abandoned son, lying buried in a common grave in Paris. The man whom he +saw entering slowly and reluctantly into the room behind Phebe, was +gray-headed, bent, and abject. This man paused just within the doorway, +looking not at him but round the room, with a glance full of grief and +remembrance. The eager, questioning eyes of old Mr. Clifford did not +arrest his attention, or divert it from the aspect of the old familiar +place. + +"No, no, Phebe!" exclaimed Mr. Clifford, "he's an impostor, my dear. +That's not my old friend's son Roland." + +"Would to God I were not!" cried Jean Merle bitterly, "would to God I +stood in this room as a stranger! Phebe Marlowe, this is very hard; my +punishment is greater than I can bear. All my life comes back to me +here. This place, of all other places in the world, brings my sin and +folly to remembrance." + +He sank down on a chair, and buried his face in his hands, to shut out +the hateful sight of the old home. He was inside his Paradise again; and +behold, it was a place of torment. There was no room in his thoughts for +Mr. Clifford, it was nothing to him that he should be called an +impostor. He came to claim nothing, not even his own name. But the +avenging memories of the past claimed him and held him fast bound. Even +last night, when in the chill darkness of the November night he had +watched the house which held Felicita and their children, his pain had +been less poignant than now, within these walls, where all his happy +life had been passed. He was unconscious of everything but his pain. He +could not hear Phebe's voice speaking for him to Mr. Clifford. He saw +and felt nothing, until a gentle and trembling hand pressing on his +shoulder feebly and as tenderly as his mother's made him look up into +the gray and agitated face of Mr. Clifford bending over him. + +"Roland! Roland!" he said, in a voice broken by sobs, "my old friend's +son, forgive me as I forgive you. God be thanked, you have come back +again in time for me to see you and bid you welcome. I bless God with +all my heart. It is your own home, Roland, your own home." + +With his feeble but eager old hands he drew him to the hearth, and +placed him in the chair close beside his own, where Phebe had been +sitting, and kept his hand upon his arm, lest he should vanish out of +his sight. + +"You shall tell me nothing more to-night," he said; "I am old, and this +is enough for me. It is enough that to-night you and I have pardoned +one another from 'the low depths of our hearts.' Tell me nothing else +to-night." + +Phebe had slipped away from them to help Mrs. Nixey to prepare a room +for Jean Merle. It was the one that had been Roland Sefton's nursery, +and the nursery of his children, and it was still occupied by Felix, +when he visited his old home. The homely hospitable occupation was a +relief to her; but in the room that she had left the two men sat side by +side in unbroken silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +AS A HIRED SERVANT. + + +From a profound and dreamless sleep Jean Merle awoke early the next +morning, with the blessed feeling of being at home again in his +father's house. The heavy cross-beams of black oak dividing the ceiling +into panels; the low broad lattice window with a few upper panes of old +stained glass; the faded familiar pictures on the wall; these all awoke +in him memories of his earliest years. In the corner of the room, hardly +to be distinguished from the wainscot, was the high narrow door +communicating with his mother's chamber, through which he had often, how +often! seen her come in softly, on tiptoe, to take a look at him. His +own children, too, had slept there; and it was here that he had last +seen his little son and daughter before fleeing from his home a +self-accused criminal. All the happy, prosperous life of Roland Sefton +had been encompassed round by these walls. + +But the dead past must bury the dead. If there had ever been a deep, +buried, hidden hope, that a possible return to something of the old life +lay in the unknown future, it was now utterly uprooted. Such a return +was only possible over the ruined lives and broken hearts of Felicita +and his children. If he made himself known, though he was secure against +prosecution, the story of his former crime would revive, and spread +wider, joined with the fair name of Felicita, than it would have done +when he was merely a fraudulent banker in a country town. However true +it might be what Phebe maintained, that he might have suffered the +penalty of his sin, and afterwards retrieved the past, whilst his +children were too young to feel the full bitterness of the shame, it was +too late to do it now. The name he had dishonored was forever forfeited. +His return to his former life was hedged up on every hand. + +But a new courage was awaking in him, which helped him to grapple with +his despair. He would bury the dead past, and go on into the future +making the best of his life, maimed and marred as it was by his own +folly. He was still in the prime of his age, thirty years younger than +Mr. Clifford, whose intellect was as keen and clear as ever; there was a +long span of time stretching before him, to be used or misused. + +"Come unto Me all ye that be weary, and heavy laden, and I will give +you rest." He seemed to see the words in the quaint upright characters +in which old Marlowe had carved them under the crucifix. He had fancied +he knew what coming to Christ meant in those old days of his, when he +was reputed a religious man, and was first and foremost in all religious +and philanthropic schemes, making his trespass more terrible and +pernicious than if it had been the transgression of a worldly man. But +it was not so when he came to Christ this morning. He was a +broken-hearted man, who had cut himself off from all human ties and +affections, and who was longing to feel that he was not forsaken of the +universal Brother and Saviour. His cry was, "My soul thirsteth for thee; +my flesh longeth for thee, in a dry and weary land, where no water is." +It was his own fault that he was in the dry and weary wilderness; but +oh! if Christ would not forsake him then, would dwell with him, even in +this desert made desolate by himself, then at last he might find peace +to his soul. + +There was a deep inner consciousness, the forgotten but not obliterated +faith of his boyhood and youth, before the world with its pomps and +ambitions had laid its iron hand upon him, that Christ was with him, +leading him day by day, if he would but follow nearer to God. Was it +impossible to follow His guidance now? Could he not, even yet, take up +his cross, and be willing to fill any place which he could yet fill +worthily and humbly; expiating his sins against his fellow-men by truer +devotion to their service, as Jean Merle, the working-man; not as Roland +Sefton, the prosperous and fraudulent banker? + +This return to his father's house, and all its associations, solemn and +sacred with a peculiar sacredness and solemnity, seemed to him a pledge +that he could once more be admitted into the great brotherhood and home +of Christ's disciples. Every object on which his eye rested smote him, +but it was with the stroke of a friend. A clear and sweet light from the +past shed its penetrating rays into the darkest corners of his soul. +Forgiven! God had forgiven him; and man had forgiven him. Before him lay +an obscure and humble path; but the heaviest part of his burden was +gone. He must go heavy-laden to the end of his days, treading in rough +paths; but despair had fled, and with it the sense of being separated +from God and man. + +He heard the feeble yet deep old voice of Mr. Clifford outside his door +inquiring from Mrs. Nixey if Mr. Merle was gone down-stairs yet. He made +haste to go down, treading the old staircase with something of the +alacrity of former days. Phebe was in the dining-room, and the servants +came in to prayer as they had been used to do forty years ago when he +was a child. An old-world tranquillity and peacefulness was in the +familiar scene which breathed a deep calm over his tempest-tossed +spirit. + +"Phebe has been telling me all," said Mr. Clifford, when breakfast was +over; "tell me what can be done to save Felicita and the children." + +"I am Jean Merle," he answered with a melancholy smile, "Jean Merle, and +no one else. I come back with no claims, and they must never know me. +Why should I cross their path and blight it? I cannot atone for the +past in any way, except by keeping away forever from them. I shall +injure no one by continuing to be Jean Merle." + +"No," said Phebe, "it is too late now, and it would kill Felicita." + +"This morning a thought struck me," he continued, "a project for my +future life, which you can help me to put into execution, Phebe. I have +an intolerable dread of losing sight of you all again; let me be at +least somewhere in England, when you can now and then give me tidings of +my children and Felicita." + +"I will do anything in the world to help you," cried Phebe eagerly. + +"Then let me go to your little farm," he answered, "and take up your +father's life, at least for a time, until I can see how to make myself +of greater use to my fellow-men. I will till the fields as he did, and +finish the carvings he has left undone, and live his simple, silent +life. It will be good for me, and I shall not be banished from my own +country. I shall be a happier man then than I have any right to be." + +"Have you no fear of being recognized?" she asked. + +"None," he replied. "Look at me, Phebe. Should you have known me again +if I had not betrayed myself to you?" + +"I should have known you again anywhere," she exclaimed. But it was her +heart that cried out that no change could have concealed him from her; +there was a dread lying deep down in her conscience that she might have +passed him by with no suspicion. He shook his head in answer to her +assertion. + +"I will go out into the town," he continued, "and speak to half-a-dozen +men who knew me best, and there will be no gleam of recognition in their +eyes. Recollect Roland Sefton is dead, and has been dead so long that +there will be no clear memory left of him as he was then to compare with +me. And any dim resemblance to him will be fully accounted for by my +relationship to Madame Sefton. No, I am not afraid of the keenest eyes." + +He went out as he had said, and met his old townsmen, many of whom were +themselves so changed that he could barely recognize them. The memory of +Roland Sefton was blotted out, he was utterly forgotten as a dead man +out of mind. + +As Jean Merle strayed through the streets crowded with market-people +come in from the country, his new scheme grew stronger and brighter to +him. It would keep him in England, within reach of all he had loved and +had lost. The little place was dear to him, and the laborious, secluded +peasant life had a charm for him who had so long lived as a Swiss +peasant. By-and-by, he thought, the chance resemblance in the names +would merge that of Merle into the more familiar name of Marlowe; and +the identity of his pursuits with those of the deaf and dumb old man +would hasten such a change. So the years to come would pass by in labor +and obscurity; and an obscure grave in the little churchyard, where all +the Marlowes lay, would shelter him at last. A quiet haven after many +storms; but oh! what a shipwreck had he made of his life! + +All the morning Mr. Clifford sat in his arm-chair lost in thought, only +looking up sometimes to ply Phebe with questions. When Jean Merle +returned, his gray, meditative face grew bright, with a faint smile +shining through his dim eyes. + +"You are no phantom then!" he said. "I've been so used to your company +as a ghost that when you are out of sight I fancy myself dreaming. I +could not let Phebe go away lest I should feel that all this is not +real. Did any one know you again?" + +"Not a soul," he answered; "how could they? Mrs. Nixey herself has no +remembrance of me. There is no fear of my being known." + +"Then I want you to stay with me," said old Mr. Clifford eagerly; "I'm a +lonely man, seventy-seven years old, with neither kith nor kin, and it +seems a long and dreary road to the grave. I want one to sit beside me +in these long evenings, and to take care of me as a son takes care of +his old father. Could you do it, Jean Merle? I beseech you, if it is +possible, give me your services in my old age." + +"It will be hard for you," pleaded Phebe in a low voice, "harder than +going out alone to my little home. But you would do more good here; you +could save us from anxiety, for we are often very anxious and sorrowful +about Mr. Clifford. I can take care that you should always know before +Felix and Hilda come down. Felicita never comes." + +How much harder it would be for him even Phebe could not guess. To dwell +within reach of his old home was altogether different from living in it, +with its countless memories, and the unremitting stings of conscience. +To have about him all that he had lost and made desolate; the empty +home, from which all the familiar faces and beloved voices had vanished; +this lot surely was harder than the humble, laborious life of old +Marlowe on the hills. Yet if any one living had a claim upon him for +such self-sacrifice, it was this feeble, tottering old man, who was +gazing up into his face with urgent and imploring eyes. + +"I will stay here and be your servant," he answered, "if there appears +no reason against it when we have given it more thought." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +PHEBE'S SECRET. + + +For the first time in her life those who were about Phebe Marlowe felt +that she was under a cloud. The sweet sunny atmosphere, as of a clear +and peaceful day, which seemed to surround her, had fled. She was absent +and depressed, and avoided society, even that of Hilda, who had been +like her own child to her. Towards Felicita there was a subtle change in +Phebe's manner, which could not fail to impress deeply her sensitive +temperament. She felt that Phebe shrank from her, and that she was no +longer welcome to the studio, which of all places in the world had been +to her a place of repose, and of brief cessation of troubled thought. +Phebe's direct and simple nature, free from all guile and worldliness, +had made her a perfect sympathizer with any true feeling. And Felicita's +feeling with regard to her past most sorrowful life had been absolutely +real; if only Phebe had known all the circumstances of it as she had +always supposed she did. + +Phebe was, moreover, fearful of some accident betraying to Felicita the +circumstance of Jean Merle living at Riversborough. There had never +been any direct correspondence between Felicita and Mr. Clifford, except +on purely business matters; and Felix was too much engrossed with his +own affairs to find time to run down to Riversborough, or to keep up an +animated interchange of letters with his old friend there. The +intercourse between them had been chiefly carried on through Phebe +herself, who was the old man's prime favorite. Neither was he a man +likely to let out anything he might wish to conceal. But still she was +nervous and afraid. How far from improbable it was that through some +unthought-of channel Felicita might hear that a stranger, related to +Madame Sefton, had entered the household of Mr. Clifford as his +confidential attendant, and that this stranger's name was Jean Merle. +What would happen then? + +She was burdened with a secret, and her nature abhorred a secret. There +was gladness, almost utterly pure, to her in the belief that there was +One being who could read the inmost recesses of her heart, and see, with +the loving-kindness of an Allwise Father, its secret faults, the errors +which she did not herself understand. That she had nothing to tell to +God, which He did not know of her already, was one of the deepest +foundations of her spiritual life. And in some measure, in all possible +measure, she would have had it so with those whom she loved. She did not +shrink from showing to them her thoughts, and motives, and emotions. It +was the limit of expression, so quickly reached, so impassable, that +chafed her; and she was always searching for fresh modes of conveying +her own feeling to other souls. Possibly the enforced speechlessness in +which she had passed her early years had aided in creating this +passionate desire to impart herself to those about her in unfettered +communion, and she ardently delighted in the same unreserved confidence +in those who conversed with her. But now she was doomed to bear the +burden of a secret fraught with strange and painful consequences to +those whom she loved, if time should ever divulge it. + +The winter months passed away cheerlessly, though she worked with more +persistent energy than ever before, partly to drive away the thoughts +that troubled her. She heard from Mr. Clifford, but not more frequently +than usual, and Jean Merle did not venture upon sending her a line of +his hand-writing. Mr. Clifford spoke in guarded terms of the comfort he +found in the companionship of his attendant, in spite of his being a sad +and moody man. Now and then he told Phebe that this attendant of his had +gone for a day or two to her solitary little house on the uplands, of +which Mr. Clifford kept the key, and that he stayed there a day or two, +finishing the half-carved blocks of oak her father had left incomplete. +It would have been a happier existence, she knew, for himself, if Jean +Merle had gone to dwell there altogether; but it was along this path of +self-sacrifice and devotion alone lay the road back to a Christian life. + +One point troubled Phebe's conscience more than any other. Ought she not +at least to tell Canon Pascal what she knew? She could not help feeling +that this second fraud would seem worse in his estimation than the first +one. And Felicita, the very soul of truth and honor, had connived at it! +It seemed immeasurably more terrible in Phebe's own eyes. To her money +had so small a value, it lay on so low a level in the scale of life, +that a crime in connection with it had far less guilt than one against +the affections. And how unutterable a sin against all who loved him had +Roland and Felicita fallen into! She recalled his mother's mourning for +him through many long years, and her belief in death that she was going +soon to rejoin the beloved son whom she had lost. Her own grief she put +aside, but there was the deep, boyish sorrow of Felix, and even little +Hilda's fatherlessness, as the children had grown up through the various +stages of childhood. It might have been bad for them to bear the stigma +of their father's shame, but still Phebe believed it would have been +better for every one of them to have gone bravely forward to bear the +just consequences of sin. + +She went down into Essex to spend a day or two at Christmas, carrying +with her the fitful spirit so foreign to her. The perfect health that +had been hers hitherto was broken; and Mrs. Pascal, a confirmed invalid, +to whom Phebe's physical vigor and evenness of temper had been a +constant source of delight and invigoration, felt the change in her +keenly. + +"She has something on her mind," she said to her husband; "you must try +and find it out, or she will be ill." + +"I know she has a secret," he answered, "but it is not her own. Phebe +Marlowe is as open as the day; she will never have a secret of her own." + +But he made no effort to find out her secret. His searching, kindly eyes +met hers with the trustfulness of a frank and open nature that +recognized a nature akin to its own, and Phebe never shrank from his +gaze, though her lips remained closed. If it was right for her to tell +him anything of the stranger who had been about to make him his +confessor, she would do it. Canon Pascal would not ask any questions. + +"Felix and Alice are growing more and more deeply in love with each +other," he said to her; "there is something beautiful and pleasant in +being a spectator of these palmy days of theirs. Felicita even felt +something of their happiness when she was here last, and she will not +withhold her full approbation much longer." + +"And you," answered Phebe, with an eager flush on her face, "you do not +repent of giving Alice to the son of a man who might have been a +convict?" + +"I believe Alice would marry Felix if his father had been a murderer," +replied Canon Pascal; "it is too late to alter it now. Besides, I know +Felix through and through, he is himself; he is no longer the son of any +person, but a true man, one of the sons of God." + +The strong and emphatic tone of Canon Pascal's words brought great +consolation to Phebe's troubled mind. She might keep silence with a good +conscience, for the duty of disclosing all to Canon Pascal arose simply +from the possibility that his conduct would be altered by this further +knowledge of Roland and Felicita. + +"But this easy country life is not good for Felix," she said in a more +cheerful tone; "he needs a difficult parish to develop his energies. It +is not among your people he will become a second Felix Merle." + +"Patience! Phebe," he answered, "there is a probability in the future, +a bare probability, and dimly distant, which may change all that. He may +have as much to do as Felix Merle by and by." + +Phebe returned to her work in London with a somewhat lighter heart. Yet +the work was painful to her; work which a few months before would have +been a delight. For Felicita, yielding to the urgent entreaties of Felix +and Hilda, had consented to sit for her portrait. She was engaged in no +writing, and had ample leisure. Until now she had resisted all +importunity, and no likeness of her existed. She disliked photographs, +and had only had one taken for Roland alone when they were married, and +she could never bring herself to sit for an artist comparatively a +stranger to her. It was opposed to her reserved and somewhat haughty +temperament that any eye should scan too freely and too curiously the +lineaments of her beautiful face, with its singularly expressive +individuality. But now that Phebe's skill had been so highly cultivated, +and commanded an increasing reputation, she could no longer oppose her +children's reiterated entreaties. + +Felicita was groping blindly for the reason of the change in Phebe's +feeling towards her, for she was conscious of some vague, mysterious +barrier that had arisen between her and the tender, simple soul which +had been always full of lowly sympathy for her. But Phebe silently +shrank from her in a terror mingled with profound, unutterable pity. For +here was a secret misery of a solitary human spirit, ice-bound in a +self-chosen isolation, which was an utter mystery to her. All the old +love and reverence, amounting almost to adoration, which she had, +offered up as incense to some being far above her had died away; gone +also was the child-like simplicity with which she could always talk to +Felicita. She could read the pride and sadness of the lovely face before +her with a clear understanding now, but the lines which reproduced it on +her canvas were harder and sterner than they would have been if she had +known less of Felicita's heart. The painting grew into a likeness, but +it was a painful one, full of hidden sadness, bitterness, and +infelicity. Felix and Hilda gazed at it in silence, almost as solemn and +mournful as if they were looking on the face of their dead mother. She +herself turned from it with a feeling of dread. + +"How much do you know of me?" she cried; "how deep can you look into my +heart, Phebe?" Phebe glanced from her to the finished portrait, and only +answered by tears. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +NEAR THE END. + + +Felicita had followed the urgent advice of her physicians in giving up +writing for a season. There was no longer any necessity for her work, +as some time since the money which Roland Sefton had fraudulently +appropriated, had been paid back with full interest, and she began to +feel justified in accepting the income from her marriage settlement. +During the winter and spring she spent her days much as other women of +her class and station, in a monotonous round of shopping, driving in the +parks, visiting, and being visited, partly for Hilda's sake, and partly +driven to it for want of occupation; but short as the time was which she +gave to this life, she grew inexpressibly weary of it. Early, in May she +turned into Phebe's studio, which she had seldom entered since her +portrait was finished. This portrait was in the Academy Exhibition, and +she was constantly receiving empty compliments about it. + +"Dear Phebe!" she exclaimed, "I have tried fashionable life to see how +much it is worth, and oh! it is altogether hollow and inane. I did not +expect much from it, but it is utter weariness to me." + +"And you will go back to your writing?" said Phebe. + +Felicita hesitated for a moment. There was a worn and harassed +expression on her pale face, as if she had not slept or rested well for +a long time, which touched Phebe's heart. + +"Not yet," she answered; "I am going on a journey. I shall start for +Switzerland to-night." + +"To Switzerland! To-night!" echoed Phebe. "Oh, no! you must not, you +cannot. And alone? How can you think of going alone?" + +"I went alone once," she answered, smiling with her lips, though her +dark eyes grew no brighter, "and I can go again. I shall manage very +well. I fancied you would not care to go with me," she added, sighing. + +"But I must go with you!" cried Phebe; "did I not promise long ago? Only +don't go to-night, stay a day or two." + +"No, no," she said with feverish impatience, "I have made all my +arrangements. Nobody must know, and Hilda is gone down into Essex for a +week, and my cousins fancy I am going to the sea-side for a few days' +rest. I must start to-night, in less than four hours, Phebe. You cannot +be ready in time?" + +But she spoke wistfully, as if it would be pleasant to hear Phebe say +she would go with her. For a few minutes Phebe was lost in bewildered +thought. Felicita had told her some months ago that she must go to +Engelberg before she could give her consent to Felix marrying Alice, but +it had escaped her memory, pushed out by more immediate and more present +cares. And now she could not tell what Jean Merle would have her do. To +discover suddenly that he was alive, and in England, nay, at +Riversborough itself, under their old roof, would be too great a shock +for Felicita. Phebe dared not tell her. Yet, to let her start off alone +on this fruitless errand, to find only an empty hut at Engelberg, with +no trace of its occupant left behind, was heartless, and might prove +equally injurious to Felicita. There was no time to communicate with +Riversborough, she must come to a decision for herself, and at once. The +white, worn face, with its air of sad determination, filled her with +deep and eager pity. + +"Oh! I will go with you," she cried. "I could never bear you to go +alone. But is there nothing you can tell me? Only trust me. What trouble +carries you there? Why must you go to Engelberg before Felix marries?" + +She had caught Felicita's small cold hand between her own and looked up +beseechingly into her face. Oh! if she would but now, at last, throw off +the burden which had so long bowed her down, and tell her secret, she +could let her know that this painful pilgrimage was utterly needless. +But the sweet, sad, proud lips were closed, and the dark eyes looking +down steadily into Phebe's, betrayed no wavering of her determined +reticence. + +"You shall come with me as far as Lucerne, dear Phebe," she answered, +stooping down to kiss her uplifted face, "but I must go alone to +Engelberg." + +There was barely time enough for Phebe to make any arrangements, there +was not a moment for deliberation. She wrote a few hurried words to Jean +Merle, imploring him to follow them at once, and promising to detain +Felicita on their way, if possible. Felicita's own preparations were +complete, and her route marked out, with the time of steamers and trains +set down. Through Paris, Mulhausen, and Basle she hastened on to +Lucerne. Now she had set out on this dreary and dolorous path there +could be no rest for her until she reached the end. Phebe recognized +this as soon as they had started. It would be impossible to detain +Felicita on the way. + +But Jean Merle could not be far behind them, a few hours would bring him +to them after they had reached Lucerne. Felicita was very silent as they +travelled on by the swiftest trains, and Phebe was glad of it. For what +could she say to her? She was herself lost in a whirl of bewilderment, +and of mingled hope and fear. Could it possibly be that Felicita would +learn that Jean Merle was still living, and the mode and manner of his +life through this long separation, and yet stand aloof from him, afar +off, as one on whom he had no claim, claim for pity and love? But if she +could relent towards him, how must it be in the future? It could never +be that she would own the wrong she had committed openly in the face of +the world. What was to happen now? Phebe was hardly less feverishly +agitated than Felicita herself. + +It was evening when they arrived at Lucerne, and Felicita was forced to +rest until the morning. They sat together in a small balcony opening out +of her chamber, which overlooked the Lake, where the moonbeams were +playing in glistening curves over the quiet ripples of the water. All +the mountains round it looked black in the dim light, and the rugged +summit of Pilatus, still slightly sprinkled with snow, frowned down upon +them; but southward, behind the dark range of lower hills, there stood +out against the almost black-blue of the sky a broken line of pale, +mysterious peaks, which might have been merely pallid clouds lying along +the horizon but for their stedfast, unaltering immobility. They were the +Engelberg Alps, with the snowy Titlis gleaming highest among them; and +Felicita's face, wan and pallid as themselves, was set towards them. + +"You will let me come with you to-morrow?" said Phebe, in a tone of +painful entreaty. + +"No, no," she answered. "I could not bear to have even you at Engelberg +with me. I must visit that grave alone. And yet I know you love me, dear +Phebe." + +"Dearly!" she sobbed. + +"Yes, you love me dearly," she repeated sorrowfully, "but not as you +once did; even your heart is changed towards me. If you went with me +to-morrow I might lose all the love that is left. I cannot afford to +lose that, my dear." + +"You could never lose it!" answered Phebe. "I love you differently? Yes, +but not less. I love you now as Christ loves us all, more for God's sake +than our own; and that is the deepest, most faithful love. That can +never be worn out or repulsed. As Christ has loved me, so I love you, my +Felicita." + +Her voice had fallen into an almost inaudible whisper, as she knelt down +beside her, pressing her lips upon the thin, cold hands lying listlessly +on Felicita's lap. It had been as an impulsive girl, worshipping her +from a lowly inferiority, that Phebe had been used long ago to kiss +Felicita's hand. But this was the humility of a great love, willing to +help, and seeking to save her. Felicita felt it through every fibre of +her sensitive nature. For an instant she thought it might be possible +that Phebe had caught some glimmer of the truth. With her weary and dim +eyes lifted up to the pale crests of the mountains, beneath which lay +the miserable secret of her life, she hesitated as to whether she could +tell Phebe all. But the effort to admit any human soul into the inner +recesses of her own was too great for her. + +"Christ loves me, you say," she murmured, "I don't know; I never felt +it. But I have felt sure of your love; and next to Felix and Hilda you +have stood nearest to me. Love me always, and in spite of all, my dear." + +She lifted up her bowed head and kissed her lips with a long and +lingering kiss. Then Phebe knew that she was bent upon going alone and +immediately to Engelberg. + + * * * * * + +The icy air of the morning, blowing down from the mountains where the +winter's snow was but partially melted, made Felicita shiver, though her +mind was too busy to notice why. Phebe had seen that she was warmly +clad, and had come down to the boat with her to start her on this last +day's journey; but Felicita had scarcely opened her pale lips to say +good-by. She stood on the quay, watching the boat as long as the white +steam from the funnel was in sight, and then she turned away, blind to +all the scenery about her, in the heaviness of heart she felt for the +sorrowful soul going out on so sad and vain a quest. There had been no +time for Jean Merle to overtake them, and now Felicita was gone when a +few words from her would have stopped her. But Phebe had not dared to +utter them. + +Felicita too had not seen either the sunlit hills lying about her, or +Phebe watching her departure. She had no thought for anything but what +there might be lying before her, in that lonely mountain village, to +which, after fourteen years, her reluctant feet were turned. Possibly +she might find no trace of the man who had been so long dead to her and +to all the world, and thus be baffled and defeated, yet relieved, at the +first stage of her search. For she did not desire to find him. Her heart +would be lightened of its miserable load, if she should discover that +Jean Merle was dead, and buried in the same quiet cemetery where the +granite cross marked the grave of Roland Sefton. That was a thing to be +hoped for. If Jean Merle was living still, and living there, what should +she say to him? Wild hopes and desires would be awakened within him if +he found her seeking after him? Nay, it might possibly be that he would +insist upon making their mutual sin known to the world, by claiming to +return to her and her children. It seemed a desperate thing to have +done; and for the first time since she left London she repented of +having done it. Was she not sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind? There +was still time for her to retrace her steps and go back home, the home +she owed altogether to herself; yet one which this man, whom she had not +seen for so long a time, had a right to enter as the master of it. What +fatal impulse had driven her to leave it on so wild and fruitless an +errand? + +Yet she felt she could no longer live without knowing the fate of Jean +Merle. Her heart had been gnawing itself ever since they parted with +vague remorses and self-accusations, slumbering often, but now aroused +into an activity that could not be laid to rest. This morning, for the +first time, beneath all her perplexity and fear and hope to find him +dead, there came to her a strange, undefined, scarcely conscious +tenderness towards the miserable man, whom she had last seen standing in +her presence, an uncouth, ragged, weather-beaten peasant. The man had +been her husband, the father of her children, and a deep, keen pain was +stirring in her soul, partly of the old love, for she had once loved +him, and partly of the pity she felt for him, as she began to realize +the difference there had existed between her lot and his. + +She scarcely felt how worn out she was, how dangerously fatigued with +this rapid travelling and the resistless current of agitation which had +possessed her. As she journeyed onwards she was altogether unconscious +of the roads she traversed, only arousing herself when any change of +conveyance made it necessary. Her brain was busy over the opinion, more +than once expressed by Phebe, that every man could live down the evil +consequences of his sin, if he had courage and faith enough. "If God +forgives us, man will forgive us," said Phebe. But Felicita pondered +over the possibility of Roland having paid the penalty of his crime, and +going back again to take up his life, walking more humbly in it +evermore, with no claim to preeminence save that of most diligently +serving his fellow-men. She endeavored to picture herself receiving him +back again from the convict prison, with all its shameful memories +branded on him, and looking upon him again as her husband and the father +of her children; and she found herself crying out to her own heart that +it would have been impossible to her. Phebe might have done it, but +she--never! + +The journey, though not more than fourteen miles from Stans to +Engelberg, occupied several hours, so broken up the narrow road was by +the winter's rains and the melting snow. The steep ascent between +Grafenort and Engelberg was dangerous, the more so as a heavy +thunderstorm broke over it; but Felicita remained insensible to any +peril. At length the long, narrow valley lay before her, stretching +upwards to the feet of the rocky hills. The thunderstorm that had met +them on the road had been raging fiercely in this mountain caldron, and +was but just passing away in long, low mutterings, echoed and prolonged +amid the precipitous walls of rock. Tall, trailing, spectre-like clouds +slowly followed each other in solemn and stately procession up the +valley, as though amid their light yet impenetrable folds of vapor they +bore the invisible form of some mysterious being; whether in triumph or +in sorrow it was impossible to tell. The sun caught their gray crests +and tinged them with rainbow colors; and as they floated unhastingly +along, the valley behind them seemed to spring into a new life of +sunshine and mirth. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +THE MOST MISERABLE. + + +It was past noon when Felicita was driven up to the hotel in the +village, where, when she had last been at Engelberg, she had gone to +look upon the dead face of the stranger, who was to carry away the sin +of Roland Sefton, with the shame it would bring upon her, and bury it +forever in his grave. It seemed but a few days ago, and she felt +reluctant to enter the house again. In two or three hours when the +horses were rested, she said to the driver, she would be ready to return +to Stans. Then she wandered out into the village street, thinking she +might come across some peasant at work alone, or some woman standing +idly at her door, with whom she could fall into a casual conversation, +and learn what she had come to ascertain. But she met with no solitary +villager; and she strayed onward, almost unwittingly in the direction of +the cemetery. In passing by the church, she pushed open one of the +heavy, swinging doors, and cast a glance around; there was no one in +sight, but the gabble of boys' voices in some vestry close by reached +her ear, and a laugh rang after it, which echoed noisily in the quiet +aisles. The high altar was lit up by a light from a side-window and her +eye was arrested by it. Still, whether she saw and heard, or was deaf +and blind, she scarcely knew. Her feet were drawn by some irresistible +attraction towards the grave where her husband was not buried. + +She did not know in what corner of the graveyard it was to be found; and +when she entered the small enclosure, with its wooden cross at the head +of every narrow mound, she stood still for a minute or two, +hesitatingly, and looking before her with a bewildered and reluctant +air, as if engaged in an enterprise she recoiled from. A young priest, +the curé of the nearest mountain parish, who visiting the grave of one +of his parishioners lately buried at Engelberg, was passing to and fro +among the grassy mounds with his breviary in his hands, and his lips +moving as if in prayer; but at the unexpected sight of a traveller thus +early in the season, his curiosity was aroused, and he bent his steps +towards her. When he was sufficiently near to catch her wandering eye, +he spoke in a quiet and courteous manner-- + +"Is madame seeking for any special spot?" he inquired. + +"Yes," answered Felicita, fastening upon him her large; sad eyes, which +had dark rings below them, intensifying the mournfulness of their +expression, "I am looking for a grave. The grave of a stranger; Roland +Sefton. I have come from England to find it." + +Her voice was constrained and low; and the words came in brief, panting +syllables, which sounded almost like sobs. The black-robed priest looked +closely and scrutinizingly into the pallid face turned towards him, +which was as rigid as marble, except for the gleam of the dark eyes. + +"Madame is suffering; she is ill!" he said. + +"No, not ill," answered Felicita, in an absent manner, as if she was +speaking in a dream, "but of all women the most miserable." + +It seemed to the young curé that the English lady was not aware of what +words she uttered. He felt embarrassed and perplexed: all the English +were heretics, and how heretics could be comforted or counselled he did +not know. But the dreamy sadness of her face appealed to his compassion. +The only thing he could do for her was to guide her to the grave she +was seeking. + +For the last nine months no hand had cleared away the weeds from around +it, or the moss from gathering upon it. The little pathway trodden by +Jean Merle's feet was overgrown, though still perceptible, and the +priest walked along it, with Felicita following him. Little threads of +grass were filling up the deep clear-cut lettering on the cross; and the +gray and yellow lichens were creeping over the granite. Since the snow +had melted and the sun had shone hotly into the high-lying valley there +had been a rapid growth of vegetation here, as everywhere else, and the +weeds and grass had flourished luxuriantly; but amongst them Alice's +slip of ivy had thrown out new buds and tendrils. The priest paused +before the grave, with Felicita standing beside him silent and +spell-bound. She did not weep or cry, or fling herself upon the ground +beside it, as he had expected. When he looked askance at her marble face +there was no trace of emotion upon it, excepting that her lips moved +very slightly, as if they formed the words inscribed upon the cross. + +"It is not in good order just at present," he said, breaking the +oppressive silence; "the peasant who took charge of it, Jean Merle, +disappeared from Engelberg last summer, and has never since been seen or +heard of. They say he was paid to take care of this grave; and truly +when he was here there was no weed, no soil, no little speck of moss +upon it. There was no other grave kept like this. Was Roland Sefton a +relation of Madame?" + +"Yes," she whispered, or he thought she whispered it from the motion of +her lips. + +"Madame is not a Catholic?" he asked. + +Felicita shook her head. + +"What a pity! what a pity!" he continued, in a tone of mild regret, "or +I could console her. Yet I will pray for her this night to the good God, +and the Mother of Sorrows, to give her comfort. If she only knew the +solace of opening her heart; even to a fellow-mortal!" + +"Does no one know where Jean Merle is?" she asked, in a low but clear +penetrating voice, which startled him, he said afterwards, almost as +much as if the image of the blessed Virgin had spoken to him. With the +effort to speak, a slight color flushed across the pale wan face, and +her eyes fastened eagerly upon him. + +"No one, Madame," he replied; "the poor man was a misanthrope, and lived +quite alone, in misery. He came neither to confession nor to mass; but +whether he was a heretic or an atheist no man knew. Where he came from +or where he went to was known only to himself. But they think that he +must have perished on the mountains, for he disappeared suddenly last +August. His little hut is falling into ruins; it was too poor a place +for anybody but him." + +"I must go there; where is it?" she inquired, turning abruptly away from +the grave, without a tear or a prayer, he observed. The spell that had +bound her seemed broken; and she looked agitated and hurried. There was +more vigor and decision in her face and manner than he could have +believed possible a few moments before. She was no longer a marble image +of despair. + +"If Madame will go quite through the village," he answered, "it is the +last house on the way to Stans. But it cannot be called a house; it is +a ruin. It stands apart from all the rest, like an accursed spot; for no +person will go near it. If Madame goes, she will find no one there." + +With a quick yet stately gesture of farewell, Felicita turned away, and +walked swiftly down the little path, not running, but moving so rapidly +that she was soon out of sight. By and by, when he had had time to think +over the interview and to recover from his surprise, he followed her, +but he saw nothing of her; only the miserable hovel where poor Jean +Merle had lived, into which she had probably found an entrance. + +Felicita had learned something of what she had come to discover. Jean +Merle had been living in Engelberg until the last summer, though now he +had disappeared. Perished on the mountains! oh! could that be true? It +was likely to be true. He had always been a daring mountaineer when +there was every motive to make him careful of his life; and now what +could make it precious to him? There was no other reason for suddenly +breaking off the thread of his life here in Engelberg; for Felicita had +never imagined it possible that he would return to England. If he had +disappeared he must have perished on the mountains. + +Yet there was no relief to her in the thought. If she had heard in +England that he was dead there would have been a sense of deliverance, +and a secret consciousness of real freedom, which would have made her +future course lie before her in brighter and more tranquil light. She +would at least be what she seemed to be. But here, amid the scenes of +his past life, there was a deep compunction in her heart, and a profound +pity for the miserable man, whose neighbors knew nothing about him but +that he had disappeared out of their sight. That she should come to seek +him, and find not even his grave, oppressed her with anguish as she +passed along the village street, till she saw the deserted hut standing +apart like an accursed place, the fit dwelling of an outcast. + +The short ladder that led to it was half broken, but she could climb it +easily; and the upper part of the door was partly open, and swinging +lazily to and fro in the light breeze that was astir after the storm. +There was no difficulty in unfastening the bolt which held the lower +half; and Felicita stepped into the low room. She stood for awhile, how +long she did not know, gazing forward with wide open motionless eyes, +the brain scarcely conscious of seeing through them, though the sight +before her was reflected on their dark and glistening surface. A corner +of the roof had fallen in during the winter, and a stream of bright +light shone through it, irradiating the dim and desolate interior. The +abject poverty of her husband's dwelling-place was set in broad +daylight. The windowless walls, the bare black rafters overhead, the +rude bed of juniper branches and ferns, the log-seat, rough as it had +come out of the forest--she saw them all as if she saw them not, so busy +was her brain that it could take no notice of them just now. + +So busy was it that all her life seemed to be hurrying and crowding and +whirling through it, with swift pictures starting into momentary +distinctness and dying suddenly to give place to others. It was a +terrifying and enthralling phantasmagoria which held her spell-bound on +the threshold of this ruined hovel, her husband's last shelter. + +At last she roused herself, and stepped forward hesitatingly. Her eyes +had fallen upon a book or two at the end of a shelf as black as the +walls; and books had always called to her with a voice that could not be +resisted. She crept slowly and feebly across the mouldering planks of +the floor, through which she could see the grass springing on the turf +below the hut. But when she lifted up the mildewed and dust-covered +volume lying uppermost and opened it, her eyes fell first upon her own +portrait, stained, faded, nearly blotted out; yet herself as she was +when she became Roland Sefton's wife. + +She sank down, faint and trembling, on the rough block of wood, and +leaned back against the mouldy walls, with the photograph in her hand, +and her eyes fastened upon it. His mother's portrait, and his +children's, he had given up as evidence of his death; but he had never +parted with hers. Oh! how he had loved her! Would to God she had loved +him as dearly! But she had forsaken him, had separated him from her as +one who was accursed, and whose very name was a malediction. She had +exacted the uttermost farthing from him; his mother, his children, his +home, his very life, to save her name from dishonor. It seemed as if +this tarnished, discolored picture of herself, cherished through all his +misery and desolation, spoke more deeply and poignantly to her than +anything else could do. She fancied she could see him, the way-worn, +haggard, weather-beaten peasant, as she had seen him last, sitting here, +with the black walls shutting him out from all the world, but holding +this portrait in his hands, and looking at it as she did now. And he had +perished on the mountains! + +Suddenly all the whirl of her brain grew quiet; the swift thoughts +ceased to rush across it. She felt dull and benumbed as if she could no +longer exert herself to remember or to know anything. Her eyes were +weary of seeing, and the lids drooped over them. The light had become +dim as if the sun had already set. Her ears were growing heavy as though +no sound could ever disturb her again; when a bitter and piercing cry, +such as is seldom drawn from the heart of man, penetrated through all +the lethargy creeping over her. Looking up, with eyes that opened +slowly and painfully, she saw her husband's face bending over her. A +smile of exceeding sweetness and tenderness flitted across her face, and +she tried to stretch out both her hands towards him. But the effort was +the last faint token of life. They had found one another too late. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +FOR ONE MOMENT + + +She had not uttered a word to him; but her smile and the tender gesture +of her dying hands had spoken more than words. He stood motionless, +gazing down upon her, and upon Phebe, who had thrown herself beside her, +encircling her with her arms, as if she would snatch her away from the +relentless grasp of death. A single cry of anguish had escaped him; but +he was dumb now, and no sound was heard in the silent hut, except those +that entered it from without. Phebe did not know what had happened, but +he knew. Quite clearly, without any hope or self-deception, he knew that +Felicita was dead. + +The dread of it had haunted him from the moment that he had heard of her +hurried departure in quest of him. When he read Phebe's words, imploring +him to follow them, the recollection had flashed across him of how the +thread of Lord Riversdale's life had snapped under the strain of unusual +anxiety and fatigue. Felicita's own delicate health had been failing for +some months past. As swiftly as he could follow he had pursued them; but +her impatient and feverish haste had prevented him from overtaking them +in time. What might have been the result if he had reached her sooner +he could not tell. That there could ever have been any knitting together +again of the tie that had ever united them seemed impossible. Death +alone, either hers or his, could have touched her heart to the +tenderness of her farewell smile and gesture. + +In after life Jean Merle never spoke of that hour of agony. But there +was nothing in the past which dwelt so deeply or lived again so often in +his memory. He had suffered before; but it seemed as nothing to the +intensity of the anguish that had befallen him now. The image of +Felicita's white and dying face lying against the darkened walls of the +hovel where she had gone to seek him, was indelibly printed on his +brain. He would see it till the hour of his own death. + +He lifted her up, holding her once more in his arms, and clasping her to +his heart, as he carried her through the village street to the hotel. +Phebe walked beside him, as yet only thinking that Felicita had fainted. +His old neighbors crowded out of their houses, scarcely recognizing Jean +Merle in this Monsieur in his good English dress, but with redoubled +curiosity when they saw who it was thus bearing the strange English lady +in his arms. When he had carried her to the hotel, and up-stairs to the +room where he had watched beside the stranger who had borne his name, he +broke through the gathering crowd of onlookers, and fled to his familiar +solitudes among the mountains. + +He had always told himself that Felicita was dead to him. There had not +been in his heart the faintest hope that she could ever again be +anything more to him than a memory and a dream. When he was in England, +though he had not been content until he had seen his children and his +old home, he had never sought to get a glimpse of her, so far beyond him +and above him. But now that she was indeed dead, those beloved eyes +closed forever more from the light of the sun, and the familiar earth +never again to be trodden by her feet, the awful chasm set between them +made him feel as if he was for the first time separated from her. Only +an hour ago and his voice could have reached her in words of entreaty +and of passionate repentance and humble self-renunciation. They could +have spoken face to face, and he might have had a brief interval for +pouring out his heart to her. But there had been no word uttered between +them. There had been only that one moment in which her soul looked back +upon him with a glance of tenderness, before she was gone from him +beyond recall. He came to himself, out of the confused agony of his +grief, as the sun was setting. He found himself in a wild and barren +wilderness of savage rocks, with a small black tarn lying at his feet, +which just caught the glimmer of the setting sun on its lurid surface. +The silence about him was intense. Gray clouds stretched across the +mountains, out of which a few sad peaks of rock rose against the gray +sky. The snowy dome of the Titlis towering above the rest looked down on +him out of the shadow of the clouded heavens with a ghostly paleness. +All the world about him was cold and wan, and solemn as the face of the +dead. There was death up here and in the valley yonder; but down in the +valley it bore too dear and too sorrowful a form. + +As the twilight deepened, the recollection of Phebe's loneliness and her +distress at his absence at last roused him. He could no longer leave +her, bewildered by this new trouble, and with slow and reluctant steps +he retraced his path through the deep gloom of the forests to the +village. There was much to be turned over in his mind and to be decided +upon before he reached the bustling hotel and the gaping throng of +spectators, marvelling at Jean Merle's reappearance under circumstances +so unaccountable. He had met with Phebe as she returned from starting +Felicita in the first boat, and they had waited for the next. At +Grafenort they had dismissed their carriage, thinking they could enter +the valleys with less observation on foot; and perhaps meet with +Felicita in such a manner as to avoid making his return known in +Engelberg. He had turned aside to take shelter in his old hut, whilst +Phebe went on to find Felicita, when his bitter cry of pain had called +her back to him. The villagers would probably take him for a courier in +attendance upon these ladies, if he acted as one when he reached the +hotel. But how was he to act? + +Two courses were open to him. There was no longer any reason to dread a +public trial and conviction for the crime he had committed so many years +ago. It was quite practicable to return to England, account plausibly +for his disappearance and the mistake as to identity which had caused a +stranger to be buried in his name, and take up his life again as Roland +Sefton. It was improbable that any searching investigation should be +made into his statements. Who would be interested in doing it? But the +old memories and suspicions would be awakened and strengthened a +hundred-fold by the mystery surrounding his return. No one could compel +him to reveal his secret, he had simply to keep his lips closed in +impenetrable silence. True he would be a suspected man, with a +disgraceful secrecy hanging like a cloud about him. He could not live so +at Riversborough, among his old towns-people, of whom he had once been a +leader. He must find some new sphere and dwell in it, always dreading +the tongue of rumor. + +And his son and daughter? How would they regard him if he maintained an +obstinate and ambiguous silence towards them? They were no longer little +children, scarcely separate from their father, seeing through his eyes, +and touching life only through him. They were separate individuals, +living souls, with a personality of their own, the more free from his +influence because of his long absence and supposed death. It was a young +man he must meet in Felix, a critic and a judge like other men; but with +a known interest in the criticism and the judgment he had to pass upon +his father, and less apt to pass it lightly. His son would ponder deeply +over any account he might give of himself. Hilda, too, was at a +sensitive and delicate point of girlhood, when she would inevitably +shrink from any contact with the suspicion and doubt that would surround +this strange return after so many years of disappearance. + +Yet how could he let them know the terrible fraud he had committed for +their mother's sake and with her connivance? Felix knew of his other +defalcations; but Hilda was still ignorant of them. If he returned to +them with the truth in his lips, they would lose the happy memory of +their mother and their pride in her fame. He understood only too well +how dominant must have been her influence over them, not merely by the +tender common ties of motherhood, but by the fascinating charm of her +whole nature, reserved and stately as it had been. He must betray her +and lessen her memory in their sorrowful esteem. To them, if not to the +world, he must disclose all, or resolve to remain a stranger to them +forever. During the last six months it had seemed to him that a humble +path lay before him, following which he might again live a life of lowly +discipleship. He had repented with a bitter repentance, and out of the +depths into which he had fallen he had cried unto God and been +delivered. He believed that he had received God's forgiveness, as he +knew that he had received men's forgiveness. Out of the wreck of his +former life he had constructed a little raft and trusted to it bearing +him safely through what remained of the storm of life. If Felicita had +lived he would have remained in the service of his father's old friend, +proving himself of use in numberless ways; not merely as an attendant, +but in assisting him with the affairs of the bank, with which he was +more conversant, from his early acquaintanceship with the families +transacting business with it, than the stranger who was acting manager +could be. He had not been long enough in Riversborough to gain any +influence in the town as a poor foreigner, but there had been a hope +dawning within that he might again do some good in his native place, the +dearer to him because of his long and dreary banishment. In time he +might perform some work worthy of his forefathers, though under another +name. If he could so live as to leave behind him the memory of a sincere +and simple Christian, who had denied himself daily to live a righteous, +sober, and godly life, and had cheerfully taken up his cross to follow +Christ, he would in some measure atone for the disgrace Roland Sefton's +defalcations had brought upon the name of Christ. + +This humble, ambitious career was still before him if he could forego +the joy of making himself known to his children--a doubtful joy. For +had he not cut himself from them by his reckless and despairing +abandonment of them in their childhood? He could bring them nothing now +but sorrow and shame. The sacrifice would be on their side, not his. It +needs all the links of all the years to bind parents and children in an +indestructible chain; and if he attempted to unite the broken links it +could only be by a knowledge of their mother's error as well as his. Let +him sacrifice himself for the last and final time to Felicita and the +fair name she had made for herself. + +He was stumbling along in the dense darkness of the forest with no gleam +of light to guide him on his way, and his feet were constantly snared in +the knotted roots of the trees intersecting the path. So must he stumble +along a dark and rugged track through the rest of his years. There was +no cheering gleam beckoning him to a happy future. But though it was +thorny and obscure it was not an ignoble path, and it might end at last +even for him in the welcome words, "Well done, good and faithful +servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." + +His mind was made up before he reached the valley. He could not unravel +the warp and woof of his life. The gossamer threads of the webs he had +begun to weave about himself so lightly in the heyday of his youth and +prosperity and happiness had thickened into cables and petrified; it was +impossible to break through the coil of them or find a way out of it. +Roland Sefton had died many years ago. Let him remain dead. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +THE FINAL RESOLVE. + + +It was dark, with the pitchy darkness of a village street, where the +greater part of the population were gone to bed, when he passed through +Engelberg towards the hotel, where Phebe must be awaiting his return +anxiously. In carrying out his project it would be well for him to have +as little as possible to do with the inmates of the hotel, and he +approached it cautiously. All the ground-floor was dark, except for a +glimmer of light in a little room at the end of a long passage; but the +windows of the _salon_ on the floor above were lit up, and Jean Merle +stepped quietly up the staircase unheard and unseen. + +Phebe was sitting by a table, her head buried in her arms, which rested +upon it--a forlorn and despondent attitude. She lifted up her face as he +entered and gazed pitifully into his; but for a minute or two neither of +them spoke. He stood just within the door, looking towards her as he had +done on the fateful night when Felicita had told him that she chose his +death rather than her share of the disgrace attaching to his crime. This +day just drawn to a close had been the bitterest fruit of the seed then +sown. Jean Merle's face, on which there was stamped an expression of +intense but patient suffering, steadfastly met Phebe's aching eyes. + +"She is dead!" she murmured. + +"I knew it," he answered. + +"I did not know what to do," she went on after a slight pause, and +speaking in a pitiful and deprecating tone. + +"Poor Phebe!" he said; "but I am come to tell you what I have resolved +to do--what seems best for us all to do. We must act as if I was only +what I seem to be, a stranger to you, a passing guide, who has no more +to do with these things than any other stranger. We will do what I +believe she would have desired; her name shall be as dear to us as it +was to her; no disgrace shall stain it now." + +"But can you never throw off your disguise?" she asked, weeping. "Must +you always be what you seem to be now?" + +"I must always be Jean Merle," he replied. "Roland Sefton cannot return +to life; it is impossible. Let us leave her children at least the tender +memory of their mother; I can bear being unknown to them for what +remains to me of life. And we do no one any harm, you and I, by keeping +this secret." + +"No, we wrong no one," she answered. "I have been thinking of it ever +since I was sure she was dead, and I counted upon you doing this. It +will save Felix and Hilda from bitter sorrow, and it would keep her +memory fair and true for them. But you--there will be so much to give +up. They will never know that you are their father; for if we do not +tell them now, we must never, never betray it. Can you do it?" + +"I gave them up long ago," he said; "and if there be any sacrifice I can +make for them, what should withhold me, Phebe? God only knows what an +unutterable relief it would be to me if I could lay bare my whole life +to the eyes of my fellow-men and henceforth walk in their sight in +simple honesty and truthfulness. But that is impossible. Not even you +can see my whole life as it has been. I must go softly all my days, +bearing my burden of secrecy." + +"I too shall have to bear it," she murmured almost inaudibly. + +"I shall start at once for Stans," he went on, "and go to Lucerne by the +first boat in the morning. You shall give me a telegram to send from +there to Canon Pascal, and Felix will be here in less than three days. I +must return direct to Riversborough. I must not perform the last duties +to the dead; even that is denied to me." + +"But Felicita must not be buried here," exclaimed Phebe, her voice +faltering, with an accent of horror at the thought of it. A shudder of +repugnance ran through him also. Roland Sefton's grave was here, and +what would be more natural than to bury Felicita beside it? + +"No, no," he cried, "you must save me from that, Phebe. She must be +brought home and buried among her own people. Promise to save her and me +from that." + +"Oh, I promise it," she said; "it shall never be. You shall not have +that grief." + +"If I stayed here myself," he continued, "it would make it more +difficult to take up my life in Riversborough unquestioned and +unsuspected. It can only be by a complete separation now that I can +effect my purpose. But I can hardly bear to go away, Phebe." + +The profound pitifulness of Phebe's heart was stirred to its inmost +depths by the sound of his voice and the expression of his hopeless +face. She left her seat and drew near to him. + +"Come and see her once more," she whispered. + +Silently he made a gesture of assent, and she led the way to the +adjoining room. He knew it better than she did; for it was here that he +had watched all the night long the death of the stranger who was buried +in Roland Sefton's grave. There was little change in it to his eyes. The +bare walls and the scanty homely furniture were the same now as then. +There was the glimmer of a little lamp falling on the tranquil figure on +the bed. The occupant of this chamber only was different, but oh! the +difference to him! + +"Do not leave me, Phebe!" he cried, stretching out his hand towards her, +as if blind and groping to be led. She stepped noiselessly across the +uncarpeted floor and looked down on the face lying on the pillow. The +smile that had been upon it in the last moment yet lingered about the +mouth, and added an inexpressible gentleness and tenderness to its +beauty. The long dark eyelashes shadowed the cheeks, which were suffused +with a faint flush. Felicita looked young again, with something of the +sweet shy grace of the girl whom he had first seen in this distant +mountain village so many years ago. He sank down on his knees, and shut +out the sight of her from his despairing eyes. The silent minutes crept +slowly away unheeded; he did not stir, or sob, or lift up his bowed +face. This kneeling figure at her feet was as rigid and as death-like as +the lifeless form lying on the bed; and Phebe grew frightened, yet dared +not break in upon his grief. At last a footstep came somewhat noisily up +the staircase, and she laid her hand softly on the gray head beneath +her. + +"Jean Merle," she said, "it is time for us to go." + +The sound of this name in Phebe's familiar voice aroused him. She had +never called him by it before; and its utterance was marked as a thing +irrevocably settled that his life henceforth was to be altogether +divorced from that of Roland Sefton. He had come to the last point which +connected him with it. When he turned away from this rigid form, in all +the awful loveliness of death, he would have cut himself off forever +from the past. He laid his hand upon the chilly forehead; but he dared +not stoop down to touch the sweet sad face with his lips. With no word +of farewell to Phebe, he rushed out into the dense darkness of the night +and made his way down the valley, and through the steep forest roads he +had traversed only a few hours ago with something like hope dawning in +his heart. For in the morning he had known that he should see Felicita +again, and there was expectation and a gleam of gladness in that; but +to-night his eyes had looked upon her for the last time. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +IN LUCERNE. + + +Phebe found herself alone, with the burden of Jean Merle's secret +resting on her unshared. It depended upon her sagacity and tact whether +he should escape being connected in a mysterious manner with the sad +event that had just transpired in Engelberg. The footstep she had heard +on the stairs was that of the landlady, who had gone into the salon and +had thus missed seeing Jean Merle as he left the house. Phebe met her in +the doorway. + +"I have sent a message by the guide who brought me here," she said in +slowly pronounced French; "he is gone to Lucerne, and he will telegraph +to England for me." + +"Is he gone--Jean Merle?" asked the landlady. + +"Certainly, yes," answered Phebe; "he is gone to Lucerne." + +"Will he return, then?" inquired the landlady. + +"No, I suppose not," she replied; "he has done all he had to do for me. +He will telegraph to England, and our friends will come to us +immediately. Good-night, Madame." + +"Good-night, Mademoiselle," was the response. "May you sleep well!" + +But sleep was far away from Phebe's agitated brain that night. She felt +herself alone in a strange land, with a great grief and a terrible +secret oppressing her. As the night wore on a feverish dread took +possession of her that she should be unable to prevent Felicita's burial +beside Roland Sefton's grave. Even Felix would decide that it ought to +be so. As soon as the dawn came she rose and went out into the icy +freshness of the morning air, blowing down from the snow-fields and the +glaciers around her. + +The village was beginning to arouse itself. The Abbey bells were +ringing, and at the sound of them, calling the laborers to a new day's +toil, here and there a shutter was thrown back or a door was opened, and +light volumes of gray wood-smoke stole upwards into the still air. There +was a breath of serenity and peace in this early hour which soothed +Phebe's fevered brain, as she slowly sauntered on with the purpose of +finding the cemetery, where the granite cross stood over the grave that +had occupied so much of her thoughts since she had heard of Roland +Sefton's death. She reached it at last and stood motionless before it, +looking back through all the years in which she had mourned with +Roland's mother his untimely death. He whom she had mourned for was not +lying here; but did not his life hold deeper cause for grief than his +death ever had? Standing there, so far from home, in the quiet morning, +with this grave at her feet, she answered to herself a question which +had been troubling her for many months. Yes, it was a right thing to do, +on the whole, to keep this secret--Felicita's secret as well as +Roland's--forever locked in her own heart. There was concealment in it +closely verging, as it must always do, on deception. Phebe's whole +nature revolted against concealment. She loved to live her life out in +the eye of day. But the story of Roland Sefton's crime, and the penance +done for it, in its completeness could never be given to the world; it +must always result in some measure in misleading the judgment of those +most interested in it. There was little to be gained and much to be +sacrificed by its disclosure. Felicita's death seemed to give a new +weight to every reason for keeping the secret; and it was safe in her +keeping and Mr. Clifford's: when a few years were gone it would be hers +alone. The cross most heavy for her to bear she must carry, hidden from +every eye; but she could bear it faithfully, even unto death. + +As her lips whispered the last three words, giving to her resolution a +definite form and utterance, a shadow beside her own fell upon the +cross. She turned quickly and met the kindly inquisitive gaze of the +mountain curé who had led Felicita to this spot yesterday. He had been +among the first who followed Jean Merle as he carried her lifeless form +through the village street; and he had run to the monastery to seek what +medical aid could be had there. The incident was one of great interest +to him. Phebe's frank yet sorrowful face, turned to him with its +expression of ready sympathy with any fellow-creature, won from the +young priest the cordial friendliness that everywhere greeted her. He +stood bareheaded before her, as he had done before Felicita, but he +spoke to her in a tone of more familiar intercourse. + +"Madame, pardon," he said, "but you are in grief, and I would offer you +my condolence. Behold! to me the lady who died yesterday spoke her last +words--here, on this spot. She said not a word afterwards to any human +creature. I come to communicate them to you. There is but little to +tell." + +It was so little that Phebe felt greatly disappointed; though her eyes +grew blind with tears as she thought of Felicita standing here before +this deceptive cross and calling herself of all women the most +miserable. The cross itself had had no message of peace to her troubled +heart. "Most miserable," repeated Phebe to herself, looking back upon +yesterday with a vain yearning that she had been there to tell Felicita +that she shared her misery, and could help her to bear it. + +"And now," continued the curé, "can I be of any service to Madame? You +are alone; and there are a few formalities to observe. It will be some +days before your friends can arrive. Command me, then, if I can be of +any service." + +"Can you help me to get away," she asked, in a tone of eager anxiety, +"down to Lucerne as quickly as possible? I have telegraphed to Madame's +son, and he will come immediately. Of course, I know in England when a +sudden death occurs there are inquiries made; and it is right and +necessary. But you see Madame died of a heart disease." + +"Without doubt," he interrupted; "she was ill here, and I followed her +down the village, and saw her enter Jean Merle's hut. I was about to +enter, for she had been there a long time, when you appeared with your +guide and went in. In a minute there was a cry, and I saw Jean Merle +bearing the poor lady out into the daylight and you following them. +Without doubt she died from natural causes." + +"There are formalities to observe," said Phebe earnestly, "and they take +much time. But I must leave Engelberg to-morrow, or the next day at the +latest, taking her with me. Can you help me to do this?" + +"But you will bury Madame here?" answered the curé, who felt deeply +what interest would attach to another English grave in the village +burial-ground; "she told me yesterday Roland Sefton was her relative, +and there will be many difficulties and great expenditure in taking her +away from this place." + +"Yes," answered Phebe, "but Madame belongs to a great family in England; +she was the daughter of Baron Riversborough, and she must be buried +among her own people. You shall telegraph to the consul at Geneva, and +he will say she must be buried among her own people, not here. It does +not signify about the expenditure." + +"Ah! that makes it more easy," replied the curé, "and if Madame is of an +illustrious family--I was about to return to my parish this morning; but +I will stay and arrange matters for you. This is my native place, and I +know all the people. If I cannot do everything, the abbot and the +brethren will. Be tranquil; you shall leave Engelberg as early as +possible." + +It was impossible for Phebe to telegraph to England her intention of +returning immediately to Lucerne; for Felix must have set off already, +and would be on his way to the far-off valley among the Swiss +mountains, where he believed his father's grave lay, and where his +mother had met her death. Phebe's heart was wrung for him, as she +thought of the overwhelming and instantaneous shock it would be to him +and Hilda, who did not even know that their mother had left home; but +her dread lest he should judge it right to lay his mother beside this +grave, which had possessed so large a share in his thoughts hitherto, +compelled her to hasten her departure before he could arrive, even at +the risk of missing him on the way. The few formalities to be observed +seemed complicated and tedious; but at last they were ended. The +friendly priest accompanied her on her sorrowful return down the rough +mountain-roads, preceded by the litter bearing Felicita's coffin; and at +every hamlet they passed through he left minute instructions that a +young English gentleman travelling up to Engelberg was to be informed of +the little funeral cavalcade that was gone down to Lucerne. + +Down the green valley, and through the solemn forests, Phebe followed +the rustic litter on foot with the priest beside her, now and then +reciting a prayer in a low tone. When they reached Grafenort carriages +were in waiting to convey them as far as the Lake. It was only a week +since she and Felicita had started on their secret and disastrous +journey, and now her face was set homewards, with no companion save this +coffin, which she followed with so heavy a spirit. She had come up the +valley as Jean Merle had done, with vague, dim hopes, stretching vainly +forward to some impossible good that might come to him when he and +Felicita stood face to face once again. But now all was over. + +A boat was ready at Stans, and here the friendly curé bade her farewell, +leaving her to go on her way alone. And now it seemed to Phebe, more +than ever before, that she had been living and acting for a long while +in a painful dream. Her usually clear and tranquil soul was troubled and +bewildered as she sat in the boat at the head of Felicita's coffin, with +her dear face so near to her, yet hidden from her eyes. All around her +lay the Lake, with a fine rapid ripple on the silvery blue of its +waters, as the rowers, with measured and rhythmical strokes of their +oars, carried the boat's sad freight on towards Lucerne. The evening sun +was shining aslant down the wooded slopes of the lower hills, and dark +blue shadows gathered where its rays no longer penetrated. That +half-consciousness, common to all of us, that she had gone through this +passage in her life before, and that this sorrow had already had its +counterpart in some other state of existence, took possession of her; +and with it came a feeling of resigning herself to fate. She was worn +out with anxiety and grief. What would come might come. She could exert +herself no longer. + +As they drew near to Lucerne, the clangor of military music and the +merry pealing of bells rang across the water, jarring upon her faint and +sorrowful heart. Some fête was going on, and all the populace was +active. Banners floated from all the windows, and a gay procession was +parading along the quay, marching under the echoing roof of the long +wooden bridge which crossed the green torrent of the river. Numberless +little boats were darting to and fro on the smooth surface of the Lake, +and through them all her own, bearing Felicita's coffin, sped swiftly on +its way to the landing-stage, on which, as if standing there amid the +hubbub to receive it, her sad eyes saw Canon Pascal and Felix. + +They had but just reached Lucerne, and were waiting for the next steamer +starting to Stans, when Felix had caught sight of the boat afar off, +with its long, narrow burden, covered by a black pall; and as it drew +nearer he had distinguished Phebe sitting beside it alone. Until this +moment it had seemed absolutely incredible that his mother could be +dead, though the telegram to Canon Pascal had said so distinctly. There +must be some mistake, he had constantly reiterated as they hurried +through France to Lucerne; Phebe had been frightened, and in her terror +had misled herself and them. No wonder his mother should be +ill--dangerously so, after the fatigue and agitation of a journey to +Engelberg; but she could not be dead. Phebe had had no opportunity of +telegraphing again; for they had set off at once, and from Basle they +had brought on with them an eminent physician. So confident was Felix +in his asseverations that Canon Pascal himself had begun to hope that he +was right, and but that the steamer was about to start in a few minutes, +they would have hired a boat to carry them on to Stans, in order to lose +no time in taking medical aid to Felicita. + +But as Felix stood there, only dimly conscious of the scene about them, +the sight of the boat bringing Phebe to the shore with the covered +coffin beside her, extinguished in his heart the last glimmering of the +hope which had been little more than a natural recoil from despair. He +was not taken by surprise, or hurried into any vehemence of grief. A +cold stupor, which made him almost insensible to his loss, crept over +him. Sorrow would assert itself by and by; but now he felt dull and +torpid. When the coffin was lifted out of the boat, by bearers who were +waiting at the landing-stage for the purpose, he took up his post +immediately behind it, as if it were already the funeral procession +carrying his mother to the grave; and with all the din and tumult of the +streets sounding in his ears, he followed unquestioningly wherever it +might go. Why it was there, or why his mother's coffin was there, he did +not ask; he only knew that she was there. + +"My poor Phebe," said Canon Pascal, as they followed closely behind him, +"why did you start homewards? Would it not have been best to bury her at +Engelberg, beside her husband? Did not Felicita forgive him, even in her +death?" + +"No, no, it was not that," answered Phebe; "she forgave him, but I could +not bear to leave her there. I was with her just as she died; but she +had gone up to Engelberg alone, and I followed her, only too late. She +never spoke to me or looked at me. I could not leave Felicita in +Engelberg," she added excitedly; "it has been a fatal place to her." + +"Is there anything we must not know?" he inquired. + +"Yes," she said, turning to him her pale and quivering face, "I have a +secret to keep all my life long. But the evil of it is spent now. It +seems to me as if it is a sin no longer; all the selfishness is gone +out of it, and Felix and Hilda were as clear of it as Alice herself; if +I could tell you all, you would say so too." + +"You need tell me no more, dear Phebe," he replied; "God bless you in +the keeping of their secret!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +HIS OWN CHILDREN. + + +The tidings of Felicita's death spread rapidly in England, and the +circumstances attending it, its suddenness, and the fact that it had +occurred at the same place that her husband had perished by accident +many years before, gave it more than ordinary interest and excited more +than ordinary publicity. It was a good deal talked of in literary +circles, and in the fashionable clique to which she belonged through her +relationship with the Riversford family. There were the usual kindly +notices of her life and works in the daily papers; and her publisher +seized the occasion to advertise her books more largely. But it was in +Riversborough that the deepest impression was made, and the keenest +curiosity aroused by the story of her death, obscure in some of its +details, but full of romantic interest to her old towns-people, who were +thus recalled to the circumstances attending Roland Sefton's +disappearance and subsequent death. The funeral also was to be in the +immediate neighborhood, in the church where all the Riversfords had been +buried time out of mind, long before a title had been conferred on the +head of the house. It appeared quite right that Felicita should be +buried beside her own people; and every one who could get away from +business went down to the little country churchyard to be present at the +funeral. + +But Phebe was not there: when she reached London she was so worn out +with fatigue and agitation that she was compelled to remain at home, +brooding over what she had come through. And Jean Merle had not trusted +himself to look into the open grave, about to close over all that +remained of the woman he had so passionately loved. The tolling of the +minute-bell, which began early in the day and struck its deep knell +through the tardy hours till late in the evening, smote upon his ear and +heart every time the solemn tone sounded through the quiet hours. He was +left alone in his old home, for Mr. Clifford was gone as one of the +mourners to follow Felicita to the grave; and all the servants had asked +to be present at the funeral. There was nothing to demand his attention +or to distract his thoughts. The house was as silent as if it had been +the house of death and he himself but a phantom in it. + +Though he had been six months in the house, he had never yet been in +Felicita's study--that quiet room shut out from the noise both of the +street and the household, which he had set apart and prepared for her +when she was coming, stepping down a little from her own level to be his +wife. It was dismantled, he knew; her books were gone, and all the +costly decorative fittings he had chosen with so much joyous anxiety. +But the panelled doors which he had worked at with his own hands were +there, and the window, with its delicately tinted lattice-frames, +through which the sun had shone in daintily upon her at her desk. He +went slowly up the long staircase, pausing now and then lost in thought; +and standing, at last before the door, which he had never opened without +asking permission to enter in, he hesitated for many minutes before he +went in. + +An empty room, swept clean of everything which made it a living +habitation. The sunshine fell in pencils of colored light upon the bare +walls and uncarpeted floor. It bore no trace of any occupant; yet to him +it seemed but yesterday that he had been in here, listening to the low +tones of Felicita's sweet voice, and gazing with silent pride on her +beautiful face. There had been unmeasured passion and ambition in his +love for her, which had fatally changed his whole life. But he knew now +that he had failed in winning her love and in making her happy; and the +secret dissatisfaction she had felt in her ill-considered marriage had +been fatal both to her and to him. The restless eagerness it had +developed in him to gain a position that could content her, had been a +seed of worldliness, which had borne deadly fruit. He opened the +casement, and looked out on the familiar landscape, on which her eyes +had so often rested--eyes that were closed forever. The past, so keenly +present to him this moment, was in reality altogether dead and buried. +She had ceased to be his wife years ago, when she had accepted the +sacrifice he proposed to her of his very existence. That old life was +blotted out; and he had no right to mourn openly for the dead, who was +being laid in the grave of her fathers at this hour. His children were +counting themselves orphans, and it was not in his power to comfort +them. He knelt down at the open window, and rested his bowed head on +the window-sill. The empty room behind him was but a symbol of his own +empty lot, swept clean of all its affections and aspirations. Two thirds +of his term of years were already spent; and he found himself bereft and +dispossessed of all that makes life worth having--all except the power +of service. Even at this late hour a voice within him called to him, "Go +work to-day in my vineyard." It was not too late to serve God who had +forgiven him and mankind whom he had wronged. There was time to make +some atonement; to work out some redemption for his fellow-men. To +Roland Sefton had arisen a vision of a public and honorable career, +cheered on by applause of men and crowned with popularity and renown for +all he might achieve. But Jean Merle must toil in silence and +difficulty, amid rebuffs and discouragements, and do humble service +which would remain unrecognized and unthanked. Yet there was work to do, +if it were no more than cheering the last days of an old man, or +teaching a class of the most ignorant of his townsfolk in a night +school. He rose from his knees after a while, and left the room, +closing the door as softly as he had been used to do when afraid of any +noise grating on his wife's sensitive brain. It seemed to him like the +closing up of the vault where she was buried. She was gone from him +forever, and there was nothing left but to forget the past if that were +possible. + +As he went lingeringly down the staircase, which would henceforth be +trodden seldom if ever by him, he heard the ringing of the house-bell, +which announced the return of Mr. Clifford and of Felix and Hilda, who +were coming to stay the night in their old home, before returning to +London on the morrow. He hastened down to open the door and help them to +alight from their carriage. It was the first time he had been thus +brought into close contact with them; but this must happen often in the +future, and he must learn to meet them as strangers, and to be looked +upon by them as little more than a hired servant. + +But the sight of Hilda's sad young face, so pale and tear-stained, and +the expression of deep grief that Felix wore, tried him sorely. What +would he not have given to be able to take this girl into his arms and +soothe her, and to comfort his son with comfort none but a father can +give? He stood outside the sphere of their sorrows, looking on them with +the eyes of a stranger; and the pain of seeing them so near yet so far +away from him was unutterable. The time might come when Jean Merle could +see them, and talk with them calmly as a friend, ready to serve them to +the utmost of his power; when there might be something of pleasure in +gaining their friendship and confidence. But so long as they were +mourning bitterly for their mother and could not conceal the sharpness +of their grief, the sight of them was a torture to him. It was a relief +to him and to Mr. Clifford when they left Riversborough the next +morning. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +AN EMIGRATION SCHEME. + + +Several months passed away, bringing no visitor to Riversborough, except +Phebe, who came down two or three times to see Mr. Clifford, whose +favorite she was. But Phebe never spoke of the past to Jean Merle. Since +they had determined what to do, it seemed wiser to her not to look back +so as to embitter the present. Jean Merle was gradually gaining a +footing in the town as Mr. Clifford's representative, and was in many +ways filling a post very few could fill. Now and then, some of the elder +townsmen, who had been contemporary with Roland Sefton, remarked upon +the resemblance between Jean Merle and their old comrade; but this was +satisfactorily accounted for by his relationship to Madame Sefton: for +Roland, they said, had always had a good deal of the foreigner about +him, much more than this quiet, melancholy, self-effacing man, who never +pushed himself forward, or courted attention, yet was always ready with +a good sound shrewd opinion if he was asked for it. It had been a lucky +thing for old Clifford that such a man had been found to take care of +him and his affairs in his extreme old age. + +Felix had gone back to his curacy, under Canon Pascal, in the parish +where he had spent his boyhood and where he was safe against any attack +upon his father's memory. But in spite of being able to see Alice every +day, and of enjoying Canon Pascal's constant companionship, he was ill +at ease, and Phebe was dissatisfied. This was exactly the life Felicita +had dreaded for him, an easy, half-occupied life in a small parish, +where there was little active employment for either mind or body. The +thought of it troubled and haunted Phebe. The magnificent physical +strength and active energy of Felix, and the strong bent to heroic +effort and Christian devotion given to him in his earliest years, were +thrown away in this tranquil English village, where there was clearly no +scope for heroism. How was it that Canon Pascal could not see it? His +curacy was a post to be occupied by some feebler man than Felix; a man +whose powers were only equal to the quiet work of carrying on the labors +begun by his rector. Besides, Felix would have recovered from the shock +of his mother's sudden death if his time and faculties had been more +fully occupied. She must give words to her discontent, and urge Canon +Pascal to banish him from a spot where he was leading too dull a life. + +Canon Pascal had been in residence at Westminster for some weeks, and +was about to return to his rectory, when Phebe went down to the Abbey +one day, bent upon putting her decision into action. The bitterness of +the early spring had come again; and strong easterly gales were blowing +steadily day after day, bringing disease and death to those who were +feeble and ailing, yet not more surely than the fogs of the city had +done. It had been a long and gloomy winter, and in this second month of +the year the death rates were high. As Phebe passed through the Abbey on +her way to his home in the cloisters, she saw Canon Pascal standing +still, with his head thrown back and his eyes uplifted to the noble +arches supporting the roof. He did not notice her till her clear, +pleasant voice addressed him. + +"Ah, Phebe!" he exclaimed, a swift smile transforming his grave, marked +face, "my dear, I was just asking myself how I could bear to say +farewell to all this." + +He glanced round him with an expression of unutterable love and pride +and of keen regret. The Abbey had grown dearer to him than any spot on +earth; and as he paced down the long aisle he lingered as if every step +he took was full of pain. + +"Bid farewell to it!" repeated Phebe; "but why?" + +"For a series of whys," he answered; "first and foremost, because the +doctors tell me, and I believe it, that my dear wife's days are numbered +if she stays another year in this climate. All our days are numbered by +God, I know; but man can number them also, if he pleases, and make them +longer or shorter by his obedience or disobedience. Secondly, Phebe, our +sons have gone on before us as pioneers, and they send us piteous +accounts of the spiritual needs of the colonists and the native +populations out yonder. I preach often on the evils of over-population +and its danger to our country, and I prescribe emigration to most of the +young people I come across. Why should not I, even I, take up the +standard and cry 'Follow me'? We should leave England with sad hearts, +it is true, but for her good and for the good of unborn generations, who +shall create a second England under other skies. And last, but not +altogether least, the colonial bishopric is vacant, and has been offered +to me. If I accept it I shall save the life most precious to me, and +find another home in the midst of my children and grand-children." + +"And Felix?" cried Phebe. + +"What could be better for Felix than to come with us?" he asked; "there +he will meet with the work he was born for, the work he is fretting his +soul for. He will be at last a gallant soldier of the Cross, unhampered +by any dread of his father's sin rising up against him. And we could +never part with Alice--her mother and I. You would be the last to say No +to that, Phebe?" + +"Oh, yes!" she answered, with tears standing in her eyes, "Felix must go +with you." + +"And Hilda, too," he went on; "for what would become of Hilda alone +here, with her only brother settled at the antipodes? And here we shall +want Phebe Marlowe's influence with old Mr. Clifford, who might prevent +his ward from quitting England. I am counting also on Phebe herself, as +my pearl of deaconesses, with no vow to bind her, if the happiness and +fuller life of marriage opened before her. Still, to secure all these +benefits I must give up all this." + +He paused for a minute or two, looking back up the narrow side aisle, +and then, as if he could not tear himself away, he retraced his steps +slowly and lingeringly; and Phebe caught the glistening of tears in his +eyes. + +"Never to see it again," he murmured, "or if I see it, not to belong to +it! To have no more right here than any other stranger! It feels like a +home to me, dear Phebe. I have had solemn glimpses of God here, as if it +were indeed the gate of heaven. To the last hour of my life, wherever I +go, my soul will cleave to these walls. But I shall give it up." + +"Yes," she said, sighing, "but there is no bitterness of repentance to +you in giving it up." + +"How sadly you spoke that," he went on, "as if a woman like you could +know the bitterness of repentance! You have only looked at it through +other men's eyes. Yes, we shall go. Felix and Hilda and you are free to +leave Mr. Clifford, now he is so admirably cared for by this Jean Merle. +I like all that I hear of him, though I never saw him; surely it was a +blessing from God that Madame Sefton's poor kinsman was brought to the +old man. Could we not leave him safely in Merle's charge?" + +"Quite safely," she answered. + +"I have a scheme for a new settlement in my head," he continued, "a +settlement of our own, and we will invite emigrants to it. I can reckon +on a few who will joyfully follow our lead, and it will not seem a +strange land if we carry those whom we love with us. This hour even I +have made up my mind to accept this bishopric. Go on, dear Phebe, and +tell my wife. I must stay here alone a little longer." + +But Phebe did not hasten with these tidings through the cloisters. She +walked to and fro, pondering them and finding in them a solution of many +difficulties. For Felix it would be well, and it was not to be expected +that Alice would leave her invalid mother to remain behind in England as +a curate's wife. Hilda, too, what could be better or happier for her +than to go with those who looked upon her as a daughter, who would take +Alice's place as soon as she was gone into a home of her own? There was +little to keep them in England. She could not refuse to let them go. + +But herself? The strong strain of faithfulness in Phebe's nature knitted +her as closely with the past as with the present; and with some touch of +pathetic clinging to the past which the present cannot possess. She +could not separate herself from it. The little home where she was born, +and the sterile fields surrounding it, with the wide moors encircling +them, were as dear to her as the Abbey was to Canon Pascal. In no other +place did she feel herself so truly at home. If she cut herself adrift +from it and all the subtly woven web of memories belonging to it, she +fancied she might pine away of home-sickness in a foreign land. There +was Mr. Clifford too, who depended so utterly upon her promise to be +near him when he was dying, and to hold his hand in hers as he went +down into the deep chill waters of death. And Jean Merle, whose terrible +secret she shared, and would be the only one to share it when Mr. +Clifford was gone. How was it possible for her to separate herself from +these two? She loved Felix and Hilda with all the might of her unselfish +heart; but Felix had Alice, and by and by Hilda would give herself to +some one who would claim most of her affection. She was not necessary to +either of them. But if she went away she must leave a blank, too dreary +to be thought of, in the clouded lives of Mr. Clifford and poor Merle. +For their sakes she must refuse to leave England. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +FAREWELL. + + +But it was more difficult than Phebe anticipated to resist the urgent +entreaties of Felix and Hilda not to sever the bond that had existed +between them so long. Her devotion to them in the past had made them +feel secure of its continuance, and to quit England, leaving her behind, +seemed impossible. But Mr. Clifford's reiterated supplications that she +would not forsake him in his old age drew her as powerfully the other +way. Scarcely a day passed without a few lines, written by his own +feeble and shaking hand, reaching her, beseeching and demanding of her a +solemn promise to stay in England as long as he lived. Jean Merle said +nothing, even when she went down to visit them, urged by Canon Pascal to +set before Mr. Clifford the strong reasons there were for her to +accompany the party of emigrants; but Phebe knew that Jean Merle's life, +with its unshared memories and secrets, would be still more dreary if +she went away. After she had seen these two she wavered no more. + +It was a larger party of emigrants than any one had foreseen; for it was +no sooner known that Canon Pascal was leaving England as a colonial +Bishop, than many men and women came forward anxious to go out and found +new homes under his auspices. He was a well-known advocate of +emigration, and it was rightly deemed a singular advantage to have him +as a leader as well as their spiritual chief. Canon Pascal threw himself +into the movement with ardor, and the five months elapsing before he set +sail were filled with incessant claims upon his time and thought, while +all about him were drawn into the strong current of his work. Phebe was +occupied from early morning till late at night, and a few hours of deep +sleep, which gave her no time for thinking of her own future, was all +the rest she could command. Even Felix, who had scarcely shaken off the +depression caused by his mother's sudden death, found a fresh +fountain-head of energy and gladness in sharing Canon Pascal's new +career, and in the immediate prospect of marrying Alice. + +For in addition to all the other constant calls upon her, Phebe was +plunged into the preparations needed for this marriage, which was to +take place before they left England. There was no longer any reason to +defer it for lack of means, as Felix had inherited his share of his +mother's settlement. But Phebe drew largely on her own resources to send +out for them the complete furnishing of a home as full of comfort, and +as far as possible, as full of real beauty, as their Essex rectory had +been. She almost stripped her studio of the sketches and the finished +pictures which Felix and Hilda had admired, sighing sometimes, and +smiling sometimes, as they vanished from her sight into the packing +cases, for the times that were gone by, and for the pleasant surprise +that would greet them, in that far-off land, when their eyes fell upon +the old favorites from home. + +Felix and Hilda spent a few days at Riversborough with Mr. Clifford, but +Phebe would not go with them, in spite of their earnest desire; and Jean +Merle, their kinsman, was absent, only coming home the night before they +bade their last farewell to their birth-place. He appeared to them a +very silent and melancholy man, keeping himself quite in the background, +and unwilling to talk much about his own country and his relationship +with their grandmother's family. But they had not time to pay much +attention to him; the engrossing interest of spending the few last hours +amid these familiar places, so often and so fondly to be remembered in +the coming years, made them less regardful of this stranger, who was +watching them with undivided and despairing interest. No word or look +escaped him, as he accompanied them from room to room, and about the +garden walks, unable to keep himself away from this unspeakable torture. +Mr. Clifford wept, as old men weep, when they bade him good-by; but +Felix was astonished by the fixed and mournful expression of inward +anguish in Jean Merle's eyes, as he held his hand in a grasp that would +not let him go. + +"I may never see you again," he said, "but I shall hear of you." + +"Yes," answered Felix, "we shall write frequently to Mr. Clifford, and +you will answer our letters for him." + +"God bless you!" said Jean Merle. "God grant that you may be a truer +and a happier man than your father was." + +Felix started. This man, then, knew of his father's crime; probably knew +more of it than he did. But there was no time to question him now; and +what good would it do to hear more than he knew already? Hilda was +standing near to him waiting to say good-by, and Jean Merle, turning to +her, took her into his arms, and pressed her closely to his heart. A +sudden impulse prompted her to put her arm round his neck as she had +done round old Mr. Clifford's, and to lift up her face for his kiss. He +held her in his embrace for a few moments, and then, without another +word spoken to them, he left them and they saw him no more. The marriage +was celebrated a few days after this visit, and not long before the time +fixed for the Bishop and his large band of emigrants to sail. Under +these circumstances the ceremony was a quiet one. The old rectory was in +disorder, littered with packing cases, and upset from cellar to garret. +Even when the wedding was over both Phebe and Hilda were too busy for +sentimental indulgence. The few remaining days were flying swiftly past +them all, and keeping them in constant fear that there would not be +time enough for all that had to be done. + +But the last morning came, when Phebe found herself standing amid those +who were so dear to her on the landing-stage, with but a few minutes +more before they parted from her for years, if not forever. Bishop +Pascal was already gone on board the steamer standing out in the river, +where the greater number of emigrants had assembled. But Felix and Alice +and Hilda lingered about Phebe till the last moment. Yet they said but +little to one another; what could they say which would tell half the +love or half the sorrow they felt? Phebe's heart was full. How gladly +would she have gone out with these dear children, even if she left +behind her her little birth-place on the hills, if it had not been for +Mr. Clifford and Jean Merle! + +"But they need me most," she said again and again to herself. "I stay, +and must stay, for their sakes." As at length they said farewell to one +another, Hilda clinging to her as a child clings to the mother it is +about to leave, Phebe saw at a little distance Jean Merle himself, +looking on. She could not be mistaken, though his sudden appearance +there startled her; and he did not approach them, nor even address her +when they were gone. For when her eyes, blinded with tears, lost sight +of the outward-bound vessel amid the number of other craft passing up +and down the river, and she turned to the spot where she had seen his +gray head and sorrowful face he was no longer there. Alone and sad at +heart, she made her way through the tumult of the landing-stage and +drove back to the desolate home she had shared so long with those who +were now altogether parted from her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +QUITE ALONE. + + +It was early in June, and the days were at the longest. Never before had +Phebe found the daylight too long, but now it shone upon dismantled and +disordered rooms, which reminded her too sharply of the separation and +departure they indicated. The place was no longer a home: everything was +gone which was made beautiful by association; and all that was left was +simply the bare framework of a living habitation, articles that could be +sold and scattered without regret. Her own studio was a scene of litter +and confusion, amid which it would be impossible to work; and it was +useless to set it in order, for at midsummer she would leave the house, +now far too large and costly for her occupation. + +What was she to do with herself? Quite close at hand was the day when +she would be absolutely homeless; but in the absorbing interest with +which she had thrown herself into the affairs of those who were gone she +had formed no plans for her own future. There was her profession, of +course: that would give her employment, and bring in a larger income +then she needed with her simple wants. But how was she to do without a +home--she who most needed to fill a home with all the sweet charities +of life? + +She had never felt before what it was to be altogether without ties of +kinship to any fellow-being. This incompleteness in her lot had been +perfectly filled up by her relationship with the whole family of the +Seftons. She had found in them all that was required for the full +development and exercise of her natural affections. But she had lost +them. Death and the chance changes of life had taken them from her, and +there was not one human creature in the world on whom she possessed the +claim of being of the same blood. + +Phebe could not dwell amid the crowds of London with such a thought +oppressing her. This heart-sickness and loneliness made the busy streets +utterly distasteful to her. To be here, with millions around her, all +strangers to her, was intolerable. There was her own little homestead, +surrounded by familiar scenes, where she would seek rest and quiet +before laying any plans for herself. She put her affairs into the hands +of a house-agent, and set out alone upon her yearly visit to her farm, +which until now Felix and Hilda had always shared. + +She stayed on her way to spend a night at Riversborough--her usual +custom, that she might reach the unprepared home on the moors early in +the day. But she would not prolong her stay; there was a fatigue and +depression about her which she said could only be dispelled by the sweet +fresh air of her native moorlands. + +"Felix and Hilda have been more to me than any words could tell," she +said to Mr. Clifford and Jean Merle, "and now I have lost them I feel as +if more than half my life was gone. I must get away by myself into my +old home, where I began my life, and readjust it as well as I can. I +shall do it best there with no one to distract me. You need not fear my +wishing to be too long alone." + +"We ought to have let you go," answered Mr. Clifford. "Jean Merle said +we ought to have let you go with them. But how could we part with you, +Phebe?" + +"I should not have been happy," she said, sighing, "as long as you need +me most--you two. And I owe all I am to Jean Merle himself." + +The little homely cottage with its thatched roof and small lattice +windows was more welcome to her than any other dwelling could have been. +Now her world had suffered such a change, it was pleasant to come here, +where nothing had been altered since her childhood. Both within and +without the old home was as unchanged as the beautiful outline of the +hills surrounding it and the vast hollow of the sky above. Here she +might live over again the past--the whole past. She was a woman, with a +woman's sad experience of life; but there was much of the girl, even of +the child, left in Phebe Marlowe still; and no spot on earth could have +brought back her youth to her as this inheritance of hers. There was an +unspoiled simplicity about her which neither time nor change could +destroy--the childlikeness of one who had entered into the kingdom of +heaven. + +It was a year since she had been here last, with Hilda in her first +grief for her mother's death; and everywhere she found traces of Jean +Merle's handiwork. The half-shaped blocks of wood, left unfinished for +years in her father's workshop, were completed. The hawk hovering over +its prey, which the dumb old wood-carver had begun as a symbol of the +feeling of vengeance he could not give utterance to when brooding over +Roland Sefton's crime, had been brought to a marvellous perfection by +Jean Merle's practised hand, and it had been placed by him under the +crucifix which old Marlowe had fastened in the window-frame, where the +last rays of daylight fell upon the bowed head hidden by the crown of +thorns. The first night that Phebe sat alone, on the old hearth, her +eyes rested upon these until the daylight faded away, and the darkness +shut them out from her sight. Had Jean Merle known what he did when he +laid this emblem of vengeance beneath this symbol of perfect love and +sacrifice? + +But after a few days, when she had visited every place of yearly +pilgrimage, knitting up the slackened threads of memory, Phebe began to +realize the terrible solitude of this isolated home of hers. To live +again where no step passed by and no voice spoke to her, where not even +the smoke of a household hearth floated up into the sky, was intolerable +to her genial nature, which was only satisfied in helpful and pleasant +human intercourse. The utter silence became irksome to her, as it had +been in her girlhood; but even then she had possessed the companionship +of her dumb father: now there was not only silence, but utter +loneliness. + +The necessity of forming some definite plan for her future life became +every day a more pressing obligation, whilst every day the needful +exertion grew more painful to her. Until now she had met with no +difficulty in deciding what she ought to do: her path of duty had been +clearly traced for her. But there was neither call of duty now nor any +strong inclination to lead her to choose one thing more than another. +All whom she loved had gone from London, and this small solitary home +had grown all too narrow in its occupations to satisfy her nature. Mr. +Clifford himself did not need her constant companionship as he would +have done if Jean Merle had not been living with him. She was perfectly +free to do what she pleased and go where she pleased, but to no human +being could such freedom be more oppressive than to Phebe Marlowe. She +had sauntered out one evening, ankle-deep among the heather, aimless in +her wanderings, and a little dejected in spirits. For the long summer +day had been hot even up here on the hills, and a dull film had hidden +the landscape from her eyes, shutting her in upon herself and her +disquieting thoughts. "We are always happy when we can see far enough," +says Emerson; but Phebe's horizon was all dim and overcast. She could +see no distant and clear sky-line. The sight of Jean Merle's figure +coming towards her through the dull haziness brought a quick throb to +her pulse, and she ran down the rough wagon track to meet him. + +"A letter from Felix," he called out before she reached him. "I came out +with it because you could not have it before post-time to-morrow, and I +am longing to have news of him and of Hilda." + +They walked slowly back to the cottage, side by side, reading the +letter together; for Felix could have nothing to say to Phebe which his +father might not see. There was nothing of importance in it; only a +brief journal dispatched by a homeward-bound vessel which had crossed +the path of their steamer, but every word was read with deep and silent +interest, neither of them speaking till they had read the last line. + +"And now you will have tea with me," said Phebe joyfully. + +He entered the little kitchen, so dark and cool to him after his sultry +walk up the steep, long lanes, and sat watching her absently, yet with a +pleasant consciousness of her presence, as she kindled her fire of dry +furze and wood, and hung a little kettle to it by a chain hooked to a +staple in the chimney, and arranged her curious old china, picked up +long years ago by her father at village sales, upon the quaintly carved +table set in the coolest spot of the dusky room. There was an air of +simple busy gladness in her face and in every quick yet graceful +movement that was inexpressibly charming to him. Maybe both of them +glanced back at the dark past when Roland Sefton had been watching her +with despairing eyes, yet neither of them spoke of it. That life was +dead and buried. The present was altogether different. + +Yet the meal was a silent one, and as soon as it was finished they went +out again on to the hazy moorland. + +"Are you quite rested yet, Phebe?" asked Jean Merle. + +"Quite," she answered, with unconscious emphasis. + +"And you have settled upon some plan for the future?" he said. + +"No," she replied; "I am altogether at a loss. There is no one in all +the world who has a claim upon me, or whom I have a claim upon; no one +to say to me 'Go' or 'Come.' When the world is all before you and it is +an empty world, it is difficult to choose which way you will take in +it." + +She had paused as she spoke; but now they walked on again in silence, +Jean Merle looking down on her sweet yet somewhat sad face with +attentive eyes. How little changed she was from the simple, +faithful-hearted girl he had known long ago! There was the same candid +and thoughtful expression on her face, and the same serene light in her +blue eyes, as when she stood beside him, a little girl, patiently yet +earnestly mastering the first difficulties of reading. There was no one +in the wide world whom he knew as perfectly as he knew her; no one in +the wide world who knew him as perfectly as she did. + +"Tell me, Phebe," he said gravely, "is it possible that you have lived +so long and that no man has found out what a priceless treasure you +might be to him?" + +"No one," she answered, with a little tremor in her voice; "only Simon +Nixey," she added, laughing, as she thought of his perseverance from +year to year. Jean Merle stopped and laid his hand on Phebe's arm. + +"Will you be my wife?" he asked. + +The brief question escaped him before he was aware of it. It was as +utterly new to him as it was to her; yet the moment it was uttered he +felt how much the happiness of his life depended upon it. Without her +all the future would be dreary and lonely for him. With her--Jean Merle +did not dare to think of the gladness that might yet be his. + +"No, no," cried Phebe, looking up into his face furrowed with deep +lines; "it is impossible! You ought not to ask me." + +"Why?" he said. + +She did not move or take away her eyes from his face. A rush of sad +memories and associations was sweeping across her troubled heart. She +saw him as he had been long ago, so far above her that it had seemed an +honor to her to do him the meanest service. She thought of Felicita in +her unapproachable loveliness and stateliness; and of their home, so +full to her of exquisite refinement and luxury. In the true humility of +her nature she had looked up to them as far above her, dwelling on a +height to which she made no claim. And this dethroned king of her early +days was a king yet, though he stood before her as Jean Merle, still +fast bound in the chains his sins had riveted about him. + +"I am utterly unworthy of you," he said; "but let me justify myself if I +can. I had no thought of asking you such a question when I came up +here. But you spoke mournfully of your loneliness; and I, too, am +lonely, with no human being on whom I have any claim. It is so by my own +sin. But you, at least, have friends; and in a year or two, when my last +friend, Mr. Clifford, dies, you will go out to them, to my children, +whom I have forfeited and lost forever. There is no tie to bind me +closely to my kind. I am older than you--poorer; a dishonor to my +father's house! Yet for an instant I fancied you might learn to love me, +and no one but you can ever know me for what I am; only your faithful +heart possesses my secret. Forgive me, Phebe, and forget it if you can." + +"I never can forget it," she answered, with a low sob. + +"Then I have done you a wrong," he went on; "for we were friends, were +we not? And you will never again be at home with me as you have hitherto +been. I was no more worthy of your friendship than of your love, and I +have lost both." + +"No, no," she cried, in a broken voice. "I never thought--it seems +impossible. But, oh! I love you. I have never loved any one like you. +Only it seems impossible that you should wish me to be your wife." + +"Cannot you see what you will be to me," he said passionately. "It will +be like reaching home after a weary exile; like finding a fountain of +living waters after crossing a burning wilderness. I ought not to ask it +of you, Phebe. But what man could doom himself to endless thirst and +exile! If you love me so much that you do not see how unworthy I am of +you, I cannot give you up again. You are all the world to me." + +"But I am only Phebe Marlowe," she said, still doubtfully. + +"And I am only Jean Merle," he replied. + +Phebe walked down the old familiar lanes with Jean Merle, and returned +to the moorlands alone whilst the sun was still above the horizon. But a +soft west wind had risen, and the hazy heat was gone. She could see the +sun sinking low behind Riversborough, and its tall spires glistened in +the level rays, while the fine cloud of smoke hanging over it this +summer evening was tinged with gold. Her future home lay there, under +the shadow of those spires, and beneath the soft, floating veil +ascending from a thousand hearths. The home Roland Sefton had forfeited +and Felicita had forsaken had become hers. There was deep sadness +mingled with the strange, unanticipated happiness of the present hour; +and Phebe did not seek to put it away from her heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +LAST WORDS. + + +Nothing could have delighted Mr. Clifford so much as a marriage between +Jean Merle and Phebe Marlowe. The thought of it had more than once +crossed his mind, but he had not dared to cherish it as a hope. When +Jean Merle told him that night how Phebe had consented to become his +wife, the old man's gladness knew no bounds. + +"She is as dear to me as my own daughter," he said, in tremulous +accents; "and now at last I shall have her under the same roof with me. +I shall never be awake in the night again, fearing lest I should miss +her on my death-bed. I should like Phebe to hold my hand in hers as long +as I am conscious of anything in this world. All the remaining years of +my life I shall have you and her with me as my children. God is very +good to me." + +But to Felix and Hilda it was a vexation and a surprise to hear that +their Phebe Marlowe, so exclusively their own, was no longer to belong +only to them. They could not tell, as none of us can tell with regard to +our friends' marriages, what she could see in that man to make her +willing to give herself to him. They never cordially forgave Jean +Merle, though in the course of the following years he lavished upon +them magnificent gifts. For once more he became a wealthy man, and stood +high in the estimation of his fellow-townsmen. Upon his marriage with +Phebe, at Mr. Clifford's request, he exchanged his foreign surname for +the old English name of Marlowe, and was made the manager of the Old +Bank. Some years later, when Mr. Clifford died, all his property, +including his interest in the banking business, was left to John +Marlowe. + +No parents could have been more watchful over the interests of absent +children than he and Phebe were in the welfare of Felix and Hilda. But +they could never quite reconcile themselves to this marriage. They had +quitted England with no intention of dwelling here again, but they felt +that Phebe's shortcoming in her attachment to them made their old +country less attractive to them. She had severed the last link that +bound them to it. Possibly, in the course of years, they might visit +their old home; but it would never seem the same to them. Canon Pascal +alone rejoiced cordially in the marriage, though feeling that there was +some secret and mystery in it, which was to be kept from him as from all +the world. + +Jean Merle, after his long and bitter exile, was at home again; after +crossing a thirsty and burning wilderness, he had found a spring of +living water. Yet whilst he thanked God and felt his love for Phebe +growing and strengthening daily, there were times when in brief +intervals of utter loneliness of spirit the long-buried past arose again +and cried to him with sorrowful voice amid the tranquil happiness of the +present. The children who called Phebe mother looked up into his face +with eyes like those of the little son and daughter whom he had once +forsaken, and their voices at play in the garden sounded like the echo +of those beloved voices that had first stirred his heart to its depths. +The quiet room where Felicita had been wont to shut herself in with her +books and her writings remained empty and desolate amid the joyous +occupancy of the old house, where little feet pattered everywhere except +across that sacred threshold. It was never crossed but by Phebe and +himself. Sometimes they entered it together, but oftener he went there +alone, when his heart was heavy and his trust in God darkened. For there +were times when Jean Merle had to pass through deep waters; when the +sense of forgiveness forsook him and the light of God's countenance was +withdrawn. He had sinned greatly and suffered greatly. He loved as he +might never otherwise have loved the Lord, whose disciple he professed +to be; yet still there were seasons of bitter remembrance for him, and +of vain regrets over the irrevocable past. + +It was no part of Phebe's nature to inquire jealously if her husband +loved her as much as she loved him. She knew that in this as in all +other things "it is more blessed to give than to receive." She felt for +him a perfectly unselfish and faithful tenderness, satisfied that she +made him happier than he could have been in any other way. No one else +in the world knew him as she knew him; Felicita herself could never have +been to him what she was. When she saw his grave face sadder than usual +she had but to sit beside him with her hand in his, bringing to him the +solace of her silent and tranquil sympathy; and by and by the sadness +fled. This true heart of hers, that knew all and loved him in spite of +all, was to him a sure token of the love of God. + + +THE END. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cobwebs and Cables, by Hesba Stretton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBWEBS AND CABLES *** + +***** This file should be named 19802-8.txt or 19802-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/8/0/19802/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Cobwebs and Cables + +Author: Hesba Stretton + +Release Date: November 13, 2006 [EBook #19802] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBWEBS AND CABLES *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<h1><span class="smcap">Cobwebs</span></h1> + +<h3>AND</h3> + +<h1><span class="smcap">Cables</span>.</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>HESBA STRETTON,</h2> + +<h3>AUTHOR OF "THROUGH A NEEDLE'S EYE," "IN PRISON AND OUT," "BEDE'S +CHARITY," ETC.</h3> + +<h4>NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.</h4> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><i>AUTHOR'S CARD.</i></h4> + +<p><i>It is my wish that Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company alone should publish +this story in the United States, and I appeal to the generosity and +courtesy of other Publishers, to allow me to gain some benefit from my +work on the American as well as English side of the Atlantic.</i></p> + +<p><i>HESBA STRETTON.</i></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#PART_I">PART I.</a><br /><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I. ABSCONDED</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II. PHEBE MARLOWE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III. FELICITA</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV. UPFOLD FARM</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V. A CONFESSION</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI. THE OLD BANK</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII. AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII. THE SENIOR PARTNER</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX. FAST BOUND</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X. LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI. OLD MARLOWE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII. RECKLESS OF LIFE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII. SUSPENSE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV. ON THE ALTAR STEPS</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV. A SECOND FRAUD</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI. PARTING WORDS</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII. WAITING FOR THE NEWS</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII. THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX. AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX. A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI. PLATO AND PAUL</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII. A REJECTED SUITOR</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII. ANOTHER OFFER</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV. AT HOME IN LONDON</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV. DEAD TO THE WORLD</a><br /><br /> +<a href="#PART_II">PART II.</a><br /><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_Ia">CHAPTER I. AFTER MANY YEARS</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IIa">CHAPTER II. CANON PASCAL</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IIIa">CHAPTER III. FELICITA'S REFUSAL</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IVa">CHAPTER IV. TAKING ORDERS</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_Va">CHAPTER V. A LONDON CURACY</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIa">CHAPTER VI. OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIIa">CHAPTER VII. AN OLD MAN'S PARDON</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIIIa">CHAPTER VIII. THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IXa">CHAPTER IX. THE LOWEST DEEPS</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_Xa">CHAPTER X. ALICE PASCAL</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIa">CHAPTER XI. COMING TO HIMSELF</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIIa">CHAPTER XII. A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIIIa">CHAPTER XIII. A LONDON GARRET</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIVa">CHAPTER XIV. HIS FATHER'S SIN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVa">CHAPTER XV. HAUNTING MEMORIES</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIa">CHAPTER XVI. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIIa">CHAPTER XVII. NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIIIa">CHAPTER XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIXa">CHAPTER XIX. IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXa">CHAPTER XX. AS A HIRED SERVANT</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIa">CHAPTER XXI. PHEBE'S SECRET</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIIa">CHAPTER XXII. NEAR THE END</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIIIa">CHAPTER XXIII. THE MOST MISERABLE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIVa">CHAPTER XXIV. FOR ONE MOMENT</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVa">CHAPTER XXV. THE FINAL RESOLVE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIa">CHAPTER XXVI. IN LUCERNE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIIa">CHAPTER XXVII. HIS OWN CHILDREN</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIIIa">CHAPTER XXVIII. AN EMIGRATION SCHEME</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIXa">CHAPTER XXIX. FAREWELL</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXa">CHAPTER XXX. QUITE ALONE</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIa">CHAPTER XXXI. LAST WORDS</a><br /> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="COBWEBS_AND_CABLES" id="COBWEBS_AND_CABLES"></a>COBWEBS AND CABLES</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I"></a>PART I.</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<h3>ABSCONDED.</h3> + + +<p>Late as it was, though the handsome office-clock on the chimney-piece +had already struck eleven, Roland Sefton did not move. He had not +stirred hand or foot for a long while now; no more than if he had been +bound fast by many strong cords, which no effort could break or untie. +His confidential clerk had left him two hours ago, and the undisturbed +stillness of night had surrounded him ever since he had listened to his +retreating footsteps. "Poor Acton!" he had said half aloud, and with a +heavy sigh.</p> + +<p>As he sat there, his clasped hands resting on his desk and his face +hidden on them, all his life seemed to unfold itself before him; not in +painful memories of the past only, but in terrified prevision of the +black future.</p> + +<p>How dear his native town was to him! He had always loved it from his +very babyhood. The wide old streets, with ancient houses still standing +here and there, rising or falling in gentle slopes, and called by quaint +old names such as he never heard elsewhere; the fine old churches +crowning the hills, and lifting up delicate tall spires, visible a score +of miles away; the grammar school where he had spent the happiest days +of his boyhood; the rapid river, brown and swirling, which swept past +the town, and came back again as if it could not leave it; the ancient +bridges spanning it, and the sharp-cornered recesses on them where he +had spent many an idle hour, watching the boats row in and out under the +arches; he saw every familiar nook and corner of his native town vividly +and suddenly, as if he caught glimpses of them by the capricious play of +lightning.</p> + +<p>And this pleasant home of his; these walls which inclosed his +birth-place, and the birth-place of his children! He could not imagine +himself finding true rest and a peaceful shelter elsewhere. The spacious +old rooms, with brown wainscoted walls and carved ceilings; the tall and +narrow windows, with deep window-sills, where as a child he had so often +knelt, gazing out on the wide green landscape and the far distant, +almost level line of the horizon. His boy, Felix, had knelt in one of +them a few hours ago, looking out with grave childish eyes on the +sunset. The broad, shallow steps of the oaken staircase, trodden so many +years by the feet of all who were dearest to him; the quiet chambers +above where his mother, his wife, and his children were at this moment +sleeping peacefully. How unutterably and painfully sweet all his home +was to him!</p> + +<p>Very prosperous his life had been; hardly overshadowed by a single +cloud. His father, who had been the third partner in the oldest bank in +Riversborough, had lived until he was old enough to step into his place. +The bank had been established in the last century, and was looked upon +as being as safe as the Bank of England. The second partner was dead; +and the eldest, Mr. Clifford, had left everything in his hands for the +last five years.</p> + +<p>No man in Riversborough had led a more prosperous life than he had. His +wife was from one of the county families; without fortune, indeed, but +with all the advantages of high connections, which lifted him above the +rank of mere business men, and admitted him into society hitherto closed +even to the head partner in the old bank; in spite even of the fact that +he still occupied the fine old house adjoining the bank premises. There +was scarcely a townsman who was held to be his equal; not one who was +considered his superior. Though he was little over thirty yet, he was at +the head of all municipal affairs. He had already held the office of +mayor for one year, and might have been re-elected, if his wife had not +somewhat scorned the homely bourgeois dignity. There was no more popular +man in the whole town than he was.</p> + +<p>But he had been building on the sands, and the storm was rising. He +could hear the moan of the winds growing louder, and the rush of the +on-coming floods drawing nearer. He must make good his escape now, or +never. If he put off flight till to-morrow, he would be crushed with the +falling of his house.</p> + +<p>He lifted himself up heavily, and looked round the room. It was his +private office, at the back of the bank, handsomely furnished as a bank +parlor should be. Over the fire-place hung the portrait of old Clifford, +the senior partner, faithfully painted by a local artist, who had not +attempted to soften the hard, stern face, and the fixed stare of the +cold blue eyes, which seemed fastened pitilessly upon him. He had never +seen the likeness before as he saw it now. Would such a man overlook a +fault, or have any mercy for an offender? Never! He turned away from it, +feeling cold and sick at heart; and with a heavy, and very bitter sigh +he locked the door upon the room where he had spent so large a portion +of his life. The place which had known him would know him no more.</p> + +<p>As noiselessly and warily as if he was a thief breaking into the quiet +house, he stole up the dimly-lighted staircase, and paused for a minute +or two before a door, listening intently. Then he crept in. A low shaded +lamp was burning, giving light enough to guide him to the cot where +Felix was sleeping. It would be his birthday to-morrow, and the child +must not lose his birthday gift, though the relentless floods were +rushing on toward him also. Close by was the cot where his baby +daughter, Hilda, was at rest. He stood between them, and could lay a +hand on each. How soundly the children slept while his heart was +breaking! Dear as they had been to him, he had never realized till now +how priceless beyond all words such little tender creatures could be. He +had called them into existence; and now the greatest good that could +befall them was his death. It was unutterable agony to him.</p> + +<p>His gift was a Bible, the boy's own choice; and he laid it on the pillow +where Felix would find it as soon as his eyes opened. He bent over him, +and kissed him with trembling lips. Hilda stirred a little when his lips +touched her soft, rosy face, and she half opened her eyes, whispering +"Father," and then fell asleep again smiling. He dared not linger +another moment, but passing stealthily away, he paused listening at +another door, his face white with anguish. "I dare not see Felicita," he +murmured to himself, "but I must look on my mother's face once again."</p> + +<p>The door made no sound as he opened it, and his feet fell noiselessly on +the thick carpet; but as he drew near his mother's bed, her eyes opened +with a clear steady gaze as if she had been awaiting his coming. There +was a light burning here as well as in the night-nursery adjoining, for +it was his mother who had charge of the children, and who would be the +first the nurse would call if anything was the matter. She awoke as one +who expects to be called upon at any hour; but the light was too dim to +betray the misery on her son's face.</p> + +<p>"Roland!" she said, in a slightly foreign accent.</p> + +<p>"Were you calling, mother?" he asked. "I was passing by, and I came in +here to see if you wanted anything."</p> + +<p>"I did not call, my son," she answered, "but what have you the matter? +Is Felicita ill? or the babies? Your voice is sad, Roland."</p> + +<p>"No, no," he said, forcing himself to speak in a cheerful voice, +"Felicita is asleep, I hope, and the babies are all right. But I have +been late at bank-work; and I turned in just to have a look at you, +mother, before I go to bed."</p> + +<p>"That's my good son," she said, smiling, and taking his hand between her +own in a fond clasp.</p> + +<p>"Am I a good son?" he asked.</p> + +<p>His mother's face was a fair, sweet face still, the soft brown hair +scarcely touched with white, and with clear, dark gray eyes gazing up +frankly into his own. They were eyes like these, with their truthful +light shining through them, inherited from her, which in himself had won +the unquestioning trust and confidence of those who were brought into +contact with him. There was no warning signal of disloyalty in his face +to set others on their guard. His mother looked up at him tenderly.</p> + +<p>"Always a good son, the best of sons, Roland," she replied, "and a good +husband, and a good father. Only one little fault in my good son: too +spendthrift, too lavish. You are not a fine, rich lord, with large +lands, and much, very much money, my boy. I do my best in the house; but +women can only save pennies, while men fling about pounds."</p> + +<p>"But you love me with all my faults, mother?" he said.</p> + +<p>"As my own soul," she answered.</p> + +<p>There was a profound solemnity in her voice and look, which penetrated +to his very heart. She was not speaking lightly. It was in the same +spirit with which. Paul wrote, after saying, "For I am persuaded that +neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor +things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other +creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in +Christ Jesus our Lord;" "I could wish that myself were separate from +Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh." His mother +had reached that sublime height of love for him.</p> + +<p>He stood silent, looking down on her with dull, aching eyes, as he said +to himself it was perhaps for the last time. It was the last time she +would ever see him as her good son. With her, in her heart and memory, +all his life dwelt; she knew the whole of it, with no break or +interruption. Only this one hidden thread, which had been woven into the +web in secret, and which was about to stand out with such clear and open +disclosure; of this she had no faint suspicion. For a minute or two he +felt as if he must tell her of it; that he must roll off this horrible +weight from himself, and crush her faithful heart with it. But what +could his mother do? Her love could not stay the storm; she had no power +to bid the winds and waves be still. It would be best for all of them if +he could make his escape secretly, and be altogether lost in +impenetrable darkness.</p> + +<p>At that moment a clock in the hall below struck one.</p> + +<p>"Well," he said wearily, "if I'm to get any sleep to-night I must be off +to bed. Good-by, mother."</p> + +<p>"Good-by?" she repeated with a smile.</p> + +<p>"Good-night, of course," he replied, bending over her and kissing her +tenderly.</p> + +<p>"God bless you, my son," she said, putting both her hands upon his head, +and pressing his face close to her own. He could not break away from her +fond embrace; but in a few moments she let him go, bidding him get some +rest before the night was passed.</p> + +<p>Once more he stood in the dimly-lighted passage, listening at his wife's +door, with his fingers involuntarily clasping the handle. But he dared +not go in. If he looked upon Felicita again he could not leave her, even +to escape from ruin and disgrace. An agony of love and of terror took +possession of him. Never to see her again was horrible; but to see her +shrink from him as a base and dishonest man, his name an infamy to her, +would be worse than death. Did she love him enough to forgive a sin +committed chiefly for her sake? In the depths of his own soul the answer +was no.</p> + +<p>He stole down stairs again, and passed out by a side door into the +streets. It was raining heavily, and the wind was moaning through the +deserted thoroughfares, where no sound of footsteps could be heard. +Behind him lay his pleasant home, never so precious as at this moment. +He looked up at the windows, the two faintly lit up, and that other +darkened window of the chamber he had not dared to enter. In a few hours +those women, so unutterably dear to him, would be overwhelmed by the +great sorrow he had prepared for them; those children would become the +inheritors of his sin. He looked back longingly and despairingly, as if +there only was life for him; and then hurrying on swiftly he lost sight +of the old home, and felt as a drowning wretch at sea feels when the +heaving billows hide from him the glimmering light of the beacon, which, +however, can offer no harbor of refuge to him.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<h3>PHEBE MARLOWE.</h3> + + +<p>Though the night had been stormy, the sun rose brightly on the +rain-washed streets, and the roofs and walls stood out with a peculiar +clearness, and with a more vivid color than usual, against the deep blue +of the sky. It was May-day, and most hearts were stirred with a pleasant +feeling as of a holiday; not altogether a common day, though the shops +were all open, and business was going on as usual. The old be-thought +themselves of the days when they had gone a-Maying; and the young felt +less disposed to work, and were inclined to wander out in search of +May-flowers in the green meadows, or along the sunny banks of the river, +which surrounded the town. Early, very early considering the ten miles +she had ridden on her rough hill-pony, came a young country girl across +one of the ancient bridges, with a large market-basket on her arm, +brimful of golden May-flowers, set off well by their own glossy leaves, +and by the dark blue of her dress. She checked her pony and lingered for +a few minutes, looking over the parapet at the swift rushing of the +current through the narrow arches. A thin line of alders grew along the +margin of the river, with their pale green leaves half unfolded; and in +the midst of the swirling waters, parting them into two streams, lay a +narrow islet on which tall willow wands were springing, with soft, white +buds on every rod, and glistening in the sunshine. Not far away a lofty +avenue of lime-trees stretched along the banks, casting wavering shadows +on the brown river; while beyond it, on the summit of one of the hills +on which the town was built, there rose the spires of two churches built +close together, with the gilded crosses on their tapering points +glittering more brightly than anything else in the joyous light. For a +little while the girl gazed dreamily at the landscape, her color coming +and going quickly, and then with a deep-drawn sigh of delight she +roused herself and her pony, and passed on into the town.</p> + +<p>The church clocks struck nine as she turned into Whitefriars Road, the +street where the old bank of Riversborough stood. The houses on each +side of the broad and quiet street were handsome, old-fashioned +dwelling-places, not one of which had as yet been turned into a shop. +The most eminent lawyers and doctors lived in it; and there was more +than one frontage which displayed a hatchment, left to grow faded and +discolored long after the year of mourning was ended. Here too was the +judge's residence, set apart for his occupation during the assizes. But +the old bank was the most handsome and most ancient of all those urban +mansions. It had originally stood alone on the brow of the hill +overlooking the river and the Whitefriars Abbey. Toward the street, when +Ronald Sefton's forefathers had realized a fortune by banking, now a +hundred years ago, there had been a new frontage built to it, with the +massive red brick workmanship and tall narrow windows of the eighteenth +century. But on the river side it was still an old Elizabethan mansion, +with gabled roofs standing boldly up against the sky; and low broad +casements, latticed and filled with lozenge-shaped panes; and +half-timber walls, with black beams fashioned into many forms: and with +one story jutting out beyond that below, until the attic window under +the gable seemed to hang in mid-air, without visible support, over the +garden sloping down a steep bank to the river-side.</p> + +<p>Phebe Marlowe, in her coarse dark blue merino dress, and with her +market-basket of golden blossoms on her arm, walked with a quick step +along the quiet street, having left her pony at a stable near the +entrance to the town. There were few persons about; but those whom she +met she looked at with a pleasant, shy, slight smile on her face, as if +she almost claimed acquaintance with them, and was ready, even wishful, +to bid them good-morning on a day so fine and bright. Two or three +responded to this inarticulate greeting, and then her lips parted +gladly, and her voice, clear though low, answered them with a sweet +good-humor that had something at once peculiar and pathetic in it. She +passed under a broad archway at one side of the bank offices, leading to +the house entrance, and to the sloping garden beyond. A private door +into the bank was ajar, and a dark, sombre face was peering out of it +into the semi-darkness. Phebe's feet paused for an instant.</p> + +<p>"Good-morning, Mr. Acton," she said, with a little rustic courtesy. But +he drew back quickly, and she heard him draw the bolt inside the door, +as if he had neither seen nor heard her. Yet the face, with its eager +and scared expression, had been too quickly seen by her, and too vividly +impressed upon her keen perception; and she went on, chilled a little, +as if some cloud had come over the clear brightness of the morning.</p> + +<p>Phebe was so much at home in the house, that when she found the +housemaid on her knees cleaning the hall floor, she passed on +unceremoniously to the dining-room, where she felt sure of finding some +of the family. It was a spacious room, with a low ceiling where black +beams crossed and recrossed each other; with wainscoted walls, and a +carved chimney-piece of almost black oak. A sombre place in gloomy +weather, yet so decorated with old china vases, and great brass salvers, +and silver cups and tankards catching every ray of light, that the whole +room glistened in this bright May-day. In the broad cushioned seat +formed by the sill of the oriel window, which was almost as large as a +room itself, there sat the elder Mrs. Sefton, Roland Sefton's foreign +mother, with his two children standing before her. They had their hands +clasped behind them, and their faces were turned toward her with the +grave earnestness children's faces often wear. She was giving them their +daily Bible lesson, and she held up her small brown hand as a signal to +Phebe to keep silence, and to wait a moment until the lesson was ended.</p> + +<p>"And so," she said, "those who know the will of God, and do not keep it, +will be beaten with many stripes. Remember that, my little Felix."</p> + +<p>"I shall always try to do it," answered the boy solemnly. "I'm nine +years old to-day; and when I'm a man I'm going to be a pastor, like +your father, grandmamma; my great-grandfather, you know, in the Jura. +Tell us how he used to go about the snow mountains seeing his poor +people, and how he met with wolves sometimes, and was never frightened."</p> + +<p>"Ah! my little children," she answered, "you have had a good father, and +a good grandfather, and a good great-grandfather. How very good you +ought to be."</p> + +<p>"We will," cried both the children, clinging round her as she rose from +her chair, until they caught sight of Phebe standing in the doorway. +Then with cries of delight they flew to her, and threw themselves upon +her with almost rough caresses, as if they knew she could well bear it. +She received them with merry laughter, and knelt down that their arms +might be thrown more easily round her neck.</p> + +<p>"See," she said, "I was up so early, while you were all in bed, finding +May-roses for you, with the May-dew on them. And if your father and +mother will let us go, I'll take you up the river to the osier island; +or you shall ride my Ruby, and we'll go off a long, long way into the +country, us three, and have dinner in a new place, where you have never +been. Because it's Felix's birthday."</p> + +<p>She was still kneeling on the floor, with the children about her, when +the door opened, and the same troubled and haggard face, which had +peered out upon her under the archway, looked into the room with +restless and bloodshot eyes. Phebe felt a sudden chill again, and rising +to her feet put the children behind her, as if she feared some danger +for them.</p> + +<p>"Where is Mr. Sefton?" he asked in a deep, hoarse voice; "is he at home, +Madame?"</p> + +<p>Ever since the elder Mr. Sefton had brought his young foreign wife home, +now more than thirty years ago, the people of Riversborough had called +her Madame, giving to her no other title or surname. It had always +seemed to set her apart, and at a distance, as a foreigner, and so quiet +had she been, so homely and domesticated, that she had remained a +stranger, keeping her old habits of life and thought, and often yearning +for the old pastor's home among the Jura Mountains.</p> + +<p>"But yes," she answered, "my son is late this morning; but all the world +is early, I think. It is not much beyond nine o'clock, Mr. Acton. The +bank is not open yet."</p> + +<p>"No, no," he answered hurriedly, while his eyes wandered restlessly +about the room; "he is not ill, Madame?"</p> + +<p>"I hope so not," she replied, with some vague uneasiness stirring in her +heart.</p> + +<p>"Nor dead?" he muttered.</p> + +<p>"Dead!" exclaimed both Madame and Phebe in one breath; "dead!"</p> + +<p>"All men die," he went on, "and it is a pleasant thing to lie down +quietly in one's own grave, where the wicked cease from troubling, and +the weary are at rest. He could rest soundly in the grave."</p> + +<p>"I will go and see," cried Madame, catching Phebe by the arm.</p> + +<p>"Pray God you may find him dead," he answered, with a low, miserable +laugh, ending in a sob. He was mad; neither Madame nor Phebe had a doubt +of it. They put the children before them, and bade them run away to the +nursery, while they followed up the broad old staircase. Madame went +into her son's bedroom; but in a few seconds she returned to Phebe with +an anxious face.</p> + +<p>"He is not there," she said, "nor Felicita. She is in her own +sitting-room, where she likes not to be followed. It is her sacred +place, and I go there never, Phebe."</p> + +<p>"But she knows where Mr. Sefton is," answered Phebe, "and we must ask +her. We cannot leave poor Mr. Acton alone. If nobody else dare disturb +her, I will."</p> + +<p>"She will not be vexed with you," said Madame Sefton. "Knock at this +door, Phebe; knock till she answers. I am miserable about my son."</p> + +<p>Several times Phebe knocked, more loudly each time, until at last a low +voice, sounding far away, bade them go in. Very quietly, as if indeed +they were stepping into some holy place barefooted, they crossed the +threshold.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<h3>FELICITA.</h3> + + +<p>The room was a small one, with a dim, many-colored light pervading it; +for the upper part of the mullioned casement was filled with painted +glass, and even the panes of the lower part were of faintly tinted +green. Like all the rest of the old house, the walls were wainscoted, +but here there was no piece of china or silver to sparkle; the only +glitter was that of the gilding on the handsomely bound books arranged +in two bookcases. In this green gloom sat Felicita Sefton, leaning back +in her chair, with her head resting languidly on the cushions, and her +dark eyes turned dimly and dreamily toward the quietly opening door.</p> + +<p>"Phebe Marlowe!" she said, her eyes brightening a little, as the fresh, +sweet face of the young country girl met her gaze. Phebe stepped softly +forward into the dim room, and laid the finest of the golden flowers she +had gathered that morning upon Felicita's lap. It brought a gleam of +spring sunshine into the gloom which caught Felicita's eye, and she +uttered a low cry of delight as she took it up in her small, delicate +hand. Phebe stooped down shyly and kissed the small hand, her face all +aglow with smiles and blushes.</p> + +<p>"Felicita," said Madame, her voice altering a little, "where is my son +this morning?"</p> + +<p>"Roland!" she repeated absently; "Roland? Didn't he say last night he +was going to London?"</p> + +<p>"To London!" exclaimed his mother.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, "he bade me good-by last night; I remember now. He +said he would not disturb me again; he was going by the mail-train. He +was sorry to be away on poor little Felix's birthday. I recollect quite +distinctly now."</p> + +<p>"He said not one word to me," said Madame. "It is strange."</p> + +<p>"Very strange," asserted Felicita languidly, as if she were wandering +away again into the reverie they had broken in upon.</p> + +<p>"Did he say when he would be back?" asked his mother.</p> + +<p>"In a few days, of course," she answered.</p> + +<p>"But he has not told Acton," resumed Madame.</p> + +<p>"Who did you say?" inquired Felicita.</p> + +<p>"The head clerk, the manager when Roland is away," she said. "He has not +said anything to him."</p> + +<p>"Very strange," said Felicita again. It was plainly irksome to her to be +disturbed by questions like these, and she was withdrawing herself into +the remote and unapproachable distance where no one could follow her. +Her finely-chiselled features and colorless skin gave her a singular +resemblance to marble; and they might almost as well have addressed +themselves to a marble image.</p> + +<p>"Come," said Madame, "we must see Acton again."</p> + +<p>They found him in the bank parlor, where Roland was usually to be met +with at this hour. There was an unspoken hope in their hearts that he +would be there, and so deliver them from the undefined trouble and +terror they were suffering. But only Acton was there, seated at Roland's +desk, and turning over the papers in it with a rapid and reckless hand. +His face was hidden behind the great flap of the desk, and though he +glanced over it for an instant as the door opened he concealed himself +again, as if feigning unconsciousness of any one's presence.</p> + +<p>"My son is gone to London," said Madame, keeping at a safe distance from +him, with the door open behind her and Phebe to secure a speedy retreat. +The flap of the desk fell with a loud crash, and Acton flung his arms +above his head with a gesture of despair.</p> + +<p>"I knew it," he exclaimed. "Oh, my dear young master! God grant he may +get away safe. All is lost!"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" cried Madame, forgetting one terror in another, and +catching him by the arm; "what is lost?"</p> + +<p>"He is gone!" he answered, "and it was more my fault than his—mine and +Mrs. Sefton's. Whatever wrong he has done it was for her. Remember +that, Madame, and you, Phebe Marlowe. If anything happens, remember it's +my fault more than his, and Mrs. Sefton's fault more than mine."</p> + +<p>"Tell me what you mean," urged Madame breathlessly.</p> + +<p>"You'll know when Mr. Sefton returns, Madame," he answered, with a +sudden return to his usually calm tone and manner, which was as +startling as his former vehemence had been; "he'll explain all when he +comes home. We must open the bank now; it is striking ten."</p> + +<p>He locked the desk and passed out of the comfortably-furnished parlor +into the office beyond, leaving them nothing to do but to return into +the house with their curiosity unsatisfied, and the mother's vague +trouble unsoothed.</p> + +<p>"Phebe, Phebe!" cried Felix, as they slowly re-entered the pleasant +home, "my mother says we may go up the river to the osier island; and, +oh, Phebe, she will go with us her own self!"</p> + +<p>He had run down the broad staircase to meet them, almost breathless with +delight, and with eyes shining with almost serious rapture. He clasped +Phebe's arm, and, leaning toward her, whispered into her ear,</p> + +<p>"She took me in her arms, and said, 'I love you, Felix,' and then she +kissed me as if she meant it, Phebe. It was better than all my birthday +presents put together. My father said to me one day he adored her; and I +adore her. She is my mother, you know—the mother of me, Felix; and I +lie down on the floor and kiss her feet every day, only she does not +know it. When she looks at me her eyes seem to go through me; but, oh, +she does not look at me often."</p> + +<p>"She is so different; not like most people," answered Phebe, with her +arms round the boy.</p> + +<p>Madame had gone on sadly enough up-stairs to see if she could find out +anything about her son; and Phebe and Felix had turned into the terraced +garden where the boat-house was built close under the bank of the river.</p> + +<p>"I should be sorry for my mother to be like other people," said Felix +proudly. "She is like the evening star, my father says, and I always +look out at night to see if it is shining. You know, Phebe, when we row +her up the river, my father and me, we keep quite quiet, only nodding at +one another which way to pull, and she sits silent with eyes that shine +like stars. We would not speak for anything, not one little word, lest +we should disturb her. My father says she is a great genius; not at all +like other people, and worth thousands and thousands of common women. +But I don't think you are a common woman, Phebe," he added, lifting up +his eager face to hers, as if afraid of hurting her feelings, "and my +father does not think so, I know."</p> + +<p>"Your father has known me all my life, and has always been my best +friend," said Phebe, with a pleasant smile. "But I am a working-woman, +Felix, and your mother is a lady and a great genius. It is God who has +ordered it so."</p> + +<p>She would have laughed if she had been less simple-hearted than she was, +at the anxious care with which the boy arranged the boat for his mother. +No cushions were soft enough and no shawls warm enough for the precious +guest. When at length all was ready, and he fetched her himself from +the house, it was not until she was comfortably seated in the low seat, +with a well-padded sloping back, against which she could recline at +ease, and with a soft, warm shawl wrapped round her—not till then did +the slight cloud of care pass away from his face, and the little pucker +of anxiety which knitted his brows grow smooth. The little girl of five, +Hilda, nestled down by her mother, and Felix took his post at the helm. +In unbroken silence they pushed off into the middle of the stream, the +boat rowed easily by Phebe's strong young arms. So silent were they all +that they could hear the rustling of the young leaves on the trees, +under whose shadows they passed, and the joyous singing of the larks in +the meadows on each side of the sunny reaches of water, down which they +floated. It was not until they landed the children on the osier island, +and bade them run about to play, and not then until they were some +distance away, that their merry young voices were heard.</p> + +<p>"Phebe," said Felicita, in her low-toned, softly-modulated voice, always +languid and deliberate, "talk to me. Tell me how you spend your life."</p> + +<p>Phebe was sitting face to face with her, balancing the boat with the +oars against the swift flowing of the river, with smiles coming and +going on her face as rapidly as the shadows and the sunshine chasing +each other over the fields this May morning.</p> + +<p>"You know," she answered simply, "we live a mile away from the nearest +house, and that is only a cottage where an old farm laborer lives with +his wife. It's very lonesome up there on the hills. Days and days go by, +and I never hear a voice speaking, and I feel as if I could not bear the +sound of my own voice when I call the cattle home, or the fowls to come +for their corn. If it wasn't for the living things around me, that know +me as well as they know one another, and love me more, I should feel +sometimes as if I was dead. And I long so to hear somebody speak—to be +near more of my fellow-creatures. Why, when I touch the hand of any one +I love—yours, or Mr. Sefton's, or Madame's—it's almost a pain to me; +it seems to bring me so close to you. I always feel as if I became a +part of father when I touch him. Oh, you do not know what it is to be +alone!"</p> + +<p>"No," said Felicita, sighing; "never have I been alone, and I would give +worlds to be as free as you are. You cannot imagine what it is," she +went on, speaking rapidly and with intense eagerness, "never to belong +to yourself, or to be alone; for it is not being alone to have only four +thin walls separating you from a husband and children and a large busy +household. 'What are you thinking, my darling?' Roland is always asking +me; and the children break in upon me. Body, soul, and spirit, I am held +down a captive; I have been in bondage all my life. I have never even +thought as I should think if I could be free."</p> + +<p>"But I cannot understand that," cried Phebe. "I could never be too near +those I love. I should like to live in a large house, with many people +all smiling and talking around me. And everybody worships you."</p> + +<p>She uttered the last words shyly, partly afraid of bringing a frown on +the lovely face opposite to her, which was quickly losing its vivid +expression and sinking back into statuesque coldness.</p> + +<p>"It is simply weariness to me and vexation of spirit," she answered. "If +I could be quite alone, as you are, with only a father like yours, I +think I could get free; but I have never been left alone from my +babyhood; just as Felix and Hilda are never left alone. Oh, Phebe, you +do not know how happy you are."</p> + +<p>"No," she said cheerfully, "sometimes when I stand at our garden-gate, +and look round me for miles and miles away, and the sweet air blows past +me, and the bees are humming, and the birds calling to one another, and +everything is so peaceful, with father happy over his work not far off, +I think I don't know how happy I am. I try to catch hold of the feeling +and keep it, but it slips away somehow. Only I thank God I am happy."</p> + +<p>"I was never happy enough to thank God," Felicita murmured, lying back +in her seat and shutting her eyes. Presently the children returned, and, +after another silent row, slower and more toilsome, as it was up the +river, they drew near home again, and saw Madame's anxious face watching +for them over the low garden wall. Her heart had been too heavy for her +to join them in their pleasure-taking, and it was no lighter now.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<h3>UPFOLD FARM.</h3> + + +<p>Phebe rode slowly homeward in the dusk of the evening, her brain too +busy with the varied events of the day for her to be in any haste to +reach the end. For the last four miles her road lay in long by-lanes, +shady with high hedgerows and trees which grew less frequent and more +stunted as she rose gradually higher up the long spurs of the hills, +whose rounded outlines showed dark against the clear orange tint of the +western sky. She could hear the brown cattle chewing the cud, and the +bleating of some solitary sheep on the open moor, calling to the flock +from which it had strayed during the daytime, with the angry yelping of +a dog in answer to its cry from some distant farm-yard. The air was +fresh and chilly with dew, and the low wind, which only lifted the +branches of the trees a little in the lower land she had left, was +growing keener, and would blow sharply enough across the unsheltered +table-land she was reaching. But still she loitered, letting her rough +pony snatch tufts of fresh grass from the banks, and shamble leisurely +along as he strayed from one side of the road to another.</p> + +<p>Phebe was not so much thinking as pondering in a confused and +unconnected manner over all the circumstances of the day, when suddenly +the tall figure of a man rose from under the black hedgerow, and laid +his arm across the pony's neck, with his face turned up to her. Her +heart throbbed quickly, but not altogether with terror.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Roland!" she cried.</p> + +<p>"You know me in the dark then," he answered. "I have been watching for +you all day, Phebe. You come from home?"</p> + +<p>She knew he meant his home, not hers.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it was Felix's birthday, and we have been down the river," she +said.</p> + +<p>"Is anything known yet?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Though it was so solitary a spot that Phebe had passed no one for the +last three miles, and he had been haunting the hills all day without +seeing a soul, yet he spoke in a whisper, as if fearful of betraying +himself.</p> + +<p>"Only that you are away," she replied; "and they think you are in +London."</p> + +<p>"Is not Mr. Clifford come?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"No, sir, he comes to-morrow," she answered.</p> + +<p>"Thank God!" he exclaimed, in a louder tone. When he spoke again he did +so without looking into her face, which indeed was scarcely visible in +the deepening dusk.</p> + +<p>"Phebe," he said, "we have known each other for many years."</p> + +<p>"All my life, sir," she responded eagerly; "father and me, we are proud +of knowing you."</p> + +<p>Before speaking again he led her pony up the steep lane to a gate which +opened on the moorland. It was not so dark here, from under the +hedgerows and trees, and a little pool beside the gate caught the last +lingering light in the west, and reflected it like a dim and dusty +mirror. They could see one another's faces; his was working with strong +excitement, and hers, earnest and friendly, looked frankly down upon +him. He clasped her hand with the strong, desperate grip of a sinking +man, and her fingers responded with a warm clasp.</p> + +<p>"Can I trust you, Phebe?" he cried. "I have no other chance."</p> + +<p>"I will help you, even to dying for you and yours," she answered. The +girlish fervor of her manner struck him mournfully. Why should he burden +her with his crime? What right had he to demand any sacrifice from her? +Yet he felt she spoke the truth. Phebe Marlowe would rejoice in helping, +even unto death, not only him, but any other fellow-creature who was +sinking under sorrow or sin.</p> + +<p>"Come on home," she said, "it is bitterly cold here; and you can tell me +what to do."</p> + +<p>He placed himself at the pony's head again, and trudged on speechlessly +along the rough road, which was now nothing more than the tracks made by +cart-wheels across the moor, with deep ruts over which he stumbled like +a man who is worn out with fatigue. In a quarter of an hour the low +cottage was reached, surrounded by a little belt of fields and a few +storm-beaten fir-trees. There was a dull glow of red to be seen through +the lattice window, telling Phebe of a smouldering fire, made up for her +by her father before going back to his workshop at the end of the field +behind the house. She stirred up the wood-ashes and threw upon them some +dry, light fagots of gorse, and in a few seconds a dazzling light filled +the little room from end to end. It was a familiar place to Roland +Sefton, and he took no notice of it. But it was a curious interior. +Every niche of the walls was covered with carved oak; no wainscoted hall +in the country could be more richly or more fancifully decorated. The +chimney-piece over the open hearth-stone, a wide chimney-piece, was +deeply carved with curious devices. The doors and window-frames, the +cupboards and the shelves for the crockery, were all of dark oak, +fashioned into leaves and ferns, with birds on their nests, and timid +rabbits, and still more timid wood-mice peeping out of their coverts, +cocks crowing with uplifted crest, and chickens nestling under the +hen-mother's wings, sheaves of corn, and tall, club-headed +bulrushes—all the objects familiar to a country life. The dancing light +played upon them, and shone also upon Roland Sefton's sad and weary +face. Phebe drew her father's carved arm-chair close to the fire.</p> + +<p>"Sit down," she said, "and let me get you something to eat."</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered, sinking down wearily in the chair, "I am nearly +dying of hunger. Good Heavens! is it possible I can be hungry?"</p> + +<p>He spoke with an indescribable expression of mingled astonishment and +dread. Suddenly there broke upon him the possibility of suffering want +in many forms in the future, and yet he felt ashamed of foreseeing them +in this, the first day of his great calamity. Until this moment he had +been too absorbed in dwelling upon the moral and social consequences of +his crime, to realize how utterly worn out he was; but all his physical +strength appeared to collapse in an instant.</p> + +<p>And now for the first time Phebe beheld the change in him, and stood +gazing at him in mute surprise and sorrow. He had always been careful +of his personal appearance, with a refinement and daintiness which had +grown especially fastidious since his marriage. But now his coat, wet +through during the night, and dried only by the keen air of the hills, +was creased and soiled, and his boots were thickly covered with mud and +clay. His face and hands were unwashed, and his hair hung unbrushed over +his forehead. Phebe's whole heart was stirred at this pitiful change, +and she laid her hand on his shoulder with a timid but affectionate +touch.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Roland," she said, "go up-stairs and put yourself to rights a +little; and give me your clothes and your boots to brush. You'll feel +better when you are more like yourself."</p> + +<p>He smiled faintly as he looked up at her quivering lips and eyes full of +unshed tears. But her homely advice was good, and he was glad to follow +it. Her little room above was lined with richly carved oak panels like +the kitchen below, and a bookcase contained her books, many of which he +had himself given to her. There was an easel standing under the highest +part of the shelving roof, where a sky-light was let into the thatch, +and a half-finished painting rested on it. But he did not give a glance +toward it. There was very little interest to him just now in Phebe's +pursuits, though she owed most of them to him.</p> + +<p>By the time he was ready to go down, supper was waiting for him on the +warm and bright hearth, and he fell upon it almost ravenously. It was +twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. Phebe sat almost out of sight +in the shadow of a large settle, with her knitting in her hand, and her +eyes only seeking his face when any movement seemed to indicate that she +could serve him in some way. But in these brief glances she noticed the +color coming back to his face, and new vigor and resolution changing his +whole aspect.</p> + +<p>"And now," he said, when his hunger was satisfied, "I can talk to you, +Phebe."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<h3>A CONFESSION.</h3> + + +<p>But Roland Sefton sat silent, with his shapely hands resting on his +knees, and his handsome face turned toward the hearth, where the logs +had burned down and emitted only a low and fitful flame. The little room +was scarcely lighted by it, and looked all the darker for the blackness +of the small uncurtained window, through which the ebony face of night +was peering in. This bare, uncovered casement troubled him, and from +time to time he turned his eyes uneasily toward it. But what need could +there be of a curtain, when they were a mile away from any habitation, +and where no road crossed the moor, except the rugged green pathway, +worn into deep ruts by old Marlowe's own wagon? Yet as if touched by +some vague sympathy with him, Phebe rose, and pinned one of her large +rough working-aprons across it.</p> + +<p>"Phebe," he said, as she stepped softly back to her seat, "you and I +have been friends a long time; and your father and I have been friends +all my life. Do you recollect me staying here a whole week when I was a +school-boy?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, her eyes glistening in the dusky light; "but for +you I should have known nothing, only what work had to be done for +father. You taught me my alphabet that week, and the hymns I have said +every night since then before I go to sleep. You helped me to teach +myself painting; and if I ever paint a picture worth looking at it will +be your doing."</p> + +<p>"No, no; you are a born artist, Phebe Marlowe," he said, "though perhaps +the world may never know it. But being such friends as you say, I will +trust you. Do you think me worthy of trust, true and honest as a man +should be, Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"As true and honest as the day," she cried, with eager emphasis.</p> + +<p>"And a Christian?" he added, in a lower voice.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, "I do not know a Christian if you are not one."</p> + +<p>"That is the sting of it," he groaned; "true, and honest, and a +Christian! And yet, Phebe, if I were taken by the police to-night, or if +I be taken by them to-morrow, I shall be lodged in Riversborough jail, +and tried before a jury of my towns-people at the assizes next month."</p> + +<p>"No, it is impossible!" she cried, stretching out her brown, +hard-working hand, and laying it on his white and shapely one, which had +never known toil.</p> + +<p>"You would not send me to jail," he said, "I know that well enough. But +I deserve it, my poor girl. They would find me guilty and sentence me to +a convict prison. I saw Dartmoor prison on my wedding journey with +Felicita, Heaven help me! She liked the wild, solitary moor, with its +great tors and its desolate stillness, and one day we went near to the +prison. Those grim walls seemed to take possession of me; I felt +oppressed and crushed by them. I could not forget them for days after, +even with Felicita by my side."</p> + +<p>His voice trembled as he spoke, and a quiver ran through his whole +frame, which seemed to thrill through Phebe's; but she only pressed her +pitiful hand more closely on his.</p> + +<p>"I might have escaped last night," he went on, "but I stumbled over a +poor girl in the street, dying. A young girl, no older than you, without +a penny or a friend; a sinner too like myself; and I could not leave her +there alone. Only in finding help for her I lost my chance. The train to +London was gone, and there was no other till ten this morning. I +expected Mr. Clifford to be at the bank to-day; if I had only known he +would not be there I could have got away then. But I came here, why I +hardly know. You could not hide me for long if you would; but there was +no one else to help me."</p> + +<p>"But what have you done, sir?" she asked, with a tremulous, long-drawn +sigh.</p> + +<p>"Done?" he repeated; "ay! there's the question. I wonder if I can be +honest and true now with only Phebe Marlowe listening. I could have told +my mother, perhaps, if it had been of any use; but I would die rather +than tell Felicita. Done, Phebe! I've appropriated securities trusted to +my keeping, pledging some and selling others for my own use. I've stolen +£10,000."</p> + +<p>"And you could be sent to prison for it?" she said, in a low voice, +glancing uneasily round as if she fancied she would be overheard.</p> + +<p>"For I don't know how many years," he answered.</p> + +<p>"It would kill Mrs. Sefton," she said. "Oh! how could you do it?"</p> + +<p>"It was for Felicita I did it," he replied absently; "for my Felicita +only."</p> + +<p>For a few minutes Phebe's brain was busy, but not yet with the most +sorrowful thoughts. There could be no shadow of doubt in her mind that +this dearest friend of hers, sitting beside her in the twilight, was +guilty of the crime he had confessed. But she could not as yet dwell +upon the crime. He was in imminent peril; and his peril threatened the +welfare of nearly all whom she loved. Ruin and infamy for him meant +ruin and infamy for them all. She must save him if possible.</p> + +<p>"Phebe," he said, breaking the dreary silence, "I ought to tell you one +thing more. The money your father left with me—the savings of his +life—six hundred pounds—it is all gone. He intrusted it to me, and +made his will, appointing me your guardian; such confidence he had in +me. I have made both him and you penniless."</p> + +<p>"I think nothing of that," she answered. "What should I ever have been +but for you? A dull, ignorant country girl, living a life little higher +than my sheep and cattle. We are rich enough, my father and me. This +cottage, and the fields about it, are our own. But I must go and tell +father."</p> + +<p>"Must he be told?" asked Roland Sefton anxiously.</p> + +<p>"We've no secrets," she replied; "and there's no fear of him, you know. +He would see if I was in trouble; and I shall be in trouble," she added, +in a sorrowful voice.</p> + +<p>She opened the cottage door, and going out left him alone. It was a +familiar place to him; but hitherto it had been only the haunt of happy +holidays, from the time when he had been a school-boy until his last +autumn's shooting of grouse and woodcock on the wide moors. Old Marlowe +had been one of his earliest friends, and Phebe had been something like +a humble younger sister to him. If any one in the world could be +depended upon to help him, outside his own family, it must be old +Marlowe and his daughter.</p> + +<p>And yet, when she left him, his first impulse was to rise and flee while +yet there was time—before old Marlowe knew his secret. Phebe was a +girl, living as girls do, in a region of sentiment and feeling, hardly +understanding a crime against property. A girl like her had no idea of +what his responsibility and his guilt were, money ranking so low in her +estimate of life. But old Marlowe would look at it quite differently. +His own careful earnings, scraped together by untiring industry and +ceaseless self-denial, were lost—stolen by the man he had trusted +implicitly. For Roland Sefton did not spare himself any reproaches; he +did not attempt to hide or palliate his sin. There were other +securities for small sums, like old Marlowe's, gone like his, and ruin +would overtake half a dozen poor families, though the bulk of the loss +would fall upon his senior partner, who was a hard man, of unbending +sternness and integrity. If old Marlowe proved a man of the same +inflexible stamp, he was lost.</p> + +<p>But he sat still, waiting and listening. Round that lonely cottage, as +he well knew, the wind swept from whatever quarter it was blowing; +sighing softly, or wailing, moaning, or roaring past it, as ceaselessly +as the sound of waves against a fisherman's hut on the sea-coast. It was +crying and sobbing now, rising at intervals into a shriek, as if to warn +him of coming peril. He went to the window and met the black face of the +night, hiding everything from his eye. Neither moon nor star gleamed in +the sky. But even if old Marlowe was merciful he could not stay there, +but must go out, as he had done last night from his own home, lashed +like a dog from every familiar hearth by an unseen hand and a heavy +scourge.</p> + +<p>Phebe had not lingered, though she seemed long away. As she drew near +the little workshop she saw the wagon half-laden with some church +furniture her father had been carving, and with which he and she were to +start at daybreak for a village about twenty miles off. She heard the +light tap of his carving tools as she opened the door, and found him +finishing the wings of a spread-eagle. He had pushed back the paper cap +he wore from his forehead, which was deeply furrowed, and shaded by a +few straggling tufts of gray hair. He took no notice of her entrance +until she touched his arm with her hand; and then he looked at her with +eyes, blue like her own, but growing dim with age, and full of the +pitiful, uncomplaining gaze of one who is deaf and dumb. But his face +brightened and his smile was cheerful, as he began to talk eagerly with +his fingers, throwing in many gestures to aid his slow speech. Phebe, +too, smiled and gesticulated in silent answer, before she told him her +errand.</p> + +<p>"The carving is finished, father," she said. "Could we not start at +once, and be at Upchurch before five to-morrow morning?"</p> + +<p>"Twenty miles; eight hours; easily," he answered; "but why?"</p> + +<p>"To help Mr. Sefton," she said. "He wants to get down to Southampton, +and Upchurch is in the way. Father, it must be done; you would never see +a smile upon my face again if we did not do it."</p> + +<p>The keen, wistful eyes of her father were fastened alternately upon her +troubled face and her moving hands, as slowly and silently she spelt out +on her fingers the sad story she had just listened to. His own face +changed rapidly from astonishment to dismay, and from dismay to a +passionate rage. If Roland Sefton could have seen it he would have made +good his escape. But still Phebe's fingers went on pleading for him; and +the smile, which she said her father would never see again—a pale, wan +smile—met his eyes as he watched her.</p> + +<p>"He has been so good to you and me," she went on, with a sob in her +throat; and unconsciously she spoke out the words aloud and slowly as +she told them off on her fingers; "he learned to talk with you as I do, +and he is the only person almost in the world who can talk to you +without your slate and pencil, father. It was good of him to take that +trouble. And his father was your best friend, wasn't he? How good Madame +used to be when I was a little girl, and you were carving all that +woodwork at the old bank, and she let me stay there with you! All our +happiest days have come through them. And now we can deliver them from +great misery."</p> + +<p>"But my money?" he interposed.</p> + +<p>"Money is nothing between friends," she said eagerly. "Will you make my +life miserable, father? I shall be thinking of them always, night and +day; and they will never see me again if he is sent to jail through our +fault. There never was a kinder man than he is; and I always thought him +a good man till now."</p> + +<p>"A thief; worse than a common thief," said her father. "What will become +of my little daughter when I am dead?"</p> + +<p>Phebe made no answer except by tears. For a few minutes old Marlowe +watched her bowed head and face hidden in her hands, till a gray hue +came upon his withered face, and the angry gleam died away from his +eyes. Hitherto her slightest wish had been a law to him, and to see her +weeping was anguish to him. To have a child who could hear and speak had +been a joy that had redeemed his life from wretchedness, and crowned it +with an inexhaustible delight. If he never saw her smile again, what +would become of him? She was hiding her face from him even now, and +there was no medium of communication between them save by touch. He must +call her attention to what he had to say by making her look at him. +Almost timidly he stretched out his withered and cramped hand to lay it +upon her head.</p> + +<p>"I must do whatever you please," he said, when she lifted up her face +and looked at him with tearful eyes; "if it killed me I must do it. But +it is a hard thing you bid me do, Phebe."</p> + +<p>He turned away to brush the last speck of dust from the eagle's wings, +and lifting it up carefully carried it away to pack in his wagon, Phebe +holding the lantern for him till all was done. Then hand in hand they +walked down the foot-worn path across the field to the house, as they +had done ever since she had been a tottering little child, hardly able +to clasp his one finger with her baby hand.</p> + +<p>Roland Sefton was crouching over the dying embers on the hearth, more in +the utter misery of soul than in bodily chilliness, though he felt cold +and shivering, as if stripped of all that made life desirable to him. +There is no icy chill like that. He did not look round when the door +opened, though Phebe spoke to him; for he could not face old Marlowe, or +force himself to read the silent yet eloquent fingers, which only could +utter words of reproach. The dumb old man stood on the threshold, gazing +at his averted face and downcast head, and an inarticulate cry of +mingled rage and grief broke from his silent lips, such as Phebe herself +had never heard before, and which, years afterward, sounded at times in +Roland Sefton's ears.</p> + +<p>It was nearly ten o'clock before they were on the road, old Marlowe +marching at the head of his horse, and Phebe mounted on her wiry little +pony, while Roland Sefton rode in front of the wagon at times. Their +progress was slow, for the oak furniture was heavy and the roads were +rough, leading across the moor and down steep hills into valleys, with +equally steep hills on the other side. The sky was covered with a thin +mist drifting slowly before the wind, and when the moon shone through +it, about two o'clock in the morning, it was the waning-moon looking sad +and forlorn amid the floating vapor. The houses they passed were few and +far between, showing no light or sign of life. All the land lay around +them dark and desolate under the midnight sky; and the slow creaking of +the wheels and sluggish hoof-beats of the horse dragging the wagon were +the only sounds that broke the stillness.</p> + +<p>In this gloom old Marlowe could hold no conversation either with Phebe +or Roland Sefton, but from time to time they could hear him sob aloud as +he trudged on in his speechless isolation. It was a sad sound, which +pierced them to the heart. From time to time Roland Sefton walked up the +long hills beside Phebe's pony, pouring out his whole heart to her. They +could hardly see each other's faces in the dimness, and words came the +more readily to him. All the burden of his confession was that he had +fallen through seeking Felicita's happiness. For her sake he had longed +for more wealth, and speculated in the hope of gaining it, and tampered +with the securities intrusted to him in the hope of retrieving losses. +It was for her, and her only, he maintained; and now he had brought +infamy and wretchedness and poverty upon her and his innocent children.</p> + +<p>"Would to God I could die to-night!" he exclaimed; "my death would save +them from some portion of their trouble."</p> + +<p>Phebe listened to him almost as heart-broken as himself. In her +singularly solitary life, so far apart from ordinary human society, she +had never been brought into contact with sin, and its profound, +fathomless misery; and now it was the one friend, whom she had loved the +longest and the best, who was walking beside her a guilty man, fleeing +through the night from all he himself cared for, to seek a refuge from +the consequences of his crime in an uncertain exile. In years afterward +it seemed to her as if that night had been rather a terrible dream than +a reality.</p> + +<p>At length the pale dawn broke, and the utter separation caused by the +darkness between them and old Marlowe passed away with it. He stopped +his horse and came to them, turning a gray, despairing face upon Roland +Sefton.</p> + +<p>"It is time to leave you," he said; "over these fields lies the nearest +station, where you can escape from a just punishment. You have made us +beggars to keep up your own grandeur. God will see that you do not go +unpunished."</p> + +<p>"Hush, hush!" cried Phebe aloud, stretching out her hand to Roland +Sefton; "he will forgive you by and by. Tell me: have you no message to +send by me, sir? When shall we hear from you?"</p> + +<p>"If I get away safe," he answered, in a broken voice, "and if nothing is +heard of me before, tell Felicita I will be in the place where I saw her +first, this day six months. Do not tell her till the time is near. It +will be best for her to know nothing of me at present."</p> + +<p>They were standing at the stile over which his road lay. The sun was not +yet risen, but the gray clouds overhead were taking rosy and golden +tints. Here and there in the quiet farmsteads around them the cocks +were beginning to crow lazily; and there were low, drowsy twitterings in +the hedges, where the nests were still new little homes. It was a more +peaceful hour than sunset can ever be with its memories of the day's +toils and troubles. All the world seemed bathed in rest and quietness +except themselves. Their dark journey through the silent night had been +almost a crime.</p> + +<p>"Your father turns his back upon me, as all honest men will do," said +Roland Sefton.</p> + +<p>Old Marlowe had gone back to his horse, and stood there without looking +round. The tears ran down Phebe's face; but she did not touch her +father, and ask him to bid his old friend's son good-by.</p> + +<p>"Some day no man will turn his back upon you, sir," she answered; "I +would die now rather than do it. You will regain your good name some +day."</p> + +<p>"Never!" he exclaimed; "it is past recall. There is no place of +repentance for me, Phebe. I have staked all, and lost all."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<h3>THE OLD BANK.</h3> + + +<p>About the same hour that Roland Sefton set off under shelter of old +Marlowe's wagon to attempt his escape, Mr. Clifford, the senior partner +in the firm, reached Riversborough by the last train from London. It was +too late for him to intrude on the household of his young partner, and +he spent the night at a hotel.</p> + +<p>The old bank at Riversborough had been flourishing for the last hundred +years. It had the power of issuing its own notes; and until lately these +notes, bearing the familiar names of Clifford and Sefton, had been +preferred by the country people round to those of the Bank of England +itself. For nobody knew who were the managers of the Bank of England; +while one of the Seftons, either father or son, could be seen at any +time for the last fifty years. On ordinary days there were but few +customers to be seen in its handsome office, and a single clerk might +easily have transacted all the business. But on market-days and +fair-days the place was crowded by loud-voiced, red-faced country +gentlemen, and by awkward and burly farmers, from the moment its doors +were opened until they were closed at the last stroke of four sounding +from the church clock near at hand. The strong room of the Old Bank was +filled full with chests containing valuable securities and heirlooms, +belonging to most of the county families in the neighborhood.</p> + +<p>For the last twenty years Mr. Clifford had left the management of the +bank entirely to the elder Sefton, and upon his death to his son, who +was already a partner. He had lived abroad, and had not visited England +for more than ten years. There was a report, somewhat more +circumstantial than a rumor, but the truth of which none but the elder +Sefton had ever known, that Mr. Clifford, offended by his only son, had +let him die of absolute starvation in Paris. Added to this rumor was a +vague story of some crime committed by the younger Clifford, which his +father would not overlook or forgive. That he was a hard man, austere to +utter pitilessness, everybody averred. No transgressor need look to him +for pardon.</p> + +<p>When Roland Sefton had laid his hands upon the private personal +securities belonging to his senior partner, it was with no idea that he +would escape the most rigorous prosecution, should his proceedings ever +come to the light. But it was with the fixed conviction that Mr. +Clifford would never return to England, or certainly not to +Riversborough, where this hard report had been circulated and partly +accepted concerning him. The very bonds he had dealt with, first +borrowing money upon them, and at last selling them, had been bequeathed +to him in Mr. Clifford's will, of which he was himself the executor. He +had, as he persuaded himself, only forestalled the possession of them. +But a letter he had received from Mr. Clifford, informing him that he +was on his way home, with the purpose of thoroughly investigating the +affairs of the bank, had fallen like a thunderbolt upon him, and upon +Acton, through whose agency he had managed to dispose of the securities +without arousing any suspicion.</p> + +<p>Early the next morning Mr. Clifford arrived at the bank, and heard to +his great surprise that his partner had started for London, and had been +away the day before; possibly, Madame Sefton suggested with some +anxiety, in the hope of meeting him there. No doubt he would be back +early, for it was the day of the May fair, when there was always an +unusual stir of business. Mr. Clifford took his place in the vacant bank +parlor, and waited somewhat grimly for the arrival of the head clerk, +Acton.</p> + +<p>There was a not unpleasant excitement among the clerks, as they +whispered to each other on arrival that old Clifford was come and Roland +Sefton was still absent. But this excitement deepened into agitation and +misgiving as the hour for opening the bank drew near and Acton did not +arrive. Such a circumstance had never occurred before, for Acton had +made himself unpopular with those beneath him by expecting devotion +equal to his own to the interests of the firm. When ten o'clock was +close at hand a clerk ran round to Acton's lodgings; but before he could +return a breathless messenger rushed into the bank as the doors were +thrown open, with the tidings that the head clerk had been found by his +landlady lying dead in his bed.</p> + +<p>More quickly than if the town-crier had been sent round the streets with +his bell to announce the news, it was known that Roland Sefton was +missing and the managing clerk had committed suicide. The populace from +all the country round was flocking into the town for the fair, three +fourths of whom did business with the Old Bank. No wonder that a panic +took possession of them. In an hour's time the tranquil street was +thronged with a dense mass of town's-people and country-people, numbers +of whom were fighting their way to the bank as if for dear life. There +was not room within for the crowds who struggled to get to the counters +and present their checks and bank-notes, and demand instant settlement +of their accounts. In vain Mr. Clifford assured them there was no fear +of the firm being unable to meet its liabilities. In cases like these +the panic cannot be allayed by words.</p> + +<p>As long as the funds held out the checks and notes were paid over the +counter; but this could not go on. Mr. Clifford himself was in the dark +as to the state of affairs, and did not know how his credit stood. Soon +after midday the funds were exhausted, and with the utmost difficulty +the bank was cleared and the doors closed. But the crowd did not +disperse; rather it grew denser as the news spread like wildfire that +the Old Bank had stopped!</p> + +<p>It was at the moment that the bank doors were closed that Phebe turned +into Whitefriars Road. She had taken a train from Upchurch, leaving her +father to return home alone with the empty wagon. It was a strange sight +which met her. The usually quiet street was thronged from end to end, +and the babble of many voices made all sounds indistinct. Even on the +outskirts of the crowd there were men, some pale and some red with +anxiety, struggling with elbows and shoulders to make their way through +to the bank, in the vain hope that it would not be too late. A +strongly-built, robust farmer fainted quietly away beside her, like a +delicate woman, when he heard that the doors were shut; and his wife and +son, who were following him, bore him out of the crush as well as they +could. Phebe, pressing gently forward, and gliding in wherever a chance +movement gave her an opportunity, at last reached the archway at the +side of the house, and rapped urgently for admittance. A scared-looking +man-servant, who opened the door with the chain upon it, let her in as +soon as he recognized who she was.</p> + +<p>"It's a fearsome day," he said; "master's away, gone nobody knows where; +and old Acton's poisoned himself. Nobody dare tell Mrs. Sefton; but +Madame knows. She is in the dining-room, Miss Marlowe."</p> + +<p>Phebe found her, as she had done the day before, sitting in the oriel +window; but the usually placid-looking little woman was in a state of +nervous agitation. As soon as she caught sight of Phebe's pitiful face +she ran to her, and clasping her in her arms, burst into a passion of +tears and sobs.</p> + +<p>"My son!" she cried; "what can have become of him, Phebe? Where can he +be gone? If he would only come home, all these people would be +satisfied, and go away. They don't know Mr. Clifford, but they know +Roland; he is so popular. The servants say the bank is broken; what does +that mean, Phebe? And poor Acton! They say he is dead—he did kill +himself by poison. Is it not true, Phebe? Tell me it is not true!"</p> + +<p>But Phebe could say nothing to comfort her; she knew better than any one +else the whole truth of the calamity. But she held the weeping little +woman in her strong young arms, and there was something consoling in her +loving clasp.</p> + +<p>"And where are the children?" she asked, after a while.</p> + +<p>"I sent them to play in the garden," answered Madame; "their own little +plots are far away, out of sight of the dreadful street. What good is it +that they should know all this trouble?"</p> + +<p>"No good at all," replied Phebe. "And where is Mrs. Sefton?"</p> + +<p>"Alas, my Phebe!" she exclaimed, "who dare tell her? Not me; no, no! +She is shut up in her little chamber, and she forgets all the world—her +children even, and Roland himself. It is as if she went away into +another life, far away from ours; and when she comes home again she is +like one in a dream. Will you dare to tell her?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I will go," she said.</p> + +<p>Yet with very slow and reluctant steps Phebe climbed the staircase, +pausing long at the window midway, which overlooked the wide and sunny +landscape in the distance, and the garden just below. She watched the +children busy at their little plots of ground, utterly unconscious of +the utter ruin that had befallen them. How lovely and how happy they +looked! She could have cried out aloud, a bitter and lamentable cry. But +as yet she must not yield to the flood of her own grief; she must keep +it back until she was at home again, in her solitary home, where nobody +could hear her sobs and cries. Just now she must think for, and comfort, +if comfort were possible, these others, who stood even nearer than she +did to the sin and the sinner. Gathering up all her courage, she +quickened her footsteps and ran hurriedly up the remaining steps.</p> + +<p>But at the drawing-room door, which was partly open, her feet were +arrested. Within, standing behind the rose-colored curtains, stood the +tall, slender figure of Felicita, with her clear and colorless face +catching a delicate flush from the tint of the hangings that concealed +her from the street. She was looking down on the crowd below, with the +perplexity of a foreigner gazing on some unfamiliar scene in a strange +land. There was a half-smile playing about her lips; but her whole +attention was so absorbed by the spectacle beneath her that she did not +see or hear Phebe until she was standing beside her, looking down also +on the excited crowd.</p> + +<p>"Phebe!" she exclaimed, "you here again? Then you can tell me, are the +good people of Riversborough gone mad? or is it possible there is an +election going on, of which I have heard nothing? Nothing less than an +election could rouse them to such a pitch of excitement."</p> + +<p>"Have you heard nothing of what they say?" asked Phebe.</p> + +<p>"There is such a Babel," she answered; "of course I hear my husband's +name. It would be just like him if he got himself elected member for +Riversborough without telling me anything about it till it was over. He +loves surprises; and I—why I hate to be surprised."</p> + +<p>"But he is gone!" said Phebe.</p> + +<p>"Yes, he told me he was going to London," she went on; "but if it is no +election scene, what is it, Phebe? Why are all the people gathered here +in such excitement?"</p> + +<p>"Shall I tell you plainly?" asked Phebe, looking steadily into +Felicita's dark, inscrutable eyes.</p> + +<p>"Tell me the simple truth," she replied, somewhat haughtily; "if any +human being can tell it."</p> + +<p>"Then the bank has stopped payment," answered Phebe. "Poor Mr. Acton has +been found dead in bed this morning; and Mr. Sefton is gone away, nobody +knows where. It is the May fair to-day, and all the people are coming in +from the country. There's been a run on the bank till they are forced to +stop payment. That is what brings the crowd here."</p> + +<p>Felicita dropped the curtain which she had been holding back with her +hand, and stepped back a pace or two from the window. But her face +scarcely changed; she listened calmly and collectedly, as if Phebe was +speaking of some persons she hardly knew.</p> + +<p>"My husband will come back immediately," she said. "Is not Mr. Clifford +there?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Phebe.</p> + +<p>"Are you telling me all?" asked Felicita.</p> + +<p>"No," she answered; "Mr. Clifford says he has been robbed. Securities +worth nearly ten thousand pounds are missing. He must have found it out +already."</p> + +<p>"Who does he suspect?" she asked again imperiously; "he does not dare +suspect my husband?"</p> + +<p>Phebe replied only by a mute gesture. She had never had any secret to +conceal before, and she did not see that she had betrayed herself by the +words she had uttered. The deep gloom on her bright young face struck +Felicita for the first time.</p> + +<p>"Do you think it was Roland?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Again the same dumb, hopeless gesture answered the question. Phebe could +not bring her lips to shape a word of accusation against him. It was +agony to her to feel her idol disgraced and cast down from his high +pedestal; yet she had not learned any way of concealing or +misrepresenting the truth.</p> + +<p>"You know he did it?" said Felicita.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know it," she whispered.</p> + +<p>For a minute or two Felicita stood, with her white hands resting on +Phebe's shoulders, gazing into her mournful face with keen, questioning +eyes. Then, with a rapid flush of crimson, betraying a strong and +painful heart-throb, which suffused her face for an instant and left it +paler than before, she pressed her lips on the girl's sunburnt forehead.</p> + +<p>"Tell nobody else," she murmured; "keep the secret for his sake and +mine."</p> + +<p>Before Phebe could reply she turned away, and, with a steady, +unfaltering step, went back to her study and locked herself in.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<h3>AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM.</h3> + + +<p>Felicita's study was so quiet a room, quite remote from the street, that +it was almost a wonder the noise of the crowd had reached her. But this +morning there had been a pleasant tumult of excitement in her own brain, +which had prevented her from falling into an absorbed reverie, such as +she usually indulged in, and rendered her peculiarly susceptible to +outward influences. All her senses had been awake to-day.</p> + +<p>On her desk lay the two volumes of a new book, handsomely got up, with +pages yet uncut as it had come from the publishers. A dozen times she +had looked at the title-page, as if unable to convince herself of the +reality, and read her own name—Felicita Riversdale Sefton. It was the +first time her name as an author had been published, though for the last +three years she had from time to time written anonymously for magazines. +This was her own book; thought out, written, revised, and completed in +her chosen solitude and secrecy. No one knew of it; possibly Roland +suspected something, but he had not ventured to make any inquiries, and +she had no reason to believe that he even suspected its existence. It +was simply altogether her own; no other mind had any part or share in +it.</p> + +<p>There was something like rapture in her delight. The book was a good +book, she was sure of it. She had not succeeded in making it as perfect +as her ideal, but she had not signally failed. It did in a fair degree +represent her inmost thoughts and fancies. Yet she could not feel quite +sure that the two volumes were real, and the letter from the publisher, +a friendly and pleasant letter enough, seemed necessary to vouch for +them. She read and re-read it. The little room seemed too small and +close for her. She opened the window to let in the white daylight, +undisguised by the faint green tint of the glass, and she leaned out to +breathe the fresh sweet air of the spring morning. Life was very +pleasurable to her to-day.</p> + +<p>There were golden gleams too upon the future. She would no longer be the +unknown wife of a country banker, moving in a narrow sphere, which was +altogether painful to her in its provincial philistinism. It was a +sphere to which she had descended in girlish ignorance. Her uncle, Lord +Riversdale, had been willing to let his portionless niece marry this +prosperous young banker, who was madly in love with her, and a little +gentle pressure had been brought to bear on the girl of eighteen, who +had been placed by her father's death in a position of dependence. Since +then a smouldering fire of ambition and of dissatisfaction with her lot +had been lurking unsuspected under her cold and self-absorbed manner.</p> + +<p>But her thoughts turned with more tenderness than usual toward her +husband. She had aroused in him also a restless spirit of ambition, +though in him it was for her sake, not his own. He wished to restore her +if possible to the position she had sacrificed for him; and Felicita +knew it. Her heart beating faster with her success was softened toward +him; and tears suffused her dark eyes for an instant as she thought of +his astonishment and exultation.</p> + +<p>The children were at play in the garden below her, and their merry +voices greeted her ear pleasantly. The one human being who really dwelt +in her inmost heart was her boy Felix, her first-born child. Hilda was +an unnecessary supplement to the page of her maternal love. But for +Felix she dreamed day-dreams of extravagant aspiration; no lot on earth +seemed too high or too good for him. He was a handsome boy, the very +image of her father, the late Lord Riversdale, and now as she gazed down +on him, her eyes slightly dewed with tears, he looked up to her window. +She kissed her hand to him, and the boy waved his little cap toward her +with almost passionate gesticulations of delight. Felix would be a great +man some day; this book of hers was a stone in the foundation of his +fame as well as of her own.</p> + +<p>It was upon this mood of exultation, a rare mood for Felicita, that the +cry and roar from the street had broken. With a half-smile at herself, +the thought flashed across her mind that it was like a shout of applause +and admiration, such as might greet Felix some day when he had proved +himself a leader of men. But it aroused her dormant curiosity, and she +had condescended to be drawn by it to the window of the drawing-room +overlooking Whitefriars Road, in order to ascertain its cause. The crowd +filling the street was deeply in earnest, and the aim of those who were +fighting their way through it was plainly the bank offices in the floor +below her. The sole idea that occurred to her, for she was utterly +ignorant of her husband's business, was that some unexpected crisis in +the borough had arisen, and its people were coming to Roland Sefton as +their leading townsman. When Phebe found her she was quietly studying +the crowd and its various features, that she might describe a throng +from memory, whenever a need should arise for it.</p> + +<p>Felicita regained her luxurious little study, and sat down before her +desk, on which the new volumes lay, with more outward calm than her +face and movements had manifested before she left it. The transient glow +of triumph had died away from her face, and the happy tears from her +eyes. She closed the casement to shut out the bright, clear sunlight, +and the merry voices of her children, before she sat down to think.</p> + +<p>For a little while she had been burning incense to herself; but the +treacherous fire was gone out, and the sweet, bewildering, intoxicating +vapors were scattered to the winds. The recollection of her short-lived +folly made her shiver as if a cold breath had passed over her.</p> + +<p>Not for a moment did she doubt Roland's guilt. There was such a +certainty of it lying behind Phebe's sorrowful eyes as she whispered "I +know it," that Felicita had not cared to ask how she knew it. She did +not trouble herself with details. The one fact was there: her husband +had absconded. A dreamy panorama of their past life flitted across her +brain—his passionate love for her, which had never cooled, though it +had failed to meet with a response from her; his insatiable desire to +make her life more full of pomp and luxury and display than that of her +cousins at Riversdale; his constant thraldom to her, which had +ministered only to her pride and coldness. His queen he had called her. +It was all over now. His extraordinary absence was against any hope that +he could clear himself. Her husband had brought fatal and indelible +disgrace upon his name, the name he had given to her and their children.</p> + +<p>Her name! This morning, and for many days to come, it would be +advertised as the author of the new book, which was to have been one of +her stepping-stones to fame. She had grasped at fame, and her hand had +closed upon infamy. There was no fear now that she would remain among +the crowd of the unknown. As the wife of a fraudulent banker she would +be only too well and too widely talked of.</p> + +<p>Why had she let her own full name be published? She had yielded, though +with some reluctance, to the business-like policy of her publisher, who +had sought to catch the public eye by it; for her father, Lord +Riversdale, was hardly yet forgotten as an author. A vague sentiment of +loyalty to her husband had caused her to add her married name. She hated +to see the two blazoned together on the title-page.</p> + +<p>Sick at heart, she sat for hours brooding over what would happen if +Roland was arrested. The assizes held twice a year at Riversborough had +been to her, as to many people of her position, an occasion of +pleasurable excitement. The judges' lodgings were in the next house to +the Old Bank, and for the few days the judges were Roland Sefton's +neighbors there had been a friendly interchange of civilities. An assize +ball was still held, though it was falling into some neglect and +disrepute. Whenever any cause of special local interest took place she +had commanded the best seat in the court, and had obsequious attention +paid to her. She had learned well the aspect of the place, and the mode +of procedure. But hitherto her recollections of a court of justice were +all agreeable, and her impressions those of a superior being looking +down from above on the miseries and crimes of another race.</p> + +<p>How different was the vision that branded itself on her brain this +morning! She saw her husband standing at the dock, instead of some +coarse, ignorant, brutish criminal; the stern gravity of the judge; the +flippant curiosity of the barristers not connected with the case, and +the cruel eagerness of his fellow-townsmen to get good places to hear +and see him. It would make a holiday for all who could get within the +walls.</p> + +<p>She could have written almost word for word the report of the trial as +it would appear in the two papers published in Riversborough. She could +foretell how lavish would be the use of the words "felon" and "convict;" +and she would be that felon and convict's wife.</p> + +<p>Oh, this intolerable burden of disgrace! To be borne through the long, +long years of life; and not by herself alone, but by her children. They +had come into a miserable heritage. What became of the families of +notorious criminals? She could believe that the poor did not suffer from +so cruel a notoriety, being quickly lost in the oblivious waters of +poverty and distress, amid refuges and workhouses. But what would +become of her? She must go away into endless exile, with her two little +children, and live where there was no chance of being recognized. This +was what her husband's sin had done for her.</p> + +<p>"God help me! God deliver me!" she moaned with white lips. But she did +not pray for him. In the first moments of anguish the spirit flies to +that which lies at the very core. While Roland's mother and Phebe were +weeping together and praying for him, Felicita was crying for help and +deliverance for herself.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<h3>THE SENIOR PARTNER.</h3> + + +<p>Long as the daylight lasts in May it was after nightfall when Felicita +left her study and went down to the drawing-room, more elegantly and +expensively furnished for her than the drawing-room at Riversdale had +been. Its extravagant display seemed to strike upon her suddenly as she +entered it. Phebe was gone home, and Madame had retired to her own room, +having given up the expectation of seeing Felicita that day. Mr. +Clifford, the servant told her, was still in the bank, with his lawyer, +for whom he had telegraphed to London. Felicita sent him a message that +if he was not too busy she wished to see him for a few minutes.</p> + +<p>Mr. Clifford almost immediately appeared, and Felicita saw him for the +first time. She had always heard him called old; but he was a strong, +erect, stern-looking man of sixty, with keen, cold eyes that could not +be avoided. Felicita did not seek to avoid them. She looked as steadily +at him as he did at her. There were traces of tears on her face, but +there was no tremor or weakness about her. They exchanged a few civil +words as calmly as if they were ordinary acquaintances.</p> + +<p>"Tell me briefly what has happened," she said to him, when he had taken +a seat near to her.</p> + +<p>"Briefly," he repeated. "Well! I find myself robbed of securities worth +nearly £8000; private securities, bond and scrip, left in custody only, +not belonging to the firm. No one but Acton or Roland could have access +to them. Acton has eluded me; but if Roland is found he must take the +consequences."</p> + +<p>"And what are those?" asked Felicita.</p> + +<p>"I shall prosecute him as I would prosecute a common thief or burglar," +answered Mr. Clifford. "His crime is more dishonorable and cowardly."</p> + +<p>"Is it not cruel to say this to me?" she asked, yet in a tranquil tone +which startled him.</p> + +<p>"Cruel!" he repeated again; "I have not been in the habit of choosing +words. You asked me a question, and I gave you the answer that was in my +mind. I never forgive. Those who pass over crimes make themselves +partakers in those crimes. Roland has robbed not only me, but half a +dozen poor persons, to whom such a loss is ruin. Would it be right to +let such a man escape justice?"</p> + +<p>"You think he has gone away on purpose?" she said.</p> + +<p>"He has absconded," answered Mr. Clifford, "and the matter is already in +the hands of the police. A description of him has been telegraphed to +every police station in the kingdom. If he is not out of it he can +barely escape now."</p> + +<p>Felicita's pale face could not grow paler, but she shivered perceptibly.</p> + +<p>"I am telling you bluntly," he said, "because I believe it is best to +know the worst at once. It is terrible to have it falling drop by drop. +You have courage and strength; I see it. Take an old man's word for it, +it is better to know all in its naked ugliness, than have it brought to +light bit by bit. There is not the shadow of a doubt of Roland's crime. +You do not believe him innocent yourself?"</p> + +<p>"No," she replied in a low, yet steady voice; "no. I must tell the +truth. I cannot comfort myself with the belief that he is innocent."</p> + +<p>Mr. Clifford's keen eyes were fastened upon Felicita with admiration. +Here was a woman, young and pallid with grief and dread, who neither +tried to move him by prayers and floods of tears, nor shrank from +acknowledging a truth, however painful. He had never seen her before, +though the costly set of jewels she was wearing had been his own gift to +her on her wedding. He recognized them with pleasure, and looked more +attentively at her beautiful but gloomy face. When he spoke again it was +in a manner less harsh and abrupt than it had been before.</p> + +<p>"I am not going to ask you any questions about Roland," he said; "you +have a right, the best right in the world, to screen him, and aid him in +escaping from the just consequences of his folly and crime."</p> + +<p>"You might ask me," she interrupted, "and I should tell you the simple +truth. I do so now, when I say I know nothing about him. He told me he +was going to London. But is it not possible that poor Acton alone was +guilty?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Clifford shook his head in reply. For a few minutes he paced up and +down the floor, and then placed himself at the back of Felicita, with +his hand upon her chair, as if to support him. In a glass opposite she +could see the reflection of his face, gray and agitated, with closed +eyes and quivering lips—a face that looked ten years older than that +which she had seen when he entered the room. She felt the chair shaken +by his trembling hand.</p> + +<p>"I will tell you," he said in a voice which he strove to render steady. +"I did not spare my own son when he had defrauded Roland's father. +Though Sefton would not prosecute him, I left him to reap the harvest of +his deed to the full; and it was worse than the penalty the law would +have exacted. He perished, disgraced and forsaken, of starvation in +Paris, the city of pleasures and of crimes. They told me that my son was +little more than a living skeleton when he was found, so slowly had the +end come. If I did not spare him, can I relent toward Roland? The +justice I demand is, in comparison, mercy for him."</p> + +<p>As he finished speaking he opened his eyes, and saw those of Felicita +fastened on the reflection of his face in the mirror. He turned away, +and in a minute or two resumed his seat, and spoke again in his ordinary +abrupt tone.</p> + +<p>"What will you do?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I cannot tell yet," she answered; "I must wait till suspense is over. +If Roland comes back, or is brought back," she faltered, "then I must +decide what to do. I shall keep to myself till then. Is there anything I +can do?"</p> + +<p>"Could you go to your uncle, Lord Riversdale?" suggested Mr. Clifford.</p> + +<p>"No, no," she cried; "I will not ask any help from him. He arranged my +marriage for me, and he will feel this disgrace keenly. I will keep out +of their way; they shall not be compelled to forbid me their society."</p> + +<p>"But to-morrow you had better go away for the day," he answered; "there +will be people coming and going, who will disturb you. There will be a +rigorous search made. There is a detective now with my lawyer, who is +looking through the papers in the bank. The police have taken possession +of Acton's lodgings."</p> + +<p>"I have nowhere to go," she replied, "and I cannot show my face out of +doors. Madame and the children shall go to Phebe Marlowe, but I must +bear it as well as I can."</p> + +<p>"Well," he said after a brief pause, "I will make it as easy as I can +for you. You are thinking me a hard man? Yes, I have grown hard. I was +soft enough once. But if I forgave any sinner now I should do my boy, +who is dead, an awful injustice. I would not pass over his sin, and I +dare not pass over any other. I know I shall pursue Roland until his +death or mine; my son's fate cries out for it. But I'm not a hard man +toward innocent sufferers, like you and his poor mother. Try to think of +me as your friend; nay, even Roland's friend, for what would a few +years' penal servitude be compared with my boy's death? Shake hands +with me before I go."</p> + +<p>The small, delicate hand she offered him was icy cold, though her face +was still calm and her eyes clear and dry. He was himself more moved and +agitated than she appeared to be. The mention of his son always shook +him to the very centre of his soul; yet he had not been able to resist +uttering the words that had passed his lips during this painful +interview with Roland's young wife. Unshed tears were burning under his +eyelids. But if it had not been for that death-like hand he might have +imagined her almost unmoved.</p> + +<p>Felicita was down-stairs before Madame the next morning, and had ordered +the carriage to be ready to take her and the children to Upfold Farm +directly after breakfast. It was so rare an incident for their mother to +be present at the breakfast-table that Felix and Hilda felt as if it +were a holiday. Madame was pale and sad, and for the first time Felicita +thought of her as being a sufferer by Roland's crime. Her husband's +mother had been little more to her than a superior housekeeper, who had +been faithfully attached to her and her children. The homely, gentle, +domestic foreigner, from a humble Swiss home, had looked up to her young +aristocratic daughter-in-law as a being from a higher sphere. But now +the downcast, sorrowful face of the elder woman touched Felicita's +sympathy.</p> + +<p>"Mother!" she said, as soon as the children had run away to get ready +for their drive. She had never before called Madame "mother," and a +startled look, almost of delight, crossed Madame's sad face.</p> + +<p>"My daughter!" she cried, running to Felicita's side, and throwing her +arms timidly about her, "he is sure to come back soon—to-day, I think. +Oh, yes, he will be here when we return! You do well to stay to meet +him; and I should be glad to be here, but for the children. Yes, the +little ones must be out of the way. They must not see their father's +house searched; they must never know how he is suspect. Acton did say it +was all his fault; his fault and—"</p> + +<p>But here Madame paused for an instant, for had not Acton said it was +Felicita's fault more than any one's?</p> + +<p>"Phebe heard him," she went on hastily; "and if it is not his fault, why +did he kill himself? Oh, it is an ill-fortune that my son went to London +that day! It would all be right if he were here; but he is sure to come +to-day and explain it all; and the bank will be opened again. So be of +good comfort, my daughter; for God is present with us, and with my son +also."</p> + +<p>It was a sorrowful day at the Upfold Farm in spite of the children's +unconscious mirthfulness. Old Marlowe locked himself into his workshop, +and would see none of them, taking his meals there in sullen anger. +Phebe's heart was almost broken with listening to Madame's earnest +asseverations of her son's perfect innocence, and her eager hopes to +find him when she reached home. It was nearly impossible to her to keep +the oppressive secret, which seemed crushing her into deception and +misery, and her own muteness appeared to herself more condemnatory than +any words could be. But Madame did not notice her silence, and her grief +was only natural. Phebe's tears fell like balm on Madame's aching +heart. Felicita had not wept; but this young girl, and her abandonment +to passionate bursts of tears, who needed consoling herself, was a +consolation to the poor mother. They knelt together in Phebe's little +bedroom, while the children were playing on the wide uplands around +them, and they prayed silently, if heavy sobs and sighs could be called +silence; but they prayed together, and for her son; and Madame returned +home comforted and hopeful.</p> + +<p>It had been a day of fierce trial to Felicita. She had not formed any +idea of how searching would be the investigation of the places where any +of her husband's papers might be found. Her own study was not exempt +from the prying eyes of the detectives. This room, sacred to her, which +Roland himself never entered without permission was ransacked, and +forever desecrated in her eyes. This official meddling with her books +and her papers could never be forgotten. The pleasant place was made an +abomination to her.</p> + +<p>The bank was reopened the next morning at the accustomed hour, for a +very short investigation by Mr. Clifford and the experienced advisers +summoned from London to assist him proved that the revenues of the firm +were almost as good as ever. The panic had been caused by the vague +rumor afloat of some mysterious complicity in crime between the absent +partner and the clerk who had committed suicide. It was, therefore, +considered necessary for the prosperous re-establishment of the bank to +put forth a cautiously worded circular, in which Mr. Clifford's return +was made the reason for the absence on a long journey of Roland Sefton, +whose disappearance had to be accounted for. By the time he was arrested +and brought to trial the confidence of the bank's customers in its +stability would in some measure be regained.</p> + +<p>There was thus a good deal of conjecture and of contradictory opinion +abroad in Riversborough concerning Roland Sefton, which continued to be +the town's-talk for some weeks. Even Madame began to believe in a +half-bewildered manner that her son had gone on a journey of business +connected with the bank, though she could not account for his total +silence. Sometimes she wondered if he and Felicita could have had some +fatal quarrel, which had driven him away from home in a paroxysm of +passionate disappointment and bitterness. Felicita's coldness and +indifference might have done it. With this thought, and the hope of his +return some day, she turned for relief to the discharge of her household +duties, and to the companionship of the children, who knew nothing +except that their father was gone away on a journey, and might come back +any day.</p> + +<p>Neither Madame nor the children knew that whenever they left the house +they were followed by a detective, and every movement was closely +watched. But Felicita was conscious of it by some delicate sensitiveness +of her imaginative temperament. She refused to quit the house except in +the evening, when she rambled about the garden, and felt the fresh air +from the river breathing against her often aching temples. Even then she +fancied an eye upon her—an unsleeping, unblinking eye; the unwearying +vigilance of justice on the watch for a criminal. Night and day she felt +herself living under its stony gaze.</p> + +<p>It was a positive pain to her when reviews of her book appeared in +various papers, and were forwarded to her with congratulatory letters +from her publishers. She was living far enough from London to be easily +persuaded, without much vanity, that her name was upon everybody's lips +there. She read the reviews, but with a sick heart, and the words were +forgotten as soon as she put them away; but the Riversborough papers, +which had been very guarded in their statements about the death of Acton +and the events at the Old Bank, took up the book with what appeared to +her fulsome and offensive enthusiasm. It had never occurred to her that +local criticism was certain to follow the appearance of a local writer; +and she shrank from it with morbid and exaggerated disgust. Even if all +had been well, if Roland had been beside her, their notices would have +been well-nigh intolerable to her. She could not have endured being +stared at and pointed out in the streets of her own little town. But now +Fame had come to her with broken wings and a cracked trumpet, and she +shuddered at the sound of her own name harshly proclaimed through it.</p> + +<p>It soon became evident that Roland Sefton had succeeded in getting away +out of the country. The police were at fault; and as no one in his own +home knew how to communicate with him, no clew had been discovered by +close surveillance of their movements. Such vigilance could be kept up +only for a few months at longest, and as the summer drew toward the end +it ceased.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<h3>FAST BOUND.</h3> + + +<p>Roland Sefton had met with but few difficulties in getting clear away +out of England, and there was little chance of his being identified, +from description merely, by any of the foreign police, or by any English +detective on the Continent who was not as familiar with his personal +appearance as the Riversborough force were. In his boyhood he had spent +many months, years even, in his mother's native village with her father, +M. Roland Merle, the pastor of a parish among the Jura Mountains. It was +as easy for him to assume the character of a Swiss mountaineer as to +sustain that of a prosperous English banker. The dress, the patois, the +habits of the peasant were all familiar to him, and his disguise in them +was as complete as disguise ever can be. The keen eye either of love or +hate can pierce through all disguises.</p> + +<p>Switzerland was all fatherland to him, as much so as his native country, +and the county in which Riversborough was situated. There was no +ignorance in him of any little town, or the least known of the Alps, +which might betray the stranger. He would never need to attract notice +by asking a question. He had become a member of an Alpine club as soon +as his boyish thews and sinews were strong enough for stiff and perilous +climbing. He had crossed the most difficult passes and scaled some of +the worst peaks. And there had been within him that passionate love of +the country common to the Swiss which an English Alpine climber can +never feel. His mother's land had filled him with an ardent flame, +smouldering at times amid the absorbing interests of his somewhat +prominent place in English life, but every now and then breaking out +into an irrepressible longing for the sight of its white mountains and +swift, strong streams. It was at once the safest and the most dangerous +of refuges. He would be certainly sought for there; but there he could +most effectually conceal himself. He flew thither with his burden of +sin and shame.</p> + +<p>Roland adopted at once the dress of a decent artisan of the Jura—such a +man as he had known in his boyhood as a watchmaker of Locle or the +Doubs. For a few days he stayed in Geneva, lodging in such a street as a +Locle artisan would have chosen; but he could not feel secure there, in +spite of his own certainty that his transformation was complete. A +restless dread haunted him. He knew well that there are in every one +little personal traits, tricks of gesture, and certain tones of voice +always ready to betray us. It was yet too early in the year for many +travellers to be journeying to Switzerland; but already a few straggling +pioneers of the summer flight were appearing in the larger towns, and +what would be his fate if any one of them recognized him? He quitted +Geneva, and wandered away into the mountain villages.</p> + +<p>It was May-time, and the snow-line was still lingering low down on the +steep slopes, though the flowers were springing into life up to its +very margin, seeming to drive it higher and higher every day. The High +Alps were still fast locked in midwinter, and with untrodden wastes and +plains of snow lying all around them. The deserted mountain farms and +great solitary hotels, so thronged last summer, were empty. But in the +valleys and the little villages lying on the warm southern slopes, or +sheltered by precipitous rocks from the biting winds, there was +everywhere a joyous stir of awakening from the deep sleep of winter. The +frozen streams were thawed and ran bubbling and gurgling along their +channels, turning water-wheels and filling all the quiet places with +their merry noise. The air itself was full of sweet exhilaration. In the +forests there was the scent of stirring sap and of the up-springing +wild-flowers, and the rosy blossoms of the tender young larch-trees +shone like jewels in the bright sunshine. The mountain-peaks overhead, +gleaming through the mists and clouds, were of dazzling whiteness, for +none of the frozen snow had yet fallen from their sharp, lance-like +summits.</p> + +<p>Journeying on foot from one village to another, Roland roamed about +aimlessly, yet as one hunted, seeking for a safe asylum. He bore his +troubled conscience and aching heart from one busy spot to another, +homesick and self-exiled. Oh, what a fool he had been! Life had been +full to the brim for him with gladness and prosperity, and in trying to +make its cup run over he had dashed it away from his lips forever.</p> + +<p>His money was not yet spent, for a very little went a long way among +these simple mountain villages, and in his manner of travelling. He had +not yet been forced to try to earn a living, and he felt no anxiety for +the future. In his boyhood he had learned wood-carving, both in +Switzerland and from old Marlowe, and he had acquired considerable skill +in the art. Some of the panels in his home at Riversborough were the +workmanship of his own hands. It was a craft to turn to in extremity; +but he did not think of it yet.</p> + +<p>Labor of any kind would have made the interminable hours pass more +quickly. The carving of a piece of wood might have kept him from +torturing his own heart perpetually; but he did not turn to this slight +solace. There were times when he sat for hours, for a whole age, as it +seemed to him, in some lonely spot, hidden behind a great rock or half +lost in a forest, thinking. And yet it was not thought, but a vague, +mournful longing and remembrance, the past and the absent blended in +dim, shadowy reverie, of which nothing was clear but the sharp anguish +of having forfeited them. There was a Garden of Eden still upon earth, +and he had been dwelling in it. But he had banished himself from it by +his own folly and sin, and when he turned his eyes toward it he could +see only the "flaming brand, and the gate with dreadful faces thronged +and fiery arms." But even Adam had his Eve with him, "to drop some +natural tears, and wipe them soon." He was utterly alone.</p> + +<p>If his thoughts, so dazed and bewildered usually, became clear for a +little while, it was always Felicita whose image stood out most +distinctly before him. He had loved her passionately; surely never had +any man loved a woman with the same intensity—so he said to himself. +Even now the very crime he had committed seemed as nothing to him, +because he had been guilty of it for her. His love for her covered its +heinousness from his eyes. His conscience had become the blind and dumb +slave of his passion. So blind and dumb had it been that it had scarcely +stirred or murmured until his sin was found out, and it was scarcely +aroused to life even yet.</p> + +<p>In a certain sense he had been religious, having been most sedulously +trained in religion from his earliest consciousness. He had accepted the +ordinary teachings of our nineteenth-century Christianity. His place in +church, beside his mother or his wife, had seldom been empty, and +several times in the year he had knelt with them at the Lord's table, +and taken the Lord's Supper, feeling himself distinctly a more religious +man than usual on such occasions. No man had ever heard him utter a +profane word, nor had he transgressed any of the outward rules of a +religious life. It is true he had never made a vehement and +extraordinary profession of piety, such as some men do; but there was +not a person in Riversborough who would not have spoken of him as a +good churchman and a Christian. While he had been gradually +appropriating Mr. Clifford's money and the hard-earned savings of poorer +men confided to him, he had felt no qualm of conscience in giving +liberally to many a religious and philanthropic object, contributing +such sums as figure well in a subscription list; though it was generally +his wife's name that figured there. He had never taken up a subscription +list without glancing first for that beloved name, Mrs. Roland Sefton.</p> + +<p>In those days he had never doubted that he was a Christian. So far as he +knew, so far as words could teach him, he was living a Christian life. +Did he not believe in God, the Father Almighty? Yes, as fully as those +who lived about him. Had he not followed Christ? As closely as the mass +of people who call themselves Christians. Nay, more than most of them. +Not as much as his mother perhaps, in her simple, devout faith. But then +religion is always a different thing with women than with men, a fairer +and more delicate thing, wearing a finer bloom and gloss, which does not +wear well in a work-a-day world such as he did battle in. But if he had +not lived a Christian life, what man in Riversborough had done so, +except a few fanatics?</p> + +<p>But his religion had been powerless to keep him from falling into subtle +temptations, and into a crime so heinous in the sight of his fellow-men +that it was only to be expiated by the loss of character, the loss of +liberty, and the loss of every honorable man's esteem. The web had been +closely and cunningly woven, and now he was fast bound in it, with no +way of escape.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<h3>LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH.</h3> + + +<p>The weeks passed by in Riversborough, and brought no satisfactory +conclusion to the guarded investigations of the police. A close search +made among Acton's private papers produced no discovery. His will was +among them, leaving all he had to leave, which was not much, to Felix, +the son of his friend and employer, Roland Sefton. There was no +memorandum or letter which could throw any light upon the transactions, +or give any clew to what had been done with Mr. Clifford's securities.</p> + +<p>Nor was the watch kept over the movements of the family more successful. +The police were certain that no letter was posted by any member of the +household, which could be intended for the missing culprit. Even Phebe +Marlowe's correspondence was subject to their vigilance. But not a trace +could be discovered. He was gone; whether he had fled to America, or +concealed himself nearer home on the Continent, no one could make a +guess.</p> + +<p>Mr. Clifford remained in Riversborough, and resumed his position as head +of the firm. He had returned with the intention of doing so, having +heard abroad of the extravagant manner in which his junior partner was +living. The bank, though seriously crippled in its credit and resources, +was in no danger of insolvency, and there seemed no reason why it should +not regain its former prosperity, if only confidence could be restored. +He had reserved to himself the power of taking in another partner, if he +should deem it advisable; and an eligible one presenting himself, in the +person of a Manchester man of known wealth, the deeds of partnership +were drawn up, and the Old Bank was once more set up on a firm basis.</p> + +<p>During the time that elapsed while these arrangements were being made, +Felicita was visibly suffering, and failing in health. So sensitive had +she grown to the dread of seeing any one not in the immediate circle of +her household, that it became impossible to her to leave her home. The +clear colorlessness of her face had taken on a transparency and delicacy +which did not lessen its beauty, but added to it an unearthly grace. She +no longer spent hours alone in her desecrated room; it had grown +intolerable to her; but she sat speechless, and almost motionless, in +the oriel window overlooking the garden and the river; and Felix, a +child of dreamy and sensitive temperament, would sit hour after hour at +her feet, pressing his cheek against her knee, or with his uplifted eyes +gazing into her face.</p> + +<p>"Mother," he said one day, when Roland had been gone more than a month, +"how long will my father be away on his journey? Doesn't he ever write +to you, and send messages to me? Grandmamma says she does not know how +soon he will be back. Do you know, mother?"</p> + +<p>Felicita looked down on him with her beautiful dark eyes, which seemed +larger and sadder than of old, sending a strange thrill through the +boy's heart, and for a minute or two she seemed uncertain what to say.</p> + +<p>"I cannot tell you, Felix," she answered; "there are many things in life +which children cannot understand. If I told you what was true about your +father, your little brain would turn it into an untruth. You could not +understand it if I told you."</p> + +<p>"But I shall understand it some day," he said, lifting his head up +proudly; "will you tell me when I am old enough, mother?"</p> + +<p>How could she promise him to do that? This proud young head, tossed back +with the expectant triumph of some day knowing all that his father and +mother knew, must be bowed down with grief and shame then, as hers was +now. It was a sad knowledge he must inherit. How would she ever be able +to tell him that the father who had given him life, and whose name he +bore, was a criminal; a convict if he was arrested and brought to +judgment; an outlaw and an exile if he made good his escape? Roland had +never been as dear to her as Felix was. She was one of those women who +love more deeply and tenderly as mothers than as wives. To see that +bright, fond face of his clouded with disgrace would be a ceaseless +torment to her. There would be no suffering to compare with it.</p> + +<p>"But you will tell me all about it some day, mother," urged the boy.</p> + +<p>"If I ever tell you," she answered, "it will be when you are a man, and +can understand the whole truth. You will never hear me tell a falsehood, +Felix."</p> + +<p>"I know that, mother," he replied, "but oh! I miss my father! He used to +come to my bedside at nights, and kiss me, and say 'God bless you.' I +tried always to keep awake till he came; but I was asleep the last time +of all, and missed him. Sometimes I feel frightened, as if he would +never come again. But grandmamma says he is gone on a long journey, and +will come home some day, only she doesn't know when. Phebe cries when I +ask her. Would it be too much trouble for you to come in at night +sometimes, like my father did?" he asked timidly.</p> + +<p>"But I am not like your father," she answered. "I could not say 'God +bless you' in the same way. You must ask God yourself for His +blessing."</p> + +<p>For Felicita's soul had been thrust down into the depths of darkness. +Her early training had been simply and solely for this world: how to +make life here graceful and enjoyable. She could look back upon none but +the vaguest aspirations after something higher in her girlhood. It had +been almost like a new revelation to her to see her mother-in-law's +simple and devout piety, and to witness her husband's cheerful and manly +profession of religion. This was the point in his character which had +attracted her most, and had been most likely to bind her to him. Not his +passionate love to herself, but his unselfishness toward others, his +apparently happy religion, his energetic interest in all good and +charitable schemes—these had reconciled her more than anything else to +the step she had taken, the downward step, in marrying him.</p> + +<p>This unconscious influence of Roland's life and character had been +working secretly and slowly upon her nature for several years. They +were very young when they were married, and her first feeling of +resentment toward her own family for pressing on the marriage had at the +outset somewhat embittered her against her young husband. But this had +gradually worn away, and Felicita had never been so near loving him +heartily and deeply as during the last year or two, when it was evident +that his attachment to her was as loyal and as tender as ever. He had +almost won her, when he staked all and lost all.</p> + +<p>For now, she asked herself, what was the worth of all this religion, +which presented so fair a face to her? She had a delicate sense of honor +and truthfulness, which never permitted her to swerve into any byways of +expediency or convenience. What use was Roland's religion without +truthfulness and honor? She said to herself that there was no excuse for +him even feeling tempted to deal with another man's property. It ought +to have been as impossible to him as it was impossible to her to steal +goods from a tradesman's counter. Was it possible to serve God—and +Roland professed to serve Him—yet cheat his fellow-men? The service of +God itself must then be a vanity—a mere bubble, like all the other +bubbles of life.</p> + +<p>It had never been her habit to speak out her thoughts, even to her +husband. Speech seemed an inefficient and blundering medium of +communication, and she found it easier to write than to talk. There was +a natural taciturnity about her which sealed her lips, even when her +children were prattling to her. Only in writing could she give +expression to the multitude of her thoughts within her; and her letters +were charming, and of exceeding interest. But in this great crisis in +her life she could not write. She would sit for hours vainly striving to +arouse her languid brain. It seemed to her that she had lost this gift +also in the utter ruin that had overtaken her.</p> + +<p>Felicita's white, silent, benumbed grief, accepting the conviction of +her husband's guilt with no feminine contradicting or loud lamenting, +touched Mr. Clifford with more pity than he felt for Madame, who bore +her son's mysterious absence with a more simple and natural sorrow. +There was something irritating to him in the fact that Roland's mother +ignored the accusation he made against him. But when Roland had been +away three months, and the police authorities had given up all +expectation of discovering anything by watching his home and family, Mr. +Clifford felt that it was time something should be arranged which would +deliver Felicita from her voluntary imprisonment.</p> + +<p>"Why do you not go away?" he asked her; "you cannot continue to live +mewed up here all your days. If Roland should be found, it would be +better for you not to be in Riversborough. And I for one have given up +the expectation that he will be found; the only chance is that he may +return and give himself up. Go to some place where you are not known. +There is Scarborough; take Madame and the children there for a few +months, and then settle in London for the winter. Nobody will know you +in London."</p> + +<p>"But how can we leave this house?" she said, with a gleam of light in +her sad eyes.</p> + +<p>"Let me come in just as it is," he answered. "I will pay you a good rent +for it, and you can take a part of the furniture to London, to make +your new dwelling there more like home. It would be a great convenience +to me, and it would be the best thing for you, depend upon it. If Roland +returns he never will live here again."</p> + +<p>"No, he could never do that," she said, sighing deeply. "Mr. Clifford, +sometimes I think he must be dead."</p> + +<p>"I have thought so too," he replied gravely; "and if it were so, it +would be the salvation of you and your children. There would be no +public trial and conviction, and though suspicion might always rest upon +his memory, he would not be remembered for long. Justice would be +defrauded, yet on the whole I should rejoice for your sake to hear that +he was dead."</p> + +<p>Felicita's lips almost echoed the words. Her heart did so, though it +smote her as she recollected his passionate love for her. But Mr. +Clifford's speech sank deeply into her mind, and she brooded over it +incessantly. Roland's death meant honor and fair fame for herself and +her children; his life was perpetual shame and contempt to them.</p> + +<p>It was soon settled that they must quit Riversborough; but though +Felicita welcomed the change, and was convinced it would be the best +thing to do, Madame grieved sorely over leaving the only home which had +been hers, except the little manse in the Jura, where her girlhood had +passed swiftly and happily away. She had brought with her the homely, +thrifty ways in which she had been trained, and every spot in her +husband's dwelling had been taken under her own care and supervision. +Her affections had rooted themselves to the place, and she had never +dreamed of dying anywhere else than among the familiar scenes which had +surrounded her for more than thirty years. The change too could not be +made without her consent, for her marriage settlement was secured upon +the house, and her husband had left to her the right of accepting or +refusing a tenant. To leave the familiar, picturesque old mansion, and +to carry away with her only a few of the household treasures, went far +to break her heart.</p> + +<p>"It is where my husband intended for me to live and die," she moaned to +Phebe Marlowe; "and, oh, if I go away I can never fancy I see him +sitting in his own chair as he used to do, at the head of the table, or +by the fire. I have not altogether lost him, though he's gone, as long +as I can think of how he used to come in and go out of this room, always +with a smile for me. But if I go where he never was, how can I think I +see him there? And my son will be angry if we go; he will come back, and +clear up all this mystery, and he will think we went away because we +thought he had done evil. Ought we not to come home again after we have +been to Scarborough?"</p> + +<p>"I think Mrs. Sefton will die if she stays here," said Phebe. "It is +necessary for her to make this change; and you'd rather go with her and +the children than live here alone without them."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, yes!" answered Madame; "I cannot leave my little Felix and +Hilda, or Felicita: she is my son's dear wife. But he will come home +some day, and we can return then; you hope so, don't you, Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"If God pleases!" said Phebe, sighing.</p> + +<p>"In truth, if God pleases!" repeated Madame.</p> + +<p>When the last hour came in which Phebe could see Roland's wife, she +sought for her in her study, where she was choosing the books to be sent +after her. In the very words in which Roland had sent his message he +delivered it to Felicita. The cold, sad, marble-like face did not +change, though her heart gave a throb of disappointment and anguish as +the dread hope that he was no longer alive died out of it.</p> + +<p>"I will meet him there," she said. But she asked Phebe no questions, and +did not tell her where she was to meet her husband.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<h3>OLD MARLOWE.</h3> + + +<p>Life had put on for Phebe a very changed aspect. The lonely farmstead on +the uplands had been till now a very happy and tranquil home. She had +had no sorrow since her mother died when she was eight years of age, too +young to grieve very sorely. On the other hand, she was not so young as +to require a woman's care, and old Marlowe had made her absolute +mistress of the little home. His wife, a prudent, timid woman, had +always repressed his artistic tendencies, preferring the certainty of +daily bread to the vague chances of gaining renown and fortune. Old +Marlowe, so marred and imperfect in his physical powers, had submitted +to her shrewd, ignorant authority, and earned his living and hers by +working on his little farm and going out occasionally as a carpenter. +But when she was gone, and his little girl's eyes only were watching him +at his work, and the child's soul delighted in all the beautiful forms +his busy hands could fashion, he gave up his out-door toil, and, with +all the pent-up ardor of the lost years, he threw himself absorbingly +into the pleasant occupation of the present. Though he mourned +faithfully for his wife, the woman who had given to him Phebe, he felt +happier and freer without her.</p> + +<p>Phebe's girlhood also had been both free and happy. All the seasons had +been sweet to her: dear to her was "the summer, clothing the general +earth with greenness," and the winter, when "the redbreast sits and +sings be-twixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of the mossy +apple-tree." She had listened to "the eave-drops falling in the trances +of the blast," and seen them "hang in silent icicles, quietly shining to +the quiet moon." There had been no change in nature unnoticed or +unbeloved by her. The unbroken silence reigning around her, heightened +by the mute speech between herself and her father, which needed eyes +only, not lips, had grown so familiar as to be almost dear to her, in +spite of her strong delight in fellowship with others. The artistic +temperament she had inherited from her father, which very early took +vivid pleasure in expressing itself in color as well as in form, had +furnished her with an occupation of which she could never tire. As long +as there was light in the sky, long after the sun had gone down, in the +lingering twilight, loath to forsake the uplands, she was at her canvas +catching the soft gray tones, and dim-colored tints, and clearer masses +of foliage, which only the evening could show.</p> + +<p>To supply her need of general companionship there had been so full and +satisfying a sense of friendship between herself and the household at +the Old Bank at Riversborough that one day spent with them gave her +thought for a month. Every word uttered by Roland and Felicita was +treasured up in her memory and turned over in her mind for days after. +Madame's simple and cheerful nature made her almost like a mother to the +simple and cheerful country girl; and Felix and Hilda had been objects +of the deepest interest to her from the days of their birth. But it was +Roland, who had known her best and longest, to whom she owed the +direction and cultivation of her tastes and intellect, who had been +almost like a god to her in her childhood; it was he who dominated over +her simple heart the most. He was to Phebe so perfect that she had never +imagined that there could be a fault in him.</p> + +<p>There is one token to us that we are meant for a higher and happier life +than this, in the fact that sorrow and sin always come upon us as a +surprise. Happy days do not astonish us, and the goodness of our beloved +ones awakens no amazement. But if a sorrow comes we cry aloud to let our +neighbors know something untoward has befallen us; and if one we love +has sinned, we feel as if the heavens themselves were darkened.</p> + +<p>It was so with Phebe Marlowe. All her earthly luminaries, the greater +lights and the lesser lights, were under an eclipse, and a strange +darkness had fallen upon her. For the first time in her life she found +herself brooding over the sin of one who had been her guide, her +dearest friend, her hero. From the time when as a child she had learned +to look up to him as the paragon of all perfection, until now, as a girl +on the verge of womanhood, she had offered up to him a very pure and +maidenly worship. There was no one else whom she could love as much; for +her dumb and deaf father she loved in quite a different manner—with +more of pity and compassion than of admiration. Roland too had sometimes +talked with her, especially while she was a child, about God and Christ; +and she had regarded him as a spiritual director. Now her guide was lost +in the dense darkness. There was no sure example for her to follow.</p> + +<p>She had told her father he would never see her smile again if Roland +Sefton was taken to jail. There had been, of course, an implied promise +in this, but the promise was broken. Old Marlowe looked in vain for the +sweet and merry smiles that had been used to play upon her face. She was +too young and too unversed in human nature to know how jealously her +father would watch her, with inward curses on him who had wrought the +change. When he saw her stand for an hour or more, listlessly gazing +with troubled, absent eyes across the wide-spreading moor, with its +broad sweep of deep-purpled bloom, and golden gorse, and rich green +fern, yet taking no notice, nor hastening to fix the gorgeous hues upon +her canvas while the summer lasted; and when he watched her in the long +dusk of the autumn evenings sit motionless in the chimney corner +opposite to him, her fingers lying idly on her lap instead of busily +prattling some merry nonsense to him, and with a sad preoccupation in +her girlish face; then he felt that he had received his own death-blow, +and had no more to live for.</p> + +<p>The loss of his hard-earned money had taken a deeper hold upon him than +a girl so young as Phebe could imagine. For what is money to a young +nature but the merest dross, compared with the love and faith it has +lavished upon some fellow-mortal? While she was mourning over the +shipwreck of all her best affections, old Marlowe was brooding over his +six hundred pounds. They represented so much to him, so many years of +toil and austere self-denial. He had risen early, and late taken rest, +and eaten the bread of carefulness. His grief was not all ignoble, for +it was for his girl he grieved most; his wonderful child, so much more +gifted than the children of other men, whom nature had treated more +kindly than himself, men who could hear and speak, but whose daughters +were only commonplace creatures. The money was hers, not his; and it was +too late now for him to make up the heavy loss. The blow which had +deprived him of the fruits of his labor seemed to have incapacitated him +for further work.</p> + +<p>Moreover, Phebe was away oftener than usual: gone to the house of the +spoiler. Nor did she come home, as she had been wont to do, with radiant +eyes, and a soft, sweet smile coming and going, and many a pleasant +piece of news to tell off on her nimble fingers. She returned with +tear-stained eyelids and a downcast air, and was often altogether silent +as to the result of the day's absence.</p> + +<p>He strove, notwithstanding a haunting dread of failure, to resume his +old occupation. Doggedly every morning he put on his brown paper cap, +and went off to his crowded little workshop, but with unequal footsteps, +quite unlike his former firm tread. But it would not do. He stood for +hours before his half-shaped blocks of oak, with birds and leaves and +heads partly traced upon them; but he found himself powerless to +complete his own designs. Between him and them stood the image of Phebe, +a poverty-stricken, work-worn woman, toiling with her hands, in all +weathers, upon their three or four barren fields, which were now the +only property left to him. It had been pleasant to him to see her milk +the cows, and help him to fetch in the sheep from the moors; but until +now he had been able to pay for the rougher work on the farmstead. His +neighbor, Samuel Nixey, had let his laborers do it for him, since he had +kept his own hands and time for his artistic pursuit. But he could +afford this no longer, and the thought of the next winter's work which +lay before him and Phebe harassed him terribly.</p> + +<p>"Father," she said to him one evening, after she had been at +Riversborough, "they are all going away—Mrs. Sefton, and Madame, and +the children. They are going Scarborough, and after that to London, +never to come back. I shall not see them again."</p> + +<p>"Thank God!" thought the dumb old man, and his eyes gleamed brightly +from under their thick gray eyebrows. But he did not utter the words, so +much less easy was it for his fingers to betray his thoughts than it +would have been for his lips. And Phebe did not guess them.</p> + +<p>"Is there any news of him?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Not a word," she answered. "Mr. Clifford has almost given it up. He is +an unforgiving man, an awful man."</p> + +<p>"No, no; he is a just man," said old Marlowe; "he wants nothing but his +own again, like me, and that a scoundrel should not get off scot free. I +want my money back; it's not money merely, but my years, and my brain, +and my love for thee, and my power to work: that's what he has robbed me +of. Let me have my money back, and I'll forgive him."</p> + +<p>"Poor father!" said Phebe aloud, with a little sob. How easy it seemed +to her to forgive a wrong that could be definitely stated at six hundred +pounds! All her inward grief was that Roland had fallen—he himself. If +by a whole sacrifice of herself she could have reinstated him in the +place he had forfeited, she would not have hesitated for an instant. But +no sacrifice she could make would restore him.</p> + +<p>"Does Mrs. Sefton know what he has done?" inquired her father.</p> + +<p>She nodded only in reply.</p> + +<p>"Does she believe him innocent?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"No," answered Phebe.</p> + +<p>"And Madame, his mother?" he pursued.</p> + +<p>"No, no, no! she cannot believe him guilty," she replied; "she thinks he +could free himself, if he would only come home. She is far happier than +Mrs. Sefton or me. I would lay down my life to have him true and honest +and good again, as he used to be. I feel as if I was in a miserable +dream."</p> + +<p>They were sitting together outside their cottage-door, with the level +rays of the setting sun shining across the uplands upon them, and the +fresh air of the evening breathing upon their faces. It was an hour they +both loved, but neither of them felt its beauty and tranquillity now.</p> + +<p>"You love him next to me?" asked old Marlowe.</p> + +<p>"Next to you, father," she repeated.</p> + +<p>But the subtle jealousy in the father's heart whispered that his +daughter loved these grand friends of hers more than himself. What could +he be to her, deaf mute that he was? What could he do for her? All he +had done had been swept away by the wrong-doing of this fine gentleman, +for whom she was willing to lay down her life. He looked at her with +wistful eyes, longing to hold closer, swifter communication with her +than could be held by their slow finger-speech. How could he ever make +her know all the love and pride pent up in his voiceless heart? Phebe, +in her girlish, blind preoccupation, saw nothing of his eager, wistful +gaze, did not even notice the nervous trembling of his stammering +fingers; and the old man felt thrown back upon himself, in more utter +loneliness of spirit than his life had ever experienced before. Yet he +was not so old a man, for he was little over sixty, but his hard life +of incessant toil and his isolation from his fellow-creatures had aged +him. This bitter calamity added many years to his actual age, and he +began to realize that his right hand was forgetting its cunning, his eye +for beauty was growing dim, and his craft failing him. The long, light +summer days kept him for a while from utter hopelessness. But as the +autumn winds began to moan and mutter round the house he told himself +that his work was done, and that soon Phebe would be a friendless and +penniless orphan.</p> + +<p>"I ought not to have let Roland Sefton go," he thought to himself; "if +I'd done my duty he would have been paying for his sin now, and maybe +there would have been some redress for us that lost by him. None of his +people will come to poverty like my Phebe. I could have held up my head +if I had not helped him to escape from punishment."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<h3>RECKLESS OF LIFE.</h3> + + +<p>If old Marlowe, or Mr. Clifford himself, could have followed Roland +Sefton during his homeless wanderings, their rigorous sense of justice +would have been satisfied that he was not escaping punishment, though he +might elude the arbitrary penalty of the law.</p> + +<p>As the summer advanced, and the throng of yearly tourists poured into +the playground of Europe from every country, but especially from +England, he was driven away from all the towns and villages where he +might by chance be recognized by some fellow-countryman. Up into the +mountain pastures he retreated, where he rambled from one chalet to +another, sleeping on beds of fodder, with its keen night air piercing +through the apertures of the roof and walls, yet bringing with it those +intolerable stenches which exhale from the manure and mire lying +ankle-deep round each picturesque little hut. The yelping of the +watch-dogs; the snoring of the tired herdsmen lying within arm's length +of him; the shrill tinkling of cow-bells, musical enough by day and in +the distance, but driving sleep away too harshly; the sickness and +depression produced by unwholesome food, and the utter compulsory +abandonment of all his fastidious and dainty personal habits, made his +mere bodily life intolerable to him. He had borne something like these +discomforts and privations for a day or two at a time, when engaged in +Alpine climbing, but that he should be forced to live a life compared +with which that of an Irish bog-trotter was decent and civilized, was a +daily torment to him.</p> + +<p>It is true that during the long hours of daylight he wandered among the +most sublime scenery. Sometimes he scaled solitary peaks and looked down +upon far-stretching landscapes below him, with broad dead rivers of +glaciers winding between the high and terrible masses of snow-clad +rocks, and creeping down into peaceful valleys, where little living +streams of silvery gray wandered among chalets looking no larger than +the rocks strewn around them, with a tiny church in their midst lifting +up its spire of glittering metal with a kind of childish confidence and +exultation. Here and there in deep sunken hollows lay small tarns, black +as night, and guilty looking, with precipices overhanging them fringed +with pointed pine-trees, which sought in vain to mirror themselves in +those pitch-dark waters. And above them all, gazing down in silent +greatness, rose the snow-mountains, very cold, whiter than any other +whiteness on earth, pure and stainless, and apparently as unapproachable +in their far-off loveliness as the deep blue of the pure sky behind +them.</p> + +<p>But there was something unutterably awful to Roland Sefton in this +sublimity. A bad man, whose ear has never heard the voice of Nature, and +whose eye is blind to her ineffable beauty, may dwell in such places and +not be crushed by them. The dull herdsmen, thinking only of their cattle +and of the milking to be done twice a day, might live their own stupid, +commonplace lives there. The chance visitor who spent a few hours in +scaling difficult cliffs would perhaps catch a brief and fleeting sense +of their awfulness, only too quickly dissipated by the unwonted toil and +peril of his situation. But Roland Sefton felt himself exiled to their +ice-bound solitudes, cut off from all companionship, and attended only +by an accusing conscience.</p> + +<p>Morning after morning, when his short and feverish night was ended, he +went out in the early dawn while all the valleys below were still +slumbering in darkness, self-driven into the wilderness of rock and snow +rising above the wretched chalets. With coarse food sufficient for the +wants of the day he strayed wherever his aimless footsteps led him. It +was seldom that he stayed more than a night or two in the same +herdsman's hut. When he was well out of the track of tourists he +ventured down into the lower villages now and then, seeking a few days +of comparative comfort. But some rumor, or the arrival of some chance +traveller more enterprising and investigating than the mass, always +drove him away again. There was no peace for him, either in the high +Alps or the most secluded valleys.</p> + +<p>How could there be peace while memory and conscience were gnawing at his +heart? In a dreary round his thoughts went back to the first beginnings +of the road that had led him hither; with that vague feeling which all +of us have when retracing the irrevocable past, as if by some mighty +effort of our will we could place ourselves at the starting-point again +and run our race—oh, how differently!</p> + +<p>Roland could almost fix the date when he had first wished that Mr. +Clifford's bonds, bequeathed to him, were already his own. He +recollected the very day when old Marlowe had asked him to invest his +money for him in some safe manner for Phebe's benefit, and how he had +persuaded himself that nothing could be safer than to use it for his own +purposes, and to pay a higher interest than the old man could get +elsewhere. What he had done for him had been still easier to do for +other clients—ignorant men and women who knew nothing of business, and +left it all to him, gratefully pleased with the good interest he paid +them. The web had been woven with almost invisible threads at the first, +but the finest thread among them was a heavy cable now.</p> + +<p>But the one thought that haunted him, never leaving him for an instant +in these terrible solitudes, was the thought of Felicita. His mother he +could forget sometimes, or remember her with a dewy tenderness at his +heart, as if he could feel her pitiful love clinging to him still; and +his children he dreamed of at times in a day-dream, as playing merrily +without him, in the blissful ignorance of childhood. But Felicita, who +did not love him as his mother did, and could not remain in ignorance of +his crime! Was she not something like these pure, distant snowy +pinnacles, inapproachable and repellent, with icy-cold breath which +petrified all lips that drew too near to them? And he had set a stain +upon that purity as white as the driven snow. The name he had given to +her was tarnished, and would be publicly dishonored if he failed in +evading the penalty he merited. His death alone could save her from +notorious and intolerable disgrace.</p> + +<p>But though he was reckless of his life, he could not bring himself to be +guilty of suicide. Death was wooing him in many forms, day by day, to +seek refuge with him. When his feet slipped among the yawning crevasses +of the glaciers, the smallest wilful negligence would have buried him in +their blue depths. The common impulse to cast himself down the +precipices along whose margin he crept had only to be yielded to, and +all his earthly woe would be over. Even to give way to the weary +drowsiness that overtook him at times as the sun went down, and the +night fell upon him far away from shelter, might have soothed him into +the slumber from which there is no awaking. But he dared not. He was +willing enough to die, if dying had been all. But he believed in the +punishment of sin here, or hereafter; in the dealing out of a righteous +judgment to every man, whether he be good or evil.</p> + +<p>As the autumn passed by, and the mountain chalets were shut up, the +cattle and the herdsmen descending to the lower pastures, Roland Sefton +was compelled to descend too. There was little chance of encountering +any one who knew him at this late season; yet there were still +stragglers lingering among the Alps. But when he saw himself again in a +looking-glass, his face burned and blistered with the sun, and now +almost past recognition, and his ragged hair and beard serving him +better than any disguise, he was no longer afraid of being detected. He +began to wonder in mingled hope and dread whether Felicita would come +out to seek him. The message he had sent to her by Phebe could be +interpreted by her alone. Would she avail herself of it to find him out? +Or would she shrink from the toil and pain and danger of quitting +England? A few weeks more would answer the question.</p> + +<p>Sometimes he was overwhelmed with terror lest she should be watched, and +her movements tracked, and that behind her would come the pursuers he +had so successfully evaded. At other times an unutterable heart-sickness +possessed him to see her once more, to hear her voice, to press his +lips, if he dared, to her pale cheeks; to discover whether she would +suffer him to hold her in his arms for one moment only. He longed to +hear from her lips what had happened at home since he fled from it six +months ago; what she had done, and was going to do, supposing that he +were not arrested and brought to justice. Would she forgive him? would +she listen to his pleas and explanations? He feared that she would hate +him for the shame he had brought upon her. Yet there was a possibility +that she might pity him, with a pity so much akin to love as that with +which the angels look down upon sinful human beings.</p> + +<p>Every day brought the solution of his doubts nearer. The rains of autumn +had begun, and fell in torrents, driving him to any shelter he could +find, to brood there hour after hour upon these hopes and fears. The fog +and thick clouds hid the mountains, and all the valleys lay forlorn and +cold under clinging veils of mist, through which the few brown leaves +left upon the trees hung limp and dying on the bare branches. The +villagers were settling down to their winter life; and though along the +frequented routes a few travellers were still passing to and fro, the +less known were deserted. It was safe now to go down to Engelberg, +where, if ever again except as a prisoner in the hands of justice, he +would see Felicita.</p> + +<p>Impatient to anticipate the day on which he might again see her, he +reached Engelberg a week before the appointed time. The green meadows +and the forests of the little valley were hidden in mist and rain, and +the towering dome of the Titlis was folded from sight in dense clouds, +with only a cold gleam now and then as its snowy summit glanced through +them for a minute. The innumerable waterfalls were swollen, and fell +with a restless roar through the black depths of the forests. The +daylight was short, for the sun rose late behind the encircling +mountains, and hastened to sink again below them. But the place where he +had first met Felicita was dear to him, though dark and gloomy with the +cloudy days. He hastened to the church where his eyes had fallen upon +the young, silent, absorbed girl so many years ago; and here, where the +sun was shining fitfully for a brief half hour, he paced up and down the +aisles, wondering what the coming interview would bring. Day after day +he lingered there, with the loud chanting of the monks ringing in his +ears, until the evening came when he said to himself, "To-morrow I shall +see her once more."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<h3>SUSPENSE.</h3> + + +<p>Roland Sefton did not sleep that night. As the time drew near for +Felicita to act upon his message to her, he grew more desponding of her +response to it; yet he could not give up the feeble hope still +flickering in his heart. If she did not come he would be a hopeless +outcast indeed; yet if she came, what succor could she bring to him? He +had not once cherished the idea that Mr. Clifford would forbear to +prosecute him; yet he knew well that if he could be propitiated, the +other men and women who had claims upon him would be easily satisfied +and appeased. But how many things might have happened during the long +six months, which had seemed almost an eternity to him. It was not +impossible that Mr. Clifford might be dead. If so, and if a path was +thus open to him to re-enter life, how different should his career be in +the future! How warily would he walk; with what earnest penitence and +thorough uprightness would he order all his ways! He would be what he +had only seemed to be hitherto: a man following Christ, as his +forefathers had done.</p> + +<p>He was staying at a quiet inn in the village, and as soon as daybreak +came he started down the road along which Felicita must come, and waited +at the entrance of the valley, four miles from the little village. The +road was bad, for the heavy rains had washed much of it away, and it had +been roughly repaired by fir-trees laid along the broken edges; but it +was not impassable, and a one-horse carriage could run along it safely. +The rain had passed away, and the sun was shining. The high mountains +and the great rocks were clear from base to summit. If she came to-day +there was a splendid scene prepared for her eyes. Hour after hour passed +by, the short autumnal day faded into the dusk, and the dusk slowly +deepened into the blackness of night. Still he waited, late on into the +night, till the monastery bells chimed for the last time; but there was +no sign of her coming.</p> + +<p>The next day passed as that had done. Felicita, then, had deserted him! +He felt so sure of Phebe that he never doubted that she had not received +his message. He had left only one thread of communication between +himself and home—a slender thread—and Felicita had broken it. There +was now no hope for him, no chance of learning what had befallen all his +dear ones, unless he ran the risk of discovery, and ventured back to +England.</p> + +<p>But for Felicita and his children, he said to himself, it would be +better to go back, and pay the utmost penalty he owed to the broken laws +of his country. No hardships could be greater than those he had already +endured; no separation from companionship could be more complete. The +hard labor he would be doomed to perform would be a relief. His +conscience might smite him less sharply and less ceaselessly if he was +suffering the due punishment for his sin, in the society of his +fellow-criminals. Dartmoor Prison would be better for him than his +miserable and degrading freedom.</p> + +<p>Still, as long as he could elude publicity and preserve his name from +notoriety, the burden would not fall upon Felicita and his children. His +mother would not shrink from bearing her share of any burden of his. But +he must keep out of the dock, lest their father and husband should be +branded as a convict.</p> + +<p>A dreary round his thoughts ran. But ever in the centre of the circling +thoughts lay the conviction that he had lost his wife and children +forever. Whether he dragged out a wretched life in concealment, or was +discovered, or gave himself up to justice, Felicita was lost to him. +There were some women—Phebe Marlowe was one—who could have lived +through the shame of his conviction and the dreary term of his +imprisonment, praying to God for her husband, and pitying him with a +kind of heavenly grace, and at the end of the time met him at the prison +door, and gone out with him, tenderly and faithfully, to begin a new +life in another country. But Felicita was not one of these women. He +could never think of her as pardoning a transgression like his, though +committed for her sake. Even now she would not stoop so low as to seek a +meeting with one who deserved a penal punishment.</p> + +<p>Night had set in, and he was trudging along the road, still heavy with +recent rains, though the sky above was hung with glittering stars, and +the crystal snow on Titlis shone against the deep blue depths, casting a +wan light over the valley. Suddenly upon the stillness there came the +sound of several voices, and a shrill yodel, pitched in a key that rang +through the village, to call attention to the approaching party. It was +in advance of him, nearer to Engelberg; yet though he had been watching +the route from Stans all day, and was satisfied that Felicita could not +have entered the valley unseen by himself, the hope flashed through him +that she was before him, belated by the state of the roads. He hurried +on, seeing before him a small group of men carrying lanterns. But in +their midst they bore a rude litter, made of a gate taken hastily off +the hinges. They passed out of sight behind a house as he caught sight +of the litter, and for a minute or two he could not follow them, from +the mere shock of dread lest the litter held her. Then he hurried on, +and reached the hotel door as the procession marched into the hall and +laid their burden cautiously down.</p> + +<p>"An accident?" said the landlord.</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered one of the peasants; "we found him under Pfaffenwand. He +must have been coming from Engstlensee Alp; how much farther the good +God alone knows. The paths are slippery this wet weather, and he had no +guide, or there was no guide to be seen."</p> + +<p>"That must be searched into," said the landlord; "is he dead?"</p> + +<p>"No, no," replied two or three together.</p> + +<p>"He has spoken twice," continued the peasant who had answered before, +"and groaned much. But none of us knew what he said. He is dying, poor +fellow!"</p> + +<p>"English?" asked the landlord, looking down on the scarred face and +eager eyes of the stranger, who lay silent on the litter, glancing round +uneasily at the faces about him.</p> + +<p>"Some of us would have known French, or German, or Italian," was the +reply, "but not one of us knows English."</p> + +<p>"Nor I," said the landlord; "and our English speaker went away last +week, over the St. Gothard to Italy for the winter. Send round, Marie," +he went on, speaking to his wife, "and find out any one in Engelberg who +knows English. See! The poor fellow is trying to say something now."</p> + +<p>"I can speak English," said Roland, pushing his way in amid the crowd +and kneeling down beside the litter, on which a rough bed of fir +pine-branches had been made. The unknown face beneath his eyes was drawn +with pain, and the gaze that met his was one of earnest entreaty.</p> + +<p>"I am dying," he murmured; "don't let them torture me. Only let me be +laid on a bed to die in peace."</p> + +<p>"I will take care of you," said Roland in his pleasant and soothing +voice, speaking as tenderly as if he had been saying "God bless you!" to +Felix in his little cot; "trust yourself to me. They shall do for you +only what I think best."</p> + +<p>The stranger closed his eyes with an expression of relief, and Roland, +taking up one corner of the litter, helped to carry it gently into the +nearest bedroom. He was gifted with something of a woman's softness of +touch, and with a woman's delicate sympathy with pain; and presently, +though not without some moans and cries, the injured man was resting +peacefully on a bed: not unconscious, but looking keenly from face to +face on the people surrounding him.</p> + +<p>"Are you English?" he asked, looking at Roland's blistered face and his +worn peasant's dress.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Is there any surgeon here?" he inquired.</p> + +<p>"No English surgeon," replied Roland. "I do not know if there is one +even at Lucerne, and none could come to you for many hours. But there +must be some one at the monastery close by, if not in the village—"</p> + +<p>"No, no!" he interrupted, "I shall not live many hours; but promise +me—I am quite helpless as you see—promise me that you will not let any +village doctor pull me about."</p> + +<p>"They are sometimes very skilful," urged Roland, "and you do not know +that you must really die."</p> + +<p>"I knew it as I was slipping," he answered; "at the first moment I knew +it, though I clutched at the very stones to keep me from falling. Why! I +was dead when they found me; only the pain of being pulled about brought +me back to life. I'm not afraid to die if they will let me die in +peace."</p> + +<p>"I will promise not to leave you," replied Roland; "and if you must die, +it shall be in peace."</p> + +<p>That he must die, and was actually dying, was affirmed by all about him. +One of the brothers from the monastery, skilled in surgery, came in +unrecognized as a doctor by the stranger, and shook his head hopelessly +when he saw him, telling Roland to let him do whatever he pleased so +long as he lived, and to learn all he could from him during the hours of +the coming night. There was no hope, he said; and if he had not been +found by the peasants he would have been dead now. Roland must ask if +he was a good Catholic or a heretic. When the monk heard that he was a +heretic and needed none of the consolations of the Church, he bade him +farewell kindly, and went his way.</p> + +<p>Roland Sefton sat beside the dying man all the night, while he lingered +from hour to hour: free from pain at times, at others restless and +racked with agony. He wandered a little in delirium, and when his brain +was clear he had not much to say.</p> + +<p>"Have you no message to send to your friends?" inquired Roland, in one +of these lucid intervals.</p> + +<p>"I have no friends," he answered, "and no money. It makes death easier."</p> + +<p>"There must be some one who would care to hear of you," said Roland.</p> + +<p>"They'll see it in the papers," he replied. "No, I come from India, and +was going to England. I have no near relations, and there is no one to +care much. 'Poor Austin,' they'll say; 'he wasn't a bad fellow.' That's +all. You've been kinder to me than anybody I know. There's about fifty +pounds in my pocket-book. Bury me decently and take the rest."</p> + +<p>He dozed a little, or was unconscious for a few minutes. His sunburnt +face, lying on the white pillow, still looked full of health and the +promise of life, except when it was contracted with pain. There was no +weakness in his voice or dimness in his eye. It seemed impossible to +believe that this strong young man was dying.</p> + +<p>"I lost my valise when I fell," he said, opening his eyes again and +speaking in a tranquil tone; "but there was nothing of value in it. My +money and my papers are in my pocket-book. Let me see you take +possession of it."</p> + +<p>He watched Roland search for the book in the torn coat on the chair +beside him, and his eyes followed its transfer to his breast-pocket +under his blue blouse.</p> + +<p>"You are an English gentleman, though you look a Swiss peasant," he +said; "you are poor, perhaps, and my money will be of use to you. It is +the only return I can make to you. I should like you to write down that +I give it to you, and let me sign the paper."</p> + +<p>"Presently," said Roland; "you must not exert yourself. I shall find +your name and address here?"</p> + +<p>"I have no address; of course I have a name," he answered; "but never +mind that now. Tell me, what do you think of Christ? Does He indeed save +sinners?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Roland reluctantly; "He says, 'I came to seek and to save +that which was lost.' Those are His own words."</p> + +<p>"Kneel down quickly," murmured the dying man. "Say 'Our Father!' so that +I can hear every word. My mother used to teach it to me."</p> + +<p>"And she is dead?" said Roland.</p> + +<p>"Years ago," he gasped.</p> + +<p>Roland knelt down. How familiar, with what a touch of bygone days, the +attitude came to him; how homely the words sounded! He had uttered them +innumerable times; never quite without a feeling of their sacredness and +sweetness. But he had not dared to take them into his lips of late. His +voice faltered, though he strove to keep it steady and distinct, to +reach the dying ears that listened to him. The prayer brought to him the +picture of his children kneeling, morning and evening, with the +self-same petitions. They had said them only a few hours ago, and would +say them again a few hours hence. Even the dying man felt there was +something more than mere emotion for him expressed in the tremulous +tones of Roland Sefton's voice. He held out his hand to him when he had +finished, and grasped his warmly.</p> + +<p>"God bless you!" he said. But he was weary, and his strength was failing +him. He slumbered again fitfully, and his mind wandered. Now and then +during the rest of the night he looked up with a faint smile, and his +lips moved inarticulately. He thought he had spoken, but no sound +disturbed the unbroken silence.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<h3>ON THE ALTAR STEPS.</h3> + + +<p>It was as the bells of the Abbey rang for matins that the stranger died. +For a few minutes Roland remained beside him, and then he called in the +women to attend to the dead, and went out into the fresh morning air. It +was the third day that the mountains had been clear from fog and cloud, +and they stood out against the sky in perfect whiteness. The snow-line +had come lower down upon the slopes, and the beautiful crystals of frost +hung on the tapering boughs of the pine-trees in the forests about +Engelberg. Here and there a few villagers were going toward the church, +and almost unconsciously Roland followed slowly in their track.</p> + +<p>The short service was over and the congregation was dispersing when he +crossed the well-worn door-sill. But a few women, especially the late +comers, were still scattered about praying mechanically, with their eyes +wandering around them. The High Altar was deserted, but candles burning +on it made a light in the dim place, and he listlessly sauntered up the +centre aisle. A woman was kneeling on the steps leading up to it, and as +the echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet church she rose and +looked round. It was Felicita! At that moment he was not thinking of +her; yet there was no doubt or surprise in the first moment of +recognition. The uncontrollable rapture of seeing her again arrested his +steps, and he stood looking at her, with a few paces between them. It +was plain that she did not know him.</p> + +<p>How could she know him, he thought bitterly, in the rough blue blouse +and coarse clothing and heavy hobnail boots of a Swiss peasant? His hair +was shaggy and uncut, and the skin of his face was so peeled and +blistered and scorched that his disguise was sufficient to conceal him +even from his wife. Yet as he stood there with downcast head, as a +devout peasant might have done before the altar, he saw Felicita make a +slight but imperious sign to him to advance. She did not take a step +toward him, but leaning against the altar rails she waited till he was +near to her, within hearing. There Roland paused.</p> + +<p>"Felicita," he said, not daring to draw closer to her.</p> + +<p>"I am here," she answered, not looking toward him; her large, dark, +mournful eyes lifted up to the cross above the altar, before which a +lamp was burning, whose light was reflected in her unshed tears.</p> + +<p>Neither of them spoke again for a while. It seemed as if there could be +nothing said, so great was the anguish of them both. The man who had +just died had passed away tranquilly, but they were drinking of a cup +more bitter than death. Yet the few persons lingering over their morning +devotions before the shrines in the side aisles saw nothing but a +stranger looking at the painting over the altar, and a peasant kneeling +on the lowest step deep in prayer.</p> + +<p>"I come from watching a fellow-man die," he said at last; "would to God +it had been myself!"</p> + +<p>"Yes!" sighed Felicita, "that would have been best for us all."</p> + +<p>"You wish me dead!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish.</p> + +<p>"For the children's sake," she murmured, still looking away from him; +"yes! and for the sake of our name, your father's name, and mine. I +thought to bring honor to it, and you have brought flagrant dishonor to +it."</p> + +<p>"That can never be wiped away," he added.</p> + +<p>"Never!" she repeated.</p> + +<p>As if exhausted by these passionate words, they fell again into silence. +The murmur of whispered prayers was about them, and the faint scent of +incense floated under the arched roof. A gleam of morning light, growing +stronger, though the sun was still far below the eastern mountains, +glittered through a painted window, and threw a glow of color upon them. +Roland saw her standing in its many-tinted brightness, but her wan and +sorrowful face was not turned to look at him. He had not caught a +glance from her yet. How vividly he remembered the first moment his eyes +had ever beheld her, standing as she did now on these very altar steps, +with uplifted eyes and a sweet seriousness on her young face! It was +only a poor village church, but it was the most sacred spot in the whole +world to him; for there he had met Felicita and received her image into +his inmost heart. His ambition as well as his love had centred in her, +the penniless daughter of the late Lord Riversford, an orphan, and +dependent upon her father's brother and successor. But to Roland his +wife Felicita was immeasurably dearer than the girl Felicita Riversford +had been. All the happy days since he had won her, all the satisfied +desires, all his successes were centred in her and represented by her. +All his crime too.</p> + +<p>"I have loved you," he cried, "better than the whole world."</p> + +<p>There was no answer by word or look to his passionate words.</p> + +<p>"I have loved you," he said, more sadly, "better than God."</p> + +<p>"But you have brought me to shame!" she answered; "if I am tracked +here—and who can tell that I am not?—and if you are taken and tried +and convicted, I shall be the wife of the fraudulent banker and +condemned felon, Roland Sefton. And Felix and Hilda will be his +children."</p> + +<p>"It is true," he groaned; "I could not escape conviction."</p> + +<p>He buried his face in his hands, and rested them on the altar-rails. Now +his bowed-down head was immediately beneath her eyes, and she looked +down upon it with a mournful gaze; it could not have been more mournful +if she had been contemplating his dead face lying at rest in his coffin. +How was all this shame and misery for him and her to end?</p> + +<p>"Felicita," he said, lifting up his head, and meeting the sorrowful +farewell expression in her face, "if I could die it would be best for +the children and you."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, in the sweet, too dearly loved voice he had +listened to in happy days.</p> + +<p>"I dare not open that door of escape for myself," he went on, "and God +does not send death to me. But I see a way, a possible way. I only see +it this moment; but whether it be for good or evil I cannot tell."</p> + +<p>"Will it save us?" she asked eagerly.</p> + +<p>"All of us," he replied. "This stranger, whose corpse I have just +left—nobody knows him, and he has no friends to trouble about +him—shall I give to him my name, and bury him as myself? Then I shall +be dead to all the world, Felicita; dead even to you; but you will be +saved. I too shall be safe in the grave, for death covers all sins. Even +old Clifford will be satisfied by my death."</p> + +<p>"Could it be done?" she asked breathlessly.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said; "if you consent it shall be done. For my own sake I +would rather go back to England and deliver myself up to the law I have +broken. But you shall decide, my darling. If I return you will be known +as the wife of the convict Sefton. Say: shall I be henceforth dead +forever to you and my mother and the children? Shall it be a living +death for me, and deliverance and safety and honor for you all? You must +choose between my infamy or my death."</p> + +<p>"It must be," she answered, slowly yet without hesitation, looking away +from him to the cross above the altar, "your death."</p> + +<p>A shudder ran through her slight frame as she spoke, and thrilled +through him as he listened. It seemed to them both as if they stood +beside an open grave, on either side one, and parted thus. He stretched +out his hand to her, and laid it on her dress, as if appealing for +mercy; but she did not turn to him, or look upon him, or open her white +lips to utter another word. Then there came more stir and noise in the +church, footsteps sounded upon the pavement, and an inquisitive face +peeped out of the vestry near the altar where they stood. It was no +longer prudent to remain as they were, subject to curiosity and +scrutiny. Roland rose from his knees, and without glancing again toward +her, he spoke in a low voice of unutterable grief and supplication.</p> + +<p>"Let me see you and speak to you once more," he said.</p> + +<p>"Once more," she repeated.</p> + +<p>"This evening," he continued, "at your hotel."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered. "I am travelling under Phebe Marlowe's name. Ask +for Mrs. Marlowe."</p> + +<p>She turned away and walked slowly and feebly down the aisle; and he +watched her, as he had watched the light tread of the young girl eleven +years ago, passing through alternate sunshine and shadow. There was no +sunshine now. Was it possible that so long a time had passed since then? +Could it be true that for ten years she had been his wife, and that the +tie between them was forever dissolved? From this day he was to be dead +to her and to all the world. He was about to pass voluntarily into a +condition of death amid life, as utterly bereft of all that had once +been his as if the grave had closed over him. Roland Sefton was to exist +no more.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<h3>A SECOND FRAUD.</h3> + + +<p>Roland Sefton went back to the room in which the corpse of the stranger +was now lying. The women were gone, and he turned down the sheet to look +at the face of the man who was about to bear his name and the disgrace +of his crime into the safe asylum of the grave. It was perfectly calm, +with no trace of the night's suffering upon it; there was even a faint +vestige of a smile about the mouth, as of one who sleeps well, and has +pleasant dreams. He was apparently about Roland's own age, and a +description given by strangers would not be such as would lead to any +suspicion that there could have been a mistake as to identity. Roland +looked long upon it before covering it up again, and then he sat down +beside the bed and opened the pocket-book.</p> + +<p>There were notes in it worth fifty pounds, but not many papers. There +was a memorandum made here and there of the places he had visited, and +the last entry was dated the day before at Engstlenalp. Roland knew +every step of the road, and for a while he seemed to himself to be this +traveller, starting from the little inn, not yet vacated by its peasant +landlord, but soon to be left to icy solitude, and taking the narrow +path along the Engstlensee, toiling up the Joch pass under the mighty +Wendenstöcke and the snowy Titlis, clear of clouds from base to summit +yesterday. The traveller must have had a guide with him, some peasant or +herdsman probably, as far as the Trübsee Alp; for even in summer the +route was difficult to find. The guide had put him on to the path for +Engelberg, and left him to make his way along the precipitous slopes of +the Pfaffenwand. All this would be discovered when an official inquiry +was made into the accident. In the mean time it was necessary to invest +this stranger with his own identity.</p> + +<p>There were two or three well-worn letters in the pocket-book, but they +contained nothing of importance. It seemed true, what the dying man had +said, that there was no link of kinship or friendship binding him +specially to his fellow-men. Roland opened his own pocket-book, and +looked over a letter or two which he had carried about with him, one of +them a childish note from Felix, preferring some simple request. His +passport was there also, and his mother's portrait and those of the +children, over which his eyes brooded with a hungry sorrow in his heart. +He looked at them for the last time. But Felicita's portrait he could +not bring himself to give up. She would be dead to him, and he to her. +In England she would live among her friends as his widow, pitied, and +comforted, and beloved. But what would the coming years bring to him? +All that would remain to him of the past would be a fading photograph +only.</p> + +<p>So long he lingered over this mournful conflict that he was at last +aroused from it by the entrance of the landlord, and the mayor and other +officials, who had come to look at the body of the dead. Roland's +pocket-book lay open on the bed, and he was still gazing at the +portraits of his children. He raised his sunburnt face as they came in, +and rose to meet them.</p> + +<p>"This traveller," he said, "gave to me his pocket-book as I watched +beside him last night. It is here, containing his passport, a few +letters, and fifty pounds in notes, which he told me to keep, but which +I wish to give to the commune."</p> + +<p>"They must be taken charge of," said the mayor; "but we will look over +them first. Did he tell you who he was?"</p> + +<p>"The passport discloses that," answered Roland; "he desired only a +decent funeral."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said the mayor, taking out the passport, "an English traveller; +name Roland Sefton; and these letters, and these portraits—they will be +enough for identification."</p> + +<p>"He said he had no friends or family in England," pursued Roland, "and +there is no address among his letters. He told me he came from India."</p> + +<p>"Then there need be no delay about the interment," remarked the mayor, +"if he had no family in England, and was just come from India. Bah! we +could not keep him till any friends came from India. It is enough. We +must make an inquiry; but the corpse cannot be kept above ground. The +interment may take place as soon as you please, Monsieur."</p> + +<p>"I suppose you will wish for some trifle as payment?" said the landlord, +addressing Roland.</p> + +<p>"No," he answered, "I only watched by him through the night; and I am +but a passing traveller like himself."</p> + +<p>"You will assist at the funeral?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"If it can be to-morrow," replied Roland; "if not I must go on to +Lucerne. But I shall come back to Engelberg. If it be necessary for me +to stay, and the commune will pay my expenses, I will stay."</p> + +<p>"Not necessary at all," said the mayor; "the accident is too simple, and +he has no friends. Why should the commune lose by him?"</p> + +<p>"There are the fifty pounds," suggested Roland.</p> + +<p>"And there are the expenses!" said the mayor. "No, no. It is not +necessary for you to stay; not at all. If you are coming back again to +Engelberg it will be all right. You say you are coming back?"</p> + +<p>"I am sure to come back to Engelberg," he answered, with gloomy +emphasis.</p> + +<p>For already Roland began to feel that he, himself, was dead, and a new +life, utterly different from the old, was beginning for him. And this +new life, beginning here, would often draw him back to its birth-place. +There would be an attraction for him here, even in the humble grave +where men thought they had buried Roland Sefton. It would be the only +link with his former life, and it would draw him to it irresistibly.</p> + +<p>"And what is your name and employment, my good fellow?" asked the mayor.</p> + +<p>"Jean Merle," he answered promptly. "I am a wood-carver."</p> + +<p>The deed he had only thought of an hour ago was accomplished, and there +could be no undoing it. This passport and these papers would be +forwarded to the embassy at Berne, where doubtless his name was already +known as a fugitive criminal. He could not reclaim them, for with them +he took up again the burden of his sin. He had condemned himself to a +penalty and sacrifice the most complete that man could think of, or put +into execution. Roland Sefton was dead, and his wife and children were +set free from the degradation he had brought upon them.</p> + +<p>He spent the remaining hours of the day in wandering about the forests +in the Alpine valley. The autumn fogs and the dense rain-clouds were +gathering again. But it was nothing to him that the snowy crests of the +surrounding mountains were once more shrouded from view, or that the +torrents and waterfalls which he could not see were thundering and +roaring along their rocky channels with a vast effluence of waters. He +saw and heard no more than the dead man who bore his name. He was +insensible to hunger or fatigue. Except for Felicita's presence in the +village behind him he would have felt himself in another world; in a +beamless and lifeless abyss, where there was no creature like unto +himself; only eternal gloom and solitude.</p> + +<p>It was quite dark before he passed again through the village on his way +to Felicita's hotel. The common light of lamps, and the every-day life +of ordinary men and women busy over their evening meal, astonished him, +as if he had come from another state of existence. He lingered awhile, +looking on as at some extraordinary spectacle. Then he went on to the +hotel standing a little out of and above the village.</p> + +<p>The place, so crowded in the summer, was quiet enough now. A bright +light, however, streamed through the window of the salon, which was +uncurtained. He stopped and looked in at Felicita, who was sitting alone +by the log fire, with her white forehead resting on her small hand, +which partly hid her face. How often had he seen her sitting thus by the +fireside at home! But though he stood without in the dark and cold for +many minutes, she did not stir; neither hand nor foot moved. At last he +grew terrified at this utter immobility, and stepping through the hall +he told the landlady that the English lady had business with him. He +opened the door, and then Felicita looked up.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<h3>PARTING WORDS.</h3> + + +<p>Roland advanced a few paces into the gaudy salon, with its mirrors +reflecting his and Felicita's figures over and over again, and stood +still, at a little distance from her, with his rough cap in his hand. He +looked like one of the herdsmen with whom he had been living during the +summer. There was no one else in the large room, but the night was +peering in through half a dozen great uncurtained windows, which might +hold many spectators watching them, as he had watched her a minute ago. +She scarcely moved, but the deadly pallor of her face and the dark +shining of her tearless eyes fixed upon him made him tremble as if he +had been a woman weaker than herself.</p> + +<p>"It is done," he said.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, "I have been to see him."</p> + +<p>There was an accent in her voice, of terror and repugnance, as of one +who had witnessed some horrifying sight and was compelled to bear a +reluctant testimony to it. Roland himself felt a shock of antipathy at +the thought of his wife seeing this unknown corpse bearing his name. He +seemed to see her standing beside the dead, and looking down with those +beloved eyes upon the strange face, which would dwell for evermore in +her memory as well as his. Why had she subjected herself to this +needless pang?</p> + +<p>"You wished it?" he said. "You consented to my plan?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered in the same monotonous tone of reluctant testimony.</p> + +<p>"And it was best so, Felicita," he said tenderly; "we have done the dead +man no wrong. Remember he was alone, and had no friends to grieve over +his strange absence. If it had been otherwise there would have been a +terrible sin in our act. But it has set you free; it saves you and my +mother and the children. As long as I lived you would have been in +peril; but now there is a clear, safe course laid open for you. You will +go home to England, where in a few months it will be forgotten that your +husband was suspected of crime. Only old Clifford, and Marlowe, and two +or three others will remember it. When you have the means, repay those +poor people the money I owe them. And take comfort, Felicita. It would +have done them no good if I had been taken and convicted; that would not +have restored their money. My name then will be clear of all but +suspicion, and you will make it a name for our children to inherit."</p> + +<p>"And you?" she breathed with lips that scarcely moved.</p> + +<p>"I?" he said. "Why, I shall be dead! A man's life is not simply the +breath he draws: it is his country, his honor, his home. You are my +life, Felicita: you and my mother and Felix and Hilda; the old home +where my forefathers dwelt; my townsmen's esteem and good-will; the work +I could do, and hoped to do. Losing those I lost my life. I began to +die when I first went wrong. The way seemed right in my own eyes, but +the end of it was death. I told old Marlowe his money was as safe as in +the Bank of England, when I was keeping it in my own hands; but I +believed it then. That was the first step; this is the last. Henceforth +I am dead."</p> + +<p>"But how will you live?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Never fear; Jean Merle will earn his living," he answered. "Let us +think of your future, my darling. Nay, let me call you darling once +more. My death provides for you, for your marriage-settlement will come +into force. You will have to live differently, my Felicita; all the +splendor and the luxury I would have surrounded you with must be lost. +But there will be enough, and my mother will manage your household well +for you. Be kind to my poor mother, and comfort her. And do not let my +children grow up with hard thoughts of their father. It will be a +painful task to you."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said. "Oh, Roland, we ought not to have done this thing!"</p> + +<p>"Yet you chose," he replied.</p> + +<p>"Yes; and I should choose it again, though I hate the falsehood," she +exclaimed vehemently. "I cannot endure shame. But all our future life +will be founded on a lie."</p> + +<p>"Let the blame be mine, not yours," he said; "it was my plan, and there +is no going back from it now. But tell me about home. How are my +children and my mother? They are still at home?"</p> + +<p>"No," she answered; "the police watched it day and night, till it grew +hateful to me. I shall never enter it again. We went away to the +sea-side three months ago, and there our mother and the children are +still. But when I get back we shall remove to London."</p> + +<p>"To London!" he repeated. "Will you never go home to Riversborough?"</p> + +<p>"Never again!" she replied. "I could not live there now; it is a hateful +spot to me. Your mother grieves bitterly over leaving it; but even she +sees that we can never live there again."</p> + +<p>"I shall not even know how to think of you all!" he cried. "You will be +living in some strange house, which I can never picture to myself. And +the old home will be empty."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Clifford is living in it," she said.</p> + +<p>He threw up his hands with a gesture of grief and vexation. Whenever his +thoughts flew to the old home, the only home he had ever known, it would +be only to remember that the man he most dreaded, he who was his most +implacable enemy, was dwelling in it. And when would he cease to think +of his own birth-place and the birth-place of his children, the home +where Felicita had lived? It would be impossible to blot the vivid +memory of it from his brain.</p> + +<p>"I shall never see it again," he said; "but I should have felt less +banished from you if I could have thought of you as still at home. We +are about to part forever, Felicita—as fully as if I lay dead down +yonder, as men will think I do."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, with a mournful stillness.</p> + +<p>"Even if we wished to hold any intercourse with each other," he +continued, gazing wistfully at her, "it would be dangerous to us both. +It is best for us both to be dead to one another."</p> + +<p>"It is best," she assented; "only if you were ever in great straits, if +you could not earn your living, you might contrive to let me know."</p> + +<p>"There is no fear of that," he answered bitterly. "Felicita, you never +loved me as I love you."</p> + +<p>"No," she said, with the same inexpressible sadness, yet calmness, in +her voice and face; "how could I? I was a child when you married me; we +were both children. There is such a difference between us. I suppose I +should never love any one very much—not as you mean. It is not in my +nature. I can live alone, Roland. All of you, even the children, seem +very far away from me. But I grieve for you in my inmost soul. If I +could undo what you have done I would gladly lay down my life. If I +could only undo what we did this morning! The shadow of it is growing +darker and darker upon me. And yet it seemed so wise; it seems so still. +We shall be safe again, all of us, and we have done that dead man no +wrong."</p> + +<p>"None," he said.</p> + +<p>"But when I think of you," she went on, "how you, still living, will +long to know what is befalling us, how the children are growing up, and +how your mother is, and how I live, yet never be able to satisfy this +longing; how you will have to give us up, and never dare to make a sign; +how you will drag on your life from year to year, a poor man among poor, +ignorant, stupid men; how I may die, and you not know it, or you may +die, and I not know it; I wonder how we could have done what we did this +morning."</p> + +<p>"Oh, hush, hush, Felicita!" he exclaimed; "I have said all this to +myself all this day, until I feel that my punishment is harder than I +can bear. Tell me, shall we undo it? Shall I go to the mayor and deliver +myself up as the man whose name I have given to the dead? It can be done +still; it is not too late. You shall decide again."</p> + +<p>"No; I cannot accept disgrace," she answered passionately; "it is an +evil thing to do, but it must be done. We must take the consequences. +You and I are dead to one another for evermore; but your death is more +terrible than mine. I shall grieve over you more than if you were really +dead. Why does not God send death to those that desire it? Good-by now +forever, Roland. I return to England to act this lie, and you must +never, never seek me out as your wife. Promise me that. I would +repudiate you if I lay on my death-bed."</p> + +<p>"I will never seek you out and bring you to shame," he said; "I promise +it faithfully, by my love for you. As I hope ever to obtain pardon, I +promise it."</p> + +<p>"Then leave me," she cried; "I can bear this no longer. Good-by, +Roland."</p> + +<p>They were still some paces apart, he with his shaggy mountain cap in his +hand standing respectfully at a distance, and she, sitting by the low, +open hearth with her white, quiet face turned toward him. All the +village might have witnessed their interview through the uncurtained +windows. Slowly, almost mechanically, Felicita left her seat and +advanced toward him with an outstretched hand. It was cold as ice as he +seized it eagerly in his own; the hand of the dead man could not have +been colder or more lifeless. He held it fast in a hard, unconscious +grip.</p> + +<p>"Good-by, my wife," he said; "God bless and keep you!"</p> + +<p>"Is there any God?" she sobbed.</p> + +<p>But there was a sound at the door, the handle was being turned, and they +fell apart guiltily. A maid entered to tell Madame her chamber was +prepared, and without another word Felicita walked quickly from the +salon, leaving him alone.</p> + +<p>He caught a glimpse of her again the next morning as she came +down-stairs and entered the little carriage which was to take her down +to Stansstad in time to catch the boat to Lucerne. She was starting +early, before it was fairly dawn, and he saw her only by the dim light +of lamps, which burned but feebly in the chilly damp of the autumn +atmosphere. For a little distance he followed the sound of the carriage +wheels, but he arrested his own footsteps. For what good was it to +pursue one whom he must never find again? She was gone from him forever. +He was a young man yet, and she still younger. But for his folly and +crime a long and prosperous life might have stretched before them, each +year knitting their hearts and souls more closely together; and he had +forfeited all. He turned back up the valley broken-hearted.</p> + +<p>Later in the day he stood beside the grave of the man who was bearing +away his name from disgrace. The funeral had been hurried on, and the +stranger was buried in a neglected part of the churchyard, being +friendless and a heretic. It was quickly done, and when the few persons +who had taken part in it were dispersed, Roland Sefton lingered alone +beside the desolate grave.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> + +<h3>WAITING FOR THE NEWS.</h3> + + +<p>Felicita hurried homeward night and day without stopping, as if she had +been pursued by a deadly enemy. Madame and the children were not at +Scarborough, but at a quiet little fishing village on the eastern coast; +for Felicita had found Scarborough too gay in the month of August, and +her cousins, the Riversfords, having appeared there, she retreated to +the quietest spot that could be found. To this village she returned, +after being absent little more than a week.</p> + +<p>Madame knew nothing of her journey; but the mere fact that Felicita was +going away alone had aroused in her the hope that it was connected in +some way with Roland. In some vague manner this idea had been +communicated to Felix, and both were expecting to see the long-lost +father and son come back with her. Roland's prolonged and mysterious +absence had been a sore trial to his mother, though her placid and +trustful nature had borne it patiently. Surely, she thought, the trial +was coming to an end.</p> + +<p>Felicita reached their lodgings utterly exhausted and worn out. She was +a delicate woman, in no way inured to fatigue, and though she had been +insensible to the overstrain of the unbroken journey as she was whirled +along railways and passed from station to station, a sense of complete +prostration seized upon her as soon as she found herself at home. Day +after day she lay in bed, in a darkened room, unwilling to lift her +voice above a whisper, waiting in a kind of torpid dread for the +intelligence that she knew must soon come.</p> + +<p>She had been at home several days, and still there was no news. Was it +possible, she asked herself, that this unknown traveller, and his +calamitous fate, should pass on into perfect oblivion and leave matters +as they were before? For a cloud would hang over her and her children +as long as Roland was the object of pursuit. While he was a fugitive +criminal, of interest to the police officers of all countries, there was +no security for their future. The lie to which she had given a guilty +consent was horrible to her, but her morbid dread of shame was more +horrible. She had done evil that good might come; but if the good +failed, the evil would still remain as a dark stain upon her soul, +visible to herself, if to none else.</p> + +<p>"I will get up to-day," she said at last, to Madame's great delight. She +never ventured to exert any authority over her beautiful and clever +daughter-in-law—not even the authority of a mildly expressed wish. She +was willing to be to Felicita anything that Felicita pleased—her +servant and drudge, her fond mother, or her quiet, attentive companion. +Since her return from her mysterious journey she had been very tender to +her, as tenderly and gently demonstrative as Felicita would ever permit +her to be.</p> + +<p>"Have you seen any newspapers lately?" asked Felicita.</p> + +<p>"I never read the papers, my love," answered Madame.</p> + +<p>"I should like to see to-day's <i>Times</i>," said Felicita.</p> + +<p>But it was impossible to get it in this village without ordering it +beforehand, and Felicita gave up her wish with the listless indifference +of an invalid. When the late sun of the November day had risen from +behind a heavy bank of clouds she ventured down to the quiet shore. +There were no visitors left beside themselves, so there were no curious +eyes to scan her white, sad face. For a short time Felix and Hilda +played about her; but by and by Madame, thinking she was weary and +worried, allured them away to a point where they were still in sight, +though out of hearing. The low, cold sun shed its languid and watery +rays upon the rocks and creeping tide, and, unnoticed, almost unseen, +Felicita could sit there in stillness, gazing out over the chilly and +mournful sea. There was something so unutterably sad about Felicita's +condition that it awed the simple, cheerful nature of Madame. It was +more than illness and exhaustion. The white, unsmiling face, the +drooping head, the languor of the thin, long hands, the fathomless +sorrow lurking behind her dark eyes—all spoke of a heart-sickness such +as Madame had never seen or dreamed of. The children did not cheer their +mother. When she saw that, Madame felt that there was nothing to be done +but to leave her in the cold solitude she loved.</p> + +<p>But as Felicita sat alone on the shore, looking listlessly at the +fleeting sails which were passing to and fro upon the sea, she saw afar +off the figure of a girl coming swiftly toward her from the village, and +before many moments had passed she recognized Phebe Marlowe's face. A +great throb of mingled relief and dread made her heart beat violently. +Nothing could have brought Phebe away, so far from home, except the news +of Roland's death.</p> + +<p>The rosy color on Phebe's face was gone, and the brightness of her blue +eyes was faded; but there was the same out-looking of a strong, simple, +unselfish soul shining through them. As she drew near to Felicita she +stretched out her arms with the instinctive gesture of one who was come +to comfort and support, and Felicita, with a strange, impulsive feeling +that she brought consolation and help, threw herself into them.</p> + +<p>"I know it all," said Phebe in a low voice. "Oh, what you must have +suffered! He was going to Engelberg to meet you, and you never saw him +alive! Oh, why did not God let you meet each other once again? But God +loved him. I can never think that God had not forgiven him, for he was +grieved because of his sin when I saw him the night he got away. And in +all things else he was so good! Oh, how good he was!"</p> + +<p>Phebe's tears were falling fast, and her words were choked with sobs. +But Felicita's face was hidden against her neck, and she could not see +if she was weeping.</p> + +<p>"Everybody is talking of him in Riversborough," she went on, "and now +they all say how good he always was, and how unlikely it is that he was +guilty. They will forget it soon. Those who remember him will think +kindly of him, and be grieved for him. But oh, I would give worlds for +him to have lived and made amends! If he could only have proved that he +had repented! If he could only have outlived it all, and made everybody +know that he was really a good man, one whom God had delivered out of +sin!"</p> + +<p>"It was impossible!" murmured Felicita.</p> + +<p>"No, not impossible!" she cried earnestly; "it was not an unpardonable +sin. Even if he had gone to prison, as he would, he might have faced the +world when he came out again; and if he'd done all the good he could in +it, it might have been hard to convince them he was good, but it would +never be impossible. If God forgives us, sooner or later our +fellow-creatures will forgive us, if we live a true life. I would have +stood by him in the face of the world, and you would, and Madame and the +children. He would not have been left alone, and it would have ended in +every one else coming round to us. Oh, why should he die when you were +just going to see each other again!"</p> + +<p>Felicita had sunk down again into the chair which had been carried for +her to the shore, and Phebe sat down on the sands at her feet. She +looked up tearfully into Felicita's wan and shrunken face.</p> + +<p>"Did any one ever win back their good name?" asked Felicita with +quivering lips.</p> + +<p>"Among us they do sometimes," she answered. "I knew a working-man who +had been in jail five years, and he became a Christian while he was +there, and he came back home to his own village. He was one of the best +men I ever knew, and when he died there was such a funeral as had never +been seen in the parish church. Why should it not be so? If God is +faithful and just to forgive us our sins, why shouldn't we forgive? If +we are faithful and just, we shall."</p> + +<p>"It could never be," said Felicita; "it cannot be the same as if Roland +had not been guilty. No one can blot out the past; it is eternal."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she replied, covering Felicita's hand with kisses and tears; "but +oh, we love him more now than ever. He is gone into the land of thick +darkness, and I cannot follow him in my thoughts. It is like a gulf +between us and him. Even if he had been farthest away from us in the +world—anywhere—we could imagine what he was doing; but we cannot see +him or call across the gulf to him. It is all unknown. Only God knows!"</p> + +<p>"God!" echoed Felicita; "if there is a God, let Him help me, for I am +the most wretched woman on His earth to-day."</p> + +<p>"God cannot keep from helping us all," answered Phebe. "He cannot rest +while we are wretched. I understand it better than I used to do. I +cannot rest myself while the poorest creature about me is in pain that I +can help. It is impossible that He should not care. That would be an +awful thing to think; that would make His love and pity less than ours. +This I know, that God loves every creature He has made. And oh, He must +have loved him, though he was suffered to fall over that dreadful +precipice, and die before you saw him. It happened before you reached +Engelberg?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Felicita, shivering.</p> + +<p>"The papers were sent on to Mr. Clifford," continued Phebe, "and he sent +for me to come with him, and see you before the news got into the +papers. It will be in to-morrow. But I knew more than he did, and I came +on here to speak to you. Shall you tell him you went there to meet +him?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, no!" cried Felicita; "it must never be known, dear Phebe."</p> + +<p>"And his mother and the children—they, know nothing?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Not a word, and it is you who must tell them, Phebe," she answered. +"How could I bear to tell them that he is dead? Never let them speak +about it to me; never let his name be mentioned."</p> + +<p>"How can I comfort you?" cried Phebe.</p> + +<p>"I can never be comforted," she replied despairingly; "but it is like +death to hear his name."</p> + +<p>The voices of the children coming nearer reached their ears. They had +seen from their distant playground another figure sitting close beside +Felicita, and their curiosity had led them to approach. Now they +recognized Phebe, and a glad shout rang through the air. She bent down +hurriedly to kiss Felicita's cold hand once again, and then she rose to +meet them, and prevent them from seeing their mother's deep grief.</p> + +<p>"I will go and tell them, poor little things!" she said, "and Madame. +Oh, what can I do to help you all? Mr. Clifford is at your lodgings, +waiting to see you as soon as you can meet him."</p> + +<p>She did not stay for an answer, but ran to meet Felix and Hilda; while +slowly, and with much guilty shrinking from the coming interview, +Felicita went back to the village, where Mr. Clifford was awaiting her.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> + +<h3>THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN.</h3> + + +<p>Roland Sefton's pocket-book, containing his passport and the papers and +photographs, had reached Mr. Clifford the day before, with an official +intimation of his death from the consulate at Berne. The identification +was complete, and the inquiry into the fatal accident had resulted in +blame to no one, as the traveller had declined the services of a +trustworthy guide from Meirengen to Engelberg. This was precisely what +Roland would have done, the whole country being as familiar to him as to +any native. No doubt crossed Mr. Clifford's mind that his old friend's +son had met his untimely end while a fugitive from his country, from +dread chiefly of his own implacable sense of justice.</p> + +<p>Roland was dead, but justice was not satisfied. Mr. Clifford knew +perfectly well that the news of his tragic fate would create an +immediate and complete reaction in his favor among his fellow-townsmen. +Hitherto he had been only vaguely accused of crime, which his absence +chiefly had tended to fasten upon him; but as there had been no +opportunity of bringing him to public trial, it would soon be believed +that there was no evidence against him. Many persons thought already +that the junior partner was away either on pleasure or business, because +the senior had taken his place. Only a few, himself and the three or +four obscure people who actually suffered from his defalcations, would +recollect them. By and by Roland Sefton would be remembered as the kind, +benevolent, even Christian man, whose life, so soon cut short, had been +full of promise for his native town.</p> + +<p>Mr. Clifford himself felt a pang of regret and sorrow when he heard the +news. Years ago he had loved the frank, warm-hearted boy, his friend's +only child, with a very true affection. He had an only boy, too, older +than Roland by a few years, and these two were to succeed their fathers +in the long-established firm. Then came the bitter disappointment in his +own son. But since he had suffered his son to die in his sins, reaping +the full harvest of his transgressions, he had felt that any forgiveness +shown to other offenders would be a cruel injustice to him. Yet as +Roland's passport and the children's photographs lay before him on his +office desk—the same desk at which Roland was sitting but a few months +ago, a man in the full vigor of life, with an apparently prosperous and +happy future lying before him—Mr. Clifford for a moment or two yielded +to the vain wish that Roland had thrown himself on his mercy. Yet his +conscience told him that he would have refused to show him mercy, and +his regret was mingled with a tinge of remorse.</p> + +<p>His first care was to prevent the intelligence reaching Felicita by +means of the newspapers, and he sent immediately for Phebe Marlowe to +accompany him to the sea-side, in order to break the news to her. +Phebe's excessive grief astonished him, though she had so much natural +control over herself, in her sympathy for others, as to relieve him of +all anxiety on her account, and to keep Felicita's secret journey from +being suspected. But to Phebe, Roland's death was fraught with more +tragic circumstances than any one else could conceive. He was hastening +to meet his wife, possibly with some scheme for their future, which +might have hope and deliverance in it, when this calamity hurried him +away into the awful, unknown world, on whose threshold we are ever +standing. But for her ardent sympathy for Felicita, Phebe would have +been herself overwhelmed. It was the thought of her, with this terrible +and secret addition to her sorrow, which bore her through the long +journey and helped her to meet Felicita with something like calmness.</p> + +<p>From the bay-window of the lodging-house Mr. Clifford watched Felicita +coming slowly and feebly toward the house. So fragile she looked, so +unutterably sorrow-stricken, that a rush of compassion and pity opened +the floodgates of his heart, and suffused his stern eyes with tears. +Doubtless Phebe had told her all. Yet she was coming alone to meet him, +her husband's enemy and persecutor, as if he was a friend. He would be a +friend such as she had never known before. There would be no vain +weeping, no womanish wailing in her; her grief was too deep for that. +And he would respect it; he would spare her all the pain he could. At +this moment, if Roland could have risen from the dead, he would have +clasped him in his arms, and wept upon his neck, as the father welcomed +his prodigal son.</p> + +<p>Felicita did not speak when she entered the room, but looked at him with +a steadfastness in her dark sad eyes which again dimmed his with tears. +Almost fondly he pressed her hands in his, and led her to a chair, and +placed another near enough for him to speak to her in a low and quiet +voice, altogether unlike the awful tones he used in the bank, which made +the clerks quail before him. His hand trembled as he took the little +photographs out of their envelope, so worn and stained, and laid them +before her. She looked at them with tearless eyes, and let them fall +upon her lap as things of little interest.</p> + +<p>"Phebe has told you?" he said pitifully.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she whispered.</p> + +<p>"You did not know before?" he said.</p> + +<p>She shook her head mutely. A long, intricate path of falsehood stretched +before her, from which she could not turn aside, a maze in which she was +already entangled and lost; but her lips were reluctant to utter the +first words of untruth.</p> + +<p>"These were found on him," he continued, pointing to the children's +portraits. "I am afraid we cannot doubt the facts. The description is +like him, and his papers and passport place the identity beyond a +question. But I have dispatched a trusty messenger to Switzerland to +make further inquiries, and ascertain every particular."</p> + +<p>"Will he see him?" asked Felicita with a start of terror.</p> + +<p>"No, my poor girl," said the old banker; "it happened ten days ago, and +he was buried, so they say, almost immediately. But I wish to have a +memorial stone put over his grave, that if any of us, I or you, or the +children, should wish to visit it at some future time, it should not be +past finding."</p> + +<p>He spoke tenderly and sorrowfully, as if he imagined himself standing +beside the grave of his old friend's son, recalling the past and +grieving over it. His own boy was buried in some unknown common <i>fosse</i> +in Paris. Felicita looked up at him with her strange, steady, searching +gaze.</p> + +<p>"You have forgiven him?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered; "men always forgive the dead."</p> + +<p>"Oh, Roland! Roland!" she cried, wringing her hands for an instant. +Then, resuming her composure, she gazed quietly into his pitiful face +again.</p> + +<p>"It is kind of you to think of his grave," she said; "but I shall never +go there, nor shall the children go, if I can help it."</p> + +<p>"Hush!" he answered imperatively. "You, then, have not forgiven him? Yet +I forgive him, who have lost most."</p> + +<p>"You!" she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of passion. "You have lost +a few thousand pounds; but what have I lost? My faith and trust in +goodness; my husband's love and care. I have lost him, the father of my +children, my home—nay, even myself. I am no longer what I thought I +was. That is what Roland robs me of; and you say it is more for you to +forgive than for me!"</p> + +<p>He had never seen her thus moved and vehement, and he shrank a little +from it, as most men shrink from any unusual exhibition of emotion. +Though she had not wept, he was afraid now of a scene, and hastened to +speak of another subject.</p> + +<p>"Well, well," he said soothingly, "that is all true, no doubt. Poor +Roland! But I am your husband's executor and the children's guardian, +conjointly with yourself. It will be proved immediately, and I shall +take charge of your affairs."</p> + +<p>"I thought," she answered, in a hesitating manner, "that there was +nothing left, that we were ruined and had nothing. Why did Roland take +your bonds if he had money? Why did he defraud other people? There +cannot be any money coming to me and the children, and why should the +will be proved?"</p> + +<p>"My dear girl," he said, "you know nothing about affairs. Your uncle, +Lord Riversford, would never have allowed Roland to marry you without a +settlement, and a good one too. His death was the best thing for you. It +saves you from poverty and dependence, as well as from disgrace. I +hardly know yet how matters stand, but you will have little less than a +thousand a year. You need not trouble yourself about these matters; +leave them to me and Lord Riversford. He called upon me yesterday, as +soon as he heard the sad news, and we arranged everything."</p> + +<p>Felicita did not hear his words distinctly, though her brain caught +their meaning vaguely. She was picturing herself free from poverty, +surrounded with most of her accustomed luxuries, and shielded from every +hardship, while Roland was homeless and penniless, cast upon his own +resources to earn his daily bread and a shelter for every night, with +nothing but a poor handicraft to support him. She had not expected this +contrast in their lot. Poverty had seemed to lie before her also. But +now how often would his image start up before her as she had seen him +last, gaunt and haggard, with rough hair and blistered skin serving him +as a mask, clad in coarse clothing, already worn and ragged, not at rest +in the grave, as every one but herself believed him, but dragging out a +miserable and sordid existence year by year, with no hopes for the +future, and no happy memories of the past!</p> + +<p>"Mr. Clifford," she said, when the sound of his voice humming in her +ears had ceased, "I shall not take one farthing of any money settled +upon me by my husband. I have no right to it. Let it go to pay the sums +he appropriated. I will maintain myself and my children."</p> + +<p>"You cannot do it," he replied; "you do not know what you are talking +about. The money is settled upon your children; all that belongs to you +is the yearly income from it."</p> + +<p>"That, at least, I will never touch," she said earnestly; "it shall be +set aside to repay those just claims. When all those are paid I will +take it, but not before. Yours is the largest, and I will take means to +find out the others. With my mother's two hundred a year and what I earn +myself, we shall keep the children. Lord Riversford has no control over +me. I am a woman, and I will act for myself."</p> + +<p>"You cannot do it," he repeated; "you have no notion of what you are +undertaking to do. Mrs. Sefton, my dear young lady, I am come, with Lord +Riversford's sanction, to ask you to return to your home again, to +Madame's old home—your children's birth-place. I think, and Lord +Riversford thinks, you should come back, and bring up Felix to take his +grandfather's and father's place."</p> + +<p>"His father's place!" interrupted Felicita. "No, my son shall never +enter into business. I would rather see him a common soldier or sailor, +or day-laborer, earning his bread by any honest toil. He shall have no +traffic in money, such as his father had; he shall have no such +temptations. Whatever my son is, he shall never be a banker."</p> + +<p>"Good heavens, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Clifford. Felicita's stony quietude +was gone, and in its place was such a passionate energy as he had never +witnessed before in any woman.</p> + +<p>"It was money that tempted Roland to defraud you and dishonor himself," +she said; "it drove poor Acton to commit suicide, and it hardened your +heart against your friend's son. Felix shall be free from it. He shall +earn his bread and his place in the world in some other way, and till he +can do that I will earn it for him. Every shilling I spend from +henceforth shall be clean, the fruit of my own hands, not Roland's—not +his, whether he be alive or dead."</p> + +<p>Before Mr. Clifford could answer, the door was flung open, and Felix, +breathless with rapid running, rushed into the room and flung himself +into his mother's arms. No words could come at first; but he drew long +and terrible sobs. The boy's upturned face was pale, and his eyes, +tearless as her own had been, were fastened in an agony upon hers. She +could not soothe or comfort him, for she knew his grief was wasted on a +falsehood; but she looked down on her son's face with a feeling of +terror.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my father! my beloved father!" he sobbed at last. "Is he dead, +mother? You never told me anything that wasn't true. He can't be dead, +though Phebe says so. Is it true, mother?"</p> + +<p>Felicita bent her head till it rested on the boy's uplifted face. His +sobs shook her, and the close clasp of his arms was painful; but she +neither spoke nor moved. She heard Phebe coming in, and knew that +Roland's mother was there, and Hilda came to clasp her little arms about +her as Felix was doing. But her heart had gone back to the moment when +Roland had knelt beside her in the quiet little church, and she had said +to him deliberately, "I choose your death." He was dead to her.</p> + +<p>"Is it true, mother?" wailed Felix. "Oh, tell me it isn't true!"</p> + +<p>"It is true," she answered. But the long, tense strain had been too much +for her strength, and she sank fainting on the ground.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> + +<h3>AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER.</h3> + + +<p>It was all in vain that Mr. Clifford tried to turn Felicita from her +resolution. Phebe cordially upheld her, and gave her courage to persist +against all arguments. Both of them cared little for poverty—Phebe +because she knew it, Felicita because she did not know it. Felicita had +never known a time when money had to be considered; it had come to her +pretty much in the same way as the air she breathed and the food she +ate, without any care or prevision of her own. Phebe, on the other hand, +knew that she could earn her own living at any time by the work of her +strong young arms, and her wants were so few that they could easily be +supplied.</p> + +<p>It was decided before Phebe went home again, and decided in the face of +Mr. Clifford's opposition, that a small house should be taken in London, +and partly furnished from the old house at Riversborough, where Felicita +would be in closer and easier communication with the publishers. Mr. +Clifford laughed to himself at the idea that she could gain a +maintenance by literature, as all the literary people he had ever met or +heard of bewailed their poverty. But there was Madame's little income of +two hundred a year: that formed a basis, not altogether an insecure or +despicable one. It would pay more than the rent, with the rates and +taxes.</p> + +<p>The yearly income from Felicita's marriage settlement, which no +representations could persuade her to touch, was to go to the gradual +repayment of Roland's debts, the poorest men being paid first, and Mr. +Clifford, who reluctantly consented to the scheme, to receive his the +last. Though Madame had never believed in her son's guilt, her just and +simple soul was satisfied and set at rest by this arrangement. She had +not been able to blame him, but it had been a heavy burden to her to +think of others suffering loss through him. It was then almost with +cheerfulness that she set herself to keep house for her daughter-in-law +and her grand-children under such widely different circumstances.</p> + +<p>Before Christmas a house was found for them in Cheyne Walk. The Chelsea +Embankment was not then thought of, and the streets leading to it, like +those now lying behind it, were mean and crowded. It was a narrow house, +with rooms so small that when the massive furniture from their old house +was set up in it there was no space for moving about freely. Madame had +known only two houses—the old straggling, picturesque country manse in +the Jura, with its walnut-trees shading the windows, and tossing up +their branches now and then to give glimpses of snow-mountains on the +horizon, and her husband's pleasant and luxurious house at +Riversborough, with every comfort that could be devised gathered into +it. There was the river certainly flowing past this new habitation, and +bearing on its full and rapid tide a constantly shifting panorama of +boats, of which the children never tired, and from Felicita's window +there was a fair reach of the river in view, while from the dormer +windows of the attic above, where Felix slept, there was a still wider +prospect. But in the close back room, which Madame allotted to herself +and Hilda, there was only a view of back streets and slums, with sights +and sounds which filled her with dismay and disgust.</p> + +<p>But Madame made the best of the woeful change. The deep, quiet love she +had given to her son she transferred to Felicita, who, she well knew, +had been his idol. She believed that the sorrows of these last few +months had not sprung out of the ground, but had for some reason come +down from God, the God of her fathers, in whom she put her trust. Her +son had been called away by Him; but three were left, her daughter and +her grand-children, and she could do nothing better in life than devote +herself to them.</p> + +<p>But to Felicita her new life was like walking barefoot on a path of +thorns. Until now she had been so sheltered and guarded, kept from the +wind blowing too roughly upon her, that every hour brought a sharp +pin-prick to her. To have no carriage at her command, no maid to wait +upon, her—not even a skilful servant to discharge ordinary household +duties well and quickly—to live in a little room where she felt as if +she could hardly breathe, to hear every sound through the walls, to have +the smell of cooking pervade the house—these and numberless similar +discomforts made her initiation into her new sphere a series of +surprises and disappointments.</p> + +<p>But she must bestir herself if even this small amount of comfort and +well-being were to be kept up. Madame's income would not maintain their +household even on its present humble footing. Felicita's first book had +done well; it had been fairly reviewed by some papers, and flatteringly +reviewed by other critics who had known the late Lord Riversford. On the +whole it had been a good success, and her name was no longer quite +unknown. Her publishers were willing to take another book as soon as it +could be ready: they did more, they condescended to ask for it. But the +£50 they had paid for the first, though it had seemed a sufficient sum +to her when regarded from the stand-point of a woman surrounded by every +luxury, and able to spend the whole of it on some trinket, looked small +enough—too small—as the result of many weeks of labor, by which she +and her children were to be fed. If her work was worth no more than +that, she must write at least six such books in the year, and every +year! Felicita's heart sank at the thought!</p> + +<p>There seemed to be only one resource, since one of her publishers had +offered an advance of £10 only, saying they were doing very well for +her, and running a risk themselves. She must take her manuscript and +offer it as so much merchandise from house to house, selling it to the +best bidder. This was against all her instincts as an author, and if she +had remained a wealthy woman she would not have borne it. She was too +true and original an artist not to feel how sacred a thing earnest and +truthful work like hers was. She loved it, and did it conscientiously. +She would not let it go out of her hands disgraced with blunders. Her +thoughts were like children to her, not to be sent out into the world +ragged and uncouth, exposed to just ridicule and to shame.</p> + +<p>Felicita and Madame set out on their search after a liberal publisher on +a gloomy day in January. For the first time in her life Felicita found +herself in an omnibus, with her feet buried in damp straw, and strange +fellow-passengers crushing against her. In no part of London do the +omnibuses bear comparison with the well-appointed carriages rich people +are accustomed to; and this one, besides other discomforts, was crowded +till there was barely room to move hand or foot.</p> + +<p>"It is very cheap," said Madame cheerfully after she had paid the fare +when they were set down in Trafalgar Square "and not so very +inconvenient."</p> + +<p>A fog filled the air and shrouded all the surrounding buildings in dull +obscurity; while the fountains, rising and falling with an odd and +ghostly movement as of gigantic living creatures, were seen dimly white +in the midst of the gray gloom. The ceaseless stream of hurrying +passers-by lost itself in darkness only a few paces from them. The +chimes of unseen belfries and the roll of carriages visible only for a +few seconds fell upon their ears. Felicita, in the secret excitement of +her mood, felt herself in some impossible world, some phantasmagoria of +a dream, which must presently disperse, and she would find herself at +home again, in her quiet, dainty study at Riversborough, where most of +the manuscript, which she held so closely in her hand, had been written. +But the dream was dispelled when she found herself entering the +publishing-house she had fixed upon as her first scene of venture. It +was a quiet place, with two or three clerks busily engaged in some +private conversation, too interesting to be abruptly terminated by the +entrance of two ladies dressed in mourning, one of whom carried a roll +of manuscript. If Felicita had been wise the manuscript would not have +been there to betray her. It made it exceedingly difficult for her to +obtain admission to the publisher, in his private room beyond; and it +was only when she turned away to go, with a sudden outflashing of +aristocratic haughtiness, that the clerk reluctantly offered to take her +card and a message to his employer.</p> + +<p>In a few moments Felicita was entering the dark den where the fate of +her book was in the balance. Unfortunately for her she presented too +close a resemblance to the well-known type of a distressed author. Her +deep mourning, the thick veil almost concealing her face; a straw +clinging to the hem of her dress and telling too plainly of +omnibus-riding; her somewhat sad and agitated voice; Madame's widow's +cap, and unpretending demeanor—all were against her chances of +attention. The publisher, who had risen from his desk, did not invite +them to be seated. He glanced at Felicita's card, which bore the simple +inscription, "Mrs. Sefton."</p> + +<p>"You know my name?" she asked, faltering a little before his keen-eyed, +shrewd, business-like observation. He shook his head slightly.</p> + +<p>"I am the writer of a book called 'Haughmond Towers,'" she added, +"published by Messrs. Price and Gould. It came out last May."</p> + +<p>"I never heard of it," he answered solemnly. Felicita felt as if he had +struck her. This was an unaccountable thing; he was a publisher, and she +an author; yet he had never heard of her book. It was impossible that +she had understood him, and she spoke again eagerly.</p> + +<p>"It was noticed in all the reviews," she said, "and my publishers +assured me it was quite a success. I could send you the reviews of it."</p> + +<p>"Pray do not trouble yourself," he answered; "I do not doubt it in the +least. But there are hundreds of books published every season, and it is +impossible for one head, even a publisher's, to retain all the titles +and the names of the authors."</p> + +<p>"But I hope mine was not like hundreds of others," remarked Felicita.</p> + +<p>"Every author hopes so," he said; "and besides the mass that is printed, +somehow, at some one's expense, there are hundreds of manuscripts +submitted to us. Pardon me, but may I ask if you write for amusement or +for remuneration."</p> + +<p>"For my living," she replied, with a sorrowful inflection of her voice +which alarmed the publisher. How often had he faced a widowed mother +and her daughter, in mourning so deep as to suggest the recentness of +their loss. There was a slight movement of his hand, unperceived by +either of them, and a brisk rap was heard on the door behind them.</p> + +<p>"In a moment," he said, looking over their heads. "I am afraid," he went +on, "if I asked you to leave your manuscript on approbation, it might be +months before our readers could look at it. We have scores, if not +hundreds, waiting."</p> + +<p>"Could you recommend any publisher to me?" asked Felicita.</p> + +<p>"Why not go again to Price and Gould?" he inquired.</p> + +<p>"I must get more money than they pay me," she answered ingenuously.</p> + +<p>The publisher shrugged his shoulders. If her manuscript had contained +Milton's "Paradise Lost" or Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield," such an +admission would have swamped it. There is no fate swift enough for an +unknown author who asks for more money than that which a publisher's +sense of justice awards to him.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry I can do nothing for you," he said, "but my time is very +precious. Good-morning—No thanks, I beg. It would be a pleasure, I am +sure, if I could do anything."</p> + +<p>Felicita's heart sank very low as she turned into the dismal street and +trod the muddy pavement. A few illusions shrivelled up that wintry +morning under that murky sky. The name she was so fearful of staining; +the name she had fondly imagined as noised from mouth to mouth; the name +for which she had demanded so great a sacrifice, and had sacrificed so +much herself, was not known in those circles where she might most have +expected to find it a passport to attention and esteem. It had travelled +very little indeed beyond the narrow sphere of Riversborough.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> + +<h3>A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF.</h3> + + +<p>The winter fogs which made London so gloomy did not leave the country +sky clear and bright. All the land lay under a shroud of mist and vapor; +and even on the uplands round old Marlowe's little farmstead the heavens +were gray and cold, and the wide prospect shut out by a curtain of dim +clouds.</p> + +<p>The rude natural tracks leading over the moor to the farm became almost +impassable. The thatched roof was sodden with damp, and the deep eaves +shed off the water with the sound of a perpetual dropping. Behind the +house the dark, storm-beaten, distorted firs, and the solitary yew-tree +blown all to one side, grew black with the damp. The isolation of the +little dwelling-place was as complete as if a flood had covered the face +of the earth, leaving its two inmates the sole survivors of the human +race.</p> + +<p>Several months had passed since old Marlowe had executed his last piece +of finished work. The blow that Rowland Sefton's dishonesty had +inflicted upon him had paralyzed his heart—that most miserable of all +kinds of paralysis. He could still go about, handle his tools, set his +thin old fingers to work; but as soon as he had put a few marks upon his +block of oak his heart died with him, and he threw down his useless +tools with a sob as bitter as ever broke from an old man's lips.</p> + +<p>There was no relief for him, as for other men, in speech easily, perhaps +hastily uttered, in companionship with his fellows. Any solace of this +kind was too difficult and too deliberate for him to seek it in writing +his lamentations on a slate or spelling them off on his fingers, but his +grief and anger struck inward more deeply.</p> + +<p>Phebe saw his sorrow, and would have cheered him if she could; but she, +too, was sorely stricken, and she was young. She tried to set him an +example of diligent work, and placed her easel beside his carving, +painting as long as the gray and fleeting daylight permitted. Now and +then she attempted to sing some of her old merry songs, knowing that his +watchful eyes would see the movement of her lips; but though her lips +moved, her face was sad and her heart heavy. Sometimes, too, she forgot +all about her, and fell into an absorbed reverie, brooding over the +past, until a sob or half-articulate cry from her father aroused her. +These outcries of his troubled her more than any other change in him. He +had been altogether mute in the former tranquil and placid days, +satisfied to talk with her in silent signs; but there was something in +his mind to express now which quiet and dumb signs could not convey. At +intervals, both by day and night, her affection for him was tortured by +these hoarse and stifled cries of grief mingled with rage.</p> + +<p>There was a certain sense of the duties of citizenship in old Marlowe's +mind which very few women, certainly not a girl as young as Phebe, could +have shared. Many years ago the elder Sefton had perceived that the +companionless man was groping vaguely after many a dim thought, +political and social, which few men of his class would have been +troubled with. He had given to him several books, which old Marlowe had +pondered over. Now he felt that, quite apart from his own personal +ground of resentment, he had done wrong to the laws of his country by +aiding an offender of them to escape and elude the just penalty. He felt +almost a contempt for Roland Sefton that he had not remained to bear the +consequences of his crime.</p> + +<p>The news of Roland's death brought something like satisfaction to his +mind; there was a chill, dejected sense of justice having been done. He +had not prospered in his crime. Though he had eluded man's judgment, yet +vengeance had not suffered him to live. There was no relenting toward +him, as there was in Mr. Clifford's mind. Something like the old heathen +conception of a divine righteousness in this arbitrary punishment of the +evil-doer gave him a transient content. He did not object therefore to +Phebe's hasty visit to Mrs. Sefton at the sea-side, in order to break +the news to her. The inward satisfaction he felt sustained him, and he +even set about a piece of work long since begun, a hawk swooping down +upon his prey.</p> + +<p>The evening on which Phebe reached home again he was more like his +former self. He asked her many questions about the sea, which he had +never seen, and told her what he had been doing while she was away. An +old, well-thumbed translation of Plato's Dialogues was lying on the +carved dresser behind him, in which he had been reading every night. +Instead of the Bible, he said.</p> + +<p>"It was him, Mr. Roland, that gave it to me," he continued; "and listen +to what I read last night: 'Those who have committed crimes, great yet +not unpardonable, they are plunged into Tartarus, where they go who +betray their friends for money, the pains of which they undergo for a +year. But at the end of the year they come forth again to a lake, over +which the souls of the dead are taken to be judged. And then they lift +up their voices, and call upon the souls of them they have wronged to +have pity upon them, and to forgive them, and let them come out of their +prison. And if they prevail they come forth, and cease from their +troubles; but if not they are carried back again into Tartarus, until +they obtain mercy of them whom they have wronged.' But it seems as if +they have to wait until them they have wronged are dead themselves."</p> + +<p>The brown, crooked fingers ceased spelling out the solemn words, and +Phebe lifted up her eyes from them to her father's face. She noticed for +the first time how sunken and sallow it was, and how dimly and wearily +his eyes looked out from under their shaggy eyebrows. She buried her +face in her hands, and broke down into a passion of tears. The vivid +picture her father's quotation brought before her mind filled it with +horror and grief that passed all words.</p> + +<p>The wind was wailing round the house with a ceaseless moan of pain, in +which she could almost distinguish the tones of a human voice lamenting +its lost and wretched fate. The cry rose and fell, and passed on, and +came back again, muttering and calling, but never dying away +altogether. It sounded to her like the cry of a belated wanderer calling +for help. She rose hastily and opened the cottage door, as if she could +hear Roland Sefton's voice through the darkness and the distance. But he +was dead, and had been in his grave for many days already. Was she to +hear that lost, forlorn cry ringing in her ears forever? Oh, if she +could but have known something of him between that night, when he walked +beside her through the dark deserted roads, pouring out his whole +sorrowful soul to her, and the hour when in the darkness again he had +strayed from his path, and been swallowed up of death! Was it true that +he had gone down into that great gulf of secrecy and silence, without a +word of comfort spoken, or a ray of light shed upon its profound +mystery?</p> + +<p>The cold wind blew in through the open door, and she shut it again, +going back to her low chair on the hearth. Through her blinding tears +she saw her father's brown hands stretched out to her, and the withered +fingers speaking eagerly.</p> + +<p>"I shall be there before long," he said; "he will not have to wait very +long for me. And if you bid me I will forgive him at once. I cannot bear +to see your tears. Tell me: must I forgive him? I will do anything, if +you will look up at me again and smile."</p> + +<p>It was a strange smile that gleamed through Phebe's tears, but she had +never heard an appeal like this from her dumb father without responding +to it.</p> + +<p>"Must I forgive him?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"'If ye forgive men their trespasses,'" she answered, "'your heavenly +Father will also forgive yours; but if ye forgive not men their +trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive yours.' It was our +Lord Jesus Christ who said that, not your old Socrates, father."</p> + +<p>"It is a hard saying," he replied.</p> + +<p>"I don't think so," she said; "it was what Jesus Christ was doing every +day he lived."</p> + +<p>From that time old Marlowe did not mention Roland Sefton again, or his +sin against him.</p> + +<p>As the dark stormy days passed on he sometimes put a touch or two to the +outstretched wings of his swooping hawk, but it did not get on fast. +With a pathetic clinging to Phebe he seldom let her stay long out of his +sight, but followed her about like a child, or sat on the hearth +watching her as she went about her house-work. Only by those unconscious +sobs and outcries, inaudible to himself, did he betray the grief that +was gnawing at his heart. Very often did Phebe put aside her work, and +standing before him ask such questions as the following on her swiftly +moving fingers.</p> + +<p>"Don't you believe in God, our Father in heaven, the Father Almighty, +who made us?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he would reply by a nod.</p> + +<p>"And in Jesus Christ, His Son, our Lord, who lived, and died for us, and +rose again?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," was the silent, emphatic answer.</p> + +<p>"And yet you grieve and fret over the loss of money!" she would say, +with a wistful smile on her young face.</p> + +<p>"You are a child; you know nothing," he replied.</p> + +<p>For without a sigh the old man was going forward consciously to meet +death. Every morning when the dawn awoke him he felt weaker as he rose +from his bed; every day his sight was dimmer and his hand less steady; +every night the steep flight of stairs seemed steeper, and he ascended +them feebly by his hands as well as feet. He could not bring himself to +write upon his slate or to spell out upon his fingers the dread words, +"I am dying;" and Phebe was not old or experienced enough to read the +signs of an approaching death. That her father should be taken away from +her never crossed her thoughts.</p> + +<p>It was the vague, mournful prospect of soon leaving her alone in the +wide world that made his loss loom more largely and persistently before +the dumb old man's mind. Certainly he believed all that Phebe said to +him. God loved her, cared for her, ordered her life; yet he, her father, +could not reconcile himself to the idea of her being left penniless and +friendless in the cold and cruel world. He could have left her more +peacefully in God's hands if she had those six hundred pounds of his +earnings to inherit.</p> + +<p>The sad winter wore slowly away. Now and then the table-land around them +put on its white familiar livery of snow, and old Marlowe's dim eyes +gazed at it through his lattice window, recollecting the winters of long +years ago, when neither snow nor storm came amiss to him. But the slight +sprinkling soon melted away, and the dun-colored fog and cloudy curtain +shut them in again, cutting them off from the rest of the world as if +their little dwelling was the ark stranded on the hill's summit amid a +waste of water.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> + +<h3>PLATO AND PAUL.</h3> + + +<p>Phebe's nearest neighbor, except the farm-laborer who did an occasional +day's labor for her father, was Mrs. Nixey, the tenant of a farmhouse, +which lay at the head of a valley running up into the range of hills. +Mrs. Nixey had given as much supervision to Phebe's motherless childhood +as her father had permitted, in his jealous determination to be +everything to his little daughter. Of late years, ever since old Marlowe +in the triumph of making an investment had communicated that important +fact to her on his slate, she had indulged in a day-dream of her own, +which had filled her head for hours while sitting beside her kitchen +fire busily knitting long worsted stockings for her son Simon.</p> + +<p>Simon was thirty years of age, and it was high time she found a wife +for him. Who could be better than Phebe, who had grown up under her own +eyes, a good, strong, industrious girl, with six hundred pounds and +Upfold Farm for her fortune? As she brooded over this idea, a second +thought grew out of it. How convenient it would be if she herself +married the dumb old father, and retired to the little farmstead, +changing places with Phebe, her daughter-in-law. She would still be near +enough to come down to her son's house at harvest-time and pig-killing, +and when the milk was abundant and cheese and butter to make. And the +little house on the hills was built with walls a yard thick, and well +lined with good oak wainscoting; she could keep it warm for herself and +the old man. The scheme had as much interest and charm for her as if she +had been a peeress looking out for an eligible alliance for her son.</p> + +<p>But it had always proved difficult to take the first steps toward so +delicate a negotiation. She was not a ready writer; and even if she had +been, Mrs. Nixey felt that it would be almost impossible to write her +day-dream in bold and plain words upon old Marlowe's slate. If Marlowe +was deaf, Phebe was singularly blind and dull. Simon Nixey had played +with her when she was a child, but it had been always as a big, grown-up +boy, doing man's work; and it was only of late that she had realized +that he was not almost an old man. For the last year or two he had +lingered at the church door to walk home with her and her father, but +she had thought little of it. He was their nearest neighbor, and made +himself useful in giving her father hints about his little farm, besides +sparing his laborer to do them an occasional day's work. It seemed +perfectly natural that he should walk home with them across the moors +from their distant parish church.</p> + +<p>But as soon as the roads were passable Mrs. Nixey made her way up to the +solitary farmstead. The last time she had seen old Marlowe he had been +ailing, yet she was quite unprepared for the rapid change that had +passed over him. He was cowering in the chimney-corner, his face yellow +and shrivelled, and his eyes, once blue as Phebe's own, sunken in their +sockets, and glowering dimly at her, with the strange intensity of gaze +in the deaf and dumb. There was a little oak table before him, with his +copy of Plato's Dialogues and a black leather Bible that had belonged to +his forefathers, lying upon it; but both of them were closed, and he +looked drowsy and listless.</p> + +<p>"Good sakes! Phebe," cried Mrs. Nixey, "whatever ails thy father? He +looks more like dust and ashes than a livin' man. Hast thou sent for no +physic for him?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't know he was ill," answered Phebe. "Father always feels the +winter long and trying. He'll be all right when the spring comes."</p> + +<p>"I'll ask him what's the matter with him," said Mrs. Nixey, drawing his +slate to her, and writing in the boldest letters she could form, as if +his deafness made it needful to write large.</p> + +<p>"What's the matter?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Nothing, save old age," he answered in his small, neat hand-writing. +There was a gentle smile on his face as he pushed the slate under the +eyes of Mrs. Nixey and Phebe. He had sometimes thought he must tell +Phebe he would not be long with her, but his hands refused to convey +such sad warnings to his young daughter. He had put it off from day to +day, though he was not sorry now to give some slight hint of his fears.</p> + +<p>"Old! he's no older nor me," said Mrs. Nixey. "A pretty thing it'ud be +if folks gave up at sixty or so. There's another ten years' work in +you," she wrote on the slate.</p> + +<p>"Ten years' work." How earnestly he wished it was true! He might still +earn a little fortune for Phebe; for he was known all through the +county, and beyond, and could get a good price for his carving. He +stretched out his hand and took down his unfinished work, looking +longingly at it.</p> + +<p>Phebe's fingers were moving fast, so fast that he could not follow them. +Of late he had been unable to seize the meaning of those swift, glancing +finger-tips. He had reached the stage of a man who can no longer catch +the lower tones of a familiar voice, and has to guess at the words thus +spoken. If he lived long enough to lose his sight he would be cut off +from all communion with the outer world, even with his daughter.</p> + +<p>"Come close to me, and speak more slowly," he said to her. "I am growing +old and dark. Yet I am only sixty, and my father lived to be over +seventy. I was over forty when you were born. It was a sunny day, and I +kept away from the house, in the shed, till I saw Mrs. Nixey there +beckoning to me. And when I came in the house here she laid you in my +arms. God was very good to me that day."</p> + +<p>"He is always good," answered Phebe.</p> + +<p>"So the parson teaches us," he continued; "but it was very hard for me +to lose that money. It struck me a dreadful blow, Phebe. If I'd been +twenty years younger I could have borne it; but when a man's turned +sixty there's no chance. And he robbed me of more than money: he robbed +me of love. I loved him next to you."</p> + +<p>She knew that so well that she did not answer him. Her love for Roland +Sefton lived still; but it was altogether changed from the bright, +girlish admiration and trustful confidence it had once been. His +conduct had altered life itself to her; it was colder and darker, with +deeper and longer shadows in it. And now there was coming the darkest +shadow of all.</p> + +<p>"Read this," he said, opening the "Phædo," and pointing to some words +with his crooked and trembling finger. She stooped her head till her +soft cheek rested against his with a caressing and soothing touch.</p> + +<p>"I go to die, you to live; but which is best God alone can know," she +read. Her arm stole round his neck, and her cheek was pressed more +closely against his. Mrs. Nixey's hard face softened a little as she +looked at them; but she could not help thinking of the new turn affairs +were taking. If old Marlowe died, it might be more convenient, on the +whole, than for her to marry him. How snugly she could live up here, +with a cow or two, and a little maid from the workhouse to be her +companion and drudge!</p> + +<p>Quite unconscious of Mrs. Nixey's plans, Phebe had drawn the old black +leather Bible toward her, turning over the stained and yellow leaves +with one hand, for she would not withdraw her arm from her father's +neck. She did not know exactly where to find the words she wanted; but +at last she came upon them. The gray shaggy locks of the old man and the +rippling glossy waves of Phebe's brown hair mingled as they bent their +heads again over the same page.</p> + +<p>"For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die +unto the Lord: whether we live therefore or die, we are the Lord's. For +to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be +Lord both of the dead and the living."</p> + +<p>"That is better than your old Socrates," said Phebe, with tears in her +eyes and a faint smile playing about her lips. "Our Lord has gone on +before us, through life and death. There is nothing we can have to bear +that He has not borne."</p> + +<p>"He never had to leave a young girl like you alone in the world," +answered her father.</p> + +<p>For a moment Phebe's fingers were still, and old Marlowe looked up at +her like one who has gained a miserable victory over a messenger of glad +tidings.</p> + +<p>"But He had to leave His mother, who was growing old, when the sword had +pierced through her very soul," answered Phebe. "That was a hard thing +to do."</p> + +<p>The old man nodded, and his withered hands folded over each other on the +open page before him. Mrs. Nixey, who could understand nothing of their +silent speech, was staring at them inquisitively, as if trying to +discover what they said by the expression of their faces.</p> + +<p>"Ask thy father if he's made his will," she said. "I've heard say as +land canno' go to a woman if there's no will; and it'ud niver do for +Upfold to go to a far-away stranger. May be he reckons on all he has +goin' to you quite natural. But there's law agen' it; the agent told me +so years ago. I niver heard of any relations thy father had, but they'll +find what's called an heir-at-law, take my word for it, if he doesn't +leave iver a will."</p> + +<p>But, instead of answering, Phebe rushed past her up the steep, dark +staircase, and Mrs. Nixey heard her sobbing and crying in the little +room above. It was quite natural, thought the hard old woman, with a +momentary feeling of pity for the lonely girl; but it was necessary to +make sure of Upfold Farm, and she drew old Marlowe's slate to her, and +wrote on it, very distinctly, "Has thee made thy will?"</p> + +<p>The dejected, miserable expression came back to his face, as his +thoughts were recalled to the loss he had sustained, and he nodded his +answer to Mrs. Nixey.</p> + +<p>"And left all to Phebe?" she wrote again.</p> + +<p>Again he nodded. It was all right so far, and Mrs. Nixey felt glad she +had made sure of the ground. The little farm was worth £15 a year, and +old Marlowe himself had once told her that his money brought him in £36 +yearly, without a stroke of work on his part. How money could be gained +in this way, with simply leaving it alone, she could not understand. But +here was Phebe Marlowe with £50 a year for her fortune: a chance not to +be lost by her son Simon. She hesitated for a few minutes, listening to +the soft low sobs overhead, but her sense of judicious forestalling of +the future prevailed over her sympathy with the troubled girl.</p> + +<p>"Phebe'll be very lonesome," she wrote, and old Marlowe looked sadly +into her face with his sunken eyes. There was no need to nod assent to +her words.</p> + +<p>"I've been like a mother to her," wrote Mrs. Nixey, and she rubbed both +the sentences off the slate with her pocket-handkerchief, and sat +pondering over the wording of her next communication. It was difficult +and embarrassing, this mode of intercourse on a subject which even she +felt to be delicate. How much easier it would have been if old Marlowe +could hear and speak like other men! He watched her closely as she wrote +word after word and rubbed them out again, unable to satisfy herself. At +last he stretched out his hand and seized the slate, just as she was +again about to rub out the sentence.</p> + +<p>"Our Simon'd marry her to-morrow," was written upon it.</p> + +<p>Old Marlowe sat looking at the words without raising his eyes or making +any sign. He had never seen the man yet worthy of being the husband of +his daughter, and Simon Nixey was not much to his mind. Still, he was a +kind-hearted man, and well-to-do for his station; he kept a servant to +wait on his mother, and he would do no less for his wife. Phebe would +not be left desolate if she could make up her mind to marry him. But +with a deep instinctive jealousy, born of his absolute separation from +his kind, he could not bear the thought of sharing her love with any +one. She must continue to be all his own for the little time he had to +live.</p> + +<p>"If Phebe likes to marry him when I'm gone, I've no objection," he +wrote, and then, with a feeling of irritation and bitterness, he rubbed +out the words with the palm of his hand and turned his back upon Mrs. +Nixey.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> + +<h3>A REJECTED SUITOR.</h3> + + +<p>All the next day Phebe remained very near to her father, leaving her +house-work and painting to sit beside him on the low chair he had carved +for her when she was a child. For the first time she noticed how slowly +he caught her meaning when she spoke to him, and how he himself was +forgetting how to express his thoughts on his fingers. The time might +come when he could no longer hold any intercourse with her or she with +him. There was unutterable sadness in this new dread.</p> + +<p>"You used to laugh and sing," he said, "but you never do it now: never +since he robbed me. He robbed me of that too. I'm a poor, helpless, deaf +old man; and God never let me hear my child's voice. He used to tell me +it was sweet and pleasant to hear; and your laugh made every one merry +who heard it. But I could see you laugh, and now I never see it."</p> + +<p>She could not laugh now, and her smile was sadder than tears; so she +bent down her head and laid it against his knee where he could not see +her face. By and by he touched her, and she lifted up her tear-dimmed +eyes to his fingers.</p> + +<p>"Promise me," he said, "not to sell this old place. It has belonged to +the Marlowes from generation to generation. Who can tell but the dead +come back to the place where they've lived so long? If you can, keep it +for my sake."</p> + +<p>"I promise it," she answered. "I will never sell it."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I shall lose my power to speak to you," he went on, "but don't +you fret as if I did not forgive him as robbed me. He learnt to talk on +his fingers for my sake, and I'll say 'God bless him' for your sake. If +we meet one another in the next world I'll forgive him freely, and if +need be I'll ask pardon for him. Phebe, I do forgive him."</p> + +<p>As he spoke there was a brighter light in his sunken eyes, and a smile +on his face such as she had not seen since the day he had helped Roland +Sefton to escape. She took both of his hands into hers and kissed them +fondly. But by and by, though it was yet clear day, he crept feebly +up-stairs to his dark little loft under the thatched roof, and lay down +on the bed where his father and grandfather had died before him.</p> + +<p>At first he was able to talk a little in short, brief sentences; but +very soon that which he had dreaded came upon him. His fingers grew too +stiff to form the signs, and his eyes too dim to discern even the +slowest movement of her dear hands. There was now no communication +between them but that of touch, and he could not bear to miss the gentle +clasp of Phebe's hand. When she moved away from him he tossed wearily +from side to side, groping restlessly with his thin fingers. In utter +silence and darkness, but hand to hand with her, he at last passed away.</p> + +<p>The next few days was a strange and bewildering time to Phebe. +Neighbors were coming and going, and taking the arrangements for the +funeral into their own hands, with little reference to her. The +clergyman of the parish, who lived three miles off, rode over the hills +to hold a solemn interview with her. Mrs. Nixey would not leave her +alone, and if she could have had her way would have carried her off to +her own house. But this Phebe would not submit to; except the two nights +she had been away when she went to the sea-side to break the news of +Roland's death to Felicita and her mother, she had never been absent for +a night from home. Why should she be afraid of that quiet, still form, +which even in death was dearer to her than any other upon earth?</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Nixey walked beside her, next the coffin, when the small +funeral procession wound its way slowly over the uplands to the country +churchyard, where the deaf and dumb old wood-carver was laid in a grave +beside his wife. It was almost impossible to shake her off on their +return, but Phebe could bear companionship no longer. She must walk +back alone along the familiar fields, where the green corn was springing +among the furrows, and under the brown hedgerows where all the buds were +swelling, to the open moor lying clear and barren in an unbroken plain +before her. How often had she walked along these narrow sheep-tracks +with her father pacing on in front, speechless, but so full of silent +sympathy with her that words were not missed between them. Their little +homestead lay like an island in a sea of heather and fern, with no other +dwelling in sight; but, oh, how empty and desolate it seemed!</p> + +<p>The old house-dog crept up quietly to her, and whined softly; and the +cow, as she went into the shed to milk her, turned and licked her hand +gently, as if these dumb creatures knew her sorrow. There were some +evening tasks to be performed, for the laborer, who had been to the +funeral, was staying in the village with the other men who had helped to +carry her father's coffin, to rest themselves and have some refreshment +in the little inn there. She lingered over each duty with a dreary sense +of the emptiness of the house haunting her, and of the silence of the +hearth where all the long evening must be spent alone.</p> + +<p>It was late in February, and though the fern and heather and gorse were +not yet in bud, there was a purple tinge upon the moor fore-telling the +quickly coming spring. The birds that had been silent all winter were +chirping under the eaves, or fluttered up from the causeway where she +had been scattering corn, at the sound of her footsteps across the +little farm-yard. The sun, near its setting, was shining across the +uplands, and throwing long shadows from every low bush and brake. Phebe +mounted the old horse-block by the garden wicket, and looked around her, +shading her eyes with her hands. The soft west wind, blowing over many +miles of moor and meadows and kissing her cheek, seemed like the touch +of a dear old friend, and the thin gray cloud overhead appeared only as +a slight veil scarcely hiding a beloved face. It would not have startled +her if she had seen her father come to the door, beckoning to her with +his quiet smile, or if she had caught sight of Roland Sefton crossing +the moor, with his swift, strong stride, and his face all aglow with +the delight of his mountain ramble.</p> + +<p>"But they are both dead," she said to herself. "If only Mr. Roland had +been living in Riversborough he would have told me what to do."</p> + +<p>She was too young to connect her father's death in any way with Roland +Sefton's crime. They two were the dearest persons in the world to her; +and both were now gone into the mysterious darkness of the next world, +meeting there perhaps with all earthly discords forgiven and forgotten +more perfectly than they could have been here. She remembered how her +father's dull, joyless face used to brighten when Roland was talking to +him—talking with slow, unaccustomed fingers, which the dumb man would +watch intently, and catch the meaning of the phrase before it was half +finished, flashing back an eager answer by signs and changeful +expression of his features. There would be no need of signs and gestures +where they had gone. Her father, perhaps, was speaking to him now.</p> + +<p>Phebe had passed into a reverie, as full of pleasure as of pain, and +she fancied she heard her father's voice—that voice which she had never +heard. She started, and awoke herself. It was growing dusk, and she was +faint with hunger and fatigue. The wintry sun had sunk some time since +behind the brow of the hill, leaving only a few faint lines of clouds +running across a clear amber light. She stepped down from the +horse-block reluctantly, and with slow steps loitered up the garden-path +to the deserted cottage.</p> + +<p>It might have been better, she thought, if she had let Mrs. Nixey come +home with her; but, oh, how tired she was of her aimless chatter, which +seemed to din the ear and drive away all quiet thought from the heart. +She had been very weary of all the fuss that had made a Babel of the +little homestead since her father's death. But now she was absolutely +alone, the loneliness seemed awful.</p> + +<p>It was quite dark before the fire burned up and threw its flickering +light over her old home. She sat down on the hearth opposite her +father's empty chair, in her own place—the place which had been hers +ever since she could remember. How long would it be hers? She knew that +one volume of her life was ended and closed; the new volume was all +hidden from her. She was not afraid of opening it, for there was a fund +of courage and hope in her nature of which she did not know all the +wealth. There was also the simple trust of a child in the goodness of +God.</p> + +<p>She had finished her tea and was sitting apparently idle, with her hands +lying on her lap, when a sudden knock at the door startled and almost +frightened her. Until this moment she had never thought of the +loneliness of the house as possessing any element of danger; but now she +turned her eyes to the uncurtained window, through which she had been so +plainly visible, and wished that she had taken the precaution of putting +the bar on the door. It was too late, for the latch was already lifted, +and she had scarcely time to say with a tremulous voice, "Come in."</p> + +<p>"It's me—Simon Nixey," said a loud, familiar voice, as the door opened +and the tall ungainly figure of the farmer filled up the doorway. He +had been at her father's funeral, and was still in his Sunday suit, +standing sheepishly within the door and stroking the mourning-band round +his hat, as he gazed at her with a shamefaced expression, altogether +unlike the bluntness of his usual manner.</p> + +<p>"Is there anything the matter, Mr. Nixey?" asked Phebe. "Have you time +to take a seat?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, ay! I'll sit down," he answered, stepping forward readily and +settling himself down in her father's chair, in spite of her hasty +movement to prevent it. "Mother thought as you'd be lonesome," he +continued; "her and me've been talking of nothing else but you all +evening. And mother said your heart'ud be sore and tender to-night, and +more likely to take to comfort. And I'd my best clothes on, and couldn't +go to fodder up, so I said I'd step up here and see if you was as +lonesome as we thought. You looked pretty lonesome through the window. +You wouldn't mind me staying a half hour or so?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," said Phebe simply; "you're kindly welcome."</p> + +<p>"That's what I'd like to be always," he went on, "and there's a deal +about me to make me welcome, come to think on it. Our house is a good +one, and the buildings they're all good; and I got the first prize for +my pigs at the last show, and the second prize for my bull the show +before that. Nobody can call me a poor farmer. You recollect painting my +prize-bull for me, don't you, Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"To be sure I do," she answered.</p> + +<p>"Ay! and mother shook like a leaf when I told her you'd gone into his +shed, and him not tied up. 'Never you mind, mother,' I says, 'there's +neither man nor beast'ud hurt little Phebe.' You'd enjoy painting my +prize-pigs, I know; and there'd be plenty o' time. Wouldn't you now?"</p> + +<p>"Very much," she said, "if I have time."</p> + +<p>"That's something to look forward to," he continued. "I'm always +thinking what you'd like to paint, and make a picture of. I should like +to be painted myself, and mother; and there'll be plenty o' time. For +I'm not a man to see you overdone with work, Phebe. I've been thinking +about it for the last five year, ever since you were a pretty young +lass of fifteen. 'She'll be a good girl,' mother said, 'and if old +Marlowe dies before you're wed, Simon, you'd best marry Phebe.' I've put +it off, Phebe, over and over again, when there's been girls only waiting +the asking; and now I'm glad I can bring you comfort. There's a home all +ready for you, with cows and poultry for you to manage and get the good +of, for mother always has the butter money and the egg money, and you'll +have it now. And there's stores of linen, mother says, and everything +that any farmer's wife could desire."</p> + +<p>Phebe laughed, a low, gentle, musical laugh, which had surprise in it, +but no derision. The sight of the gaunt embarrassed man opposite to her, +his face burning red, and his clumsy hands twisting and untwisting as he +uttered his persuasive sentences, drove her sadness away for the moment. +Her pleasant, surprised laugh made him laugh too.</p> + +<p>"Ay! mother was right; she always is," said Nixey, rubbing his great +hands gleefully. "'There'll be scores of lads after her,' says mother, +'for old Marlowe has piles o' money in Sefton's Old Bank, everybody +knows that.' But, Phebe, there aren't a many houses like mine for you to +step right into. I'm glad I came to bring you comfort to-night."</p> + +<p>"But father lost all his money in the Old Bank nine months ago," +answered Phebe.</p> + +<p>"Lost all his money!" repeated Nixey slowly and emphatically. There was +a deep silence in the little house, while he gazed at her with open +mouth and astonished eyes. Phebe had covered her face with her hands, +forgetting him and everything else in the recollection of that bitter +sorrow of hers nine months ago; worse than her sorrow now. Nixey spoke +again after a few minutes, in a husky and melancholy voice.</p> + +<p>"It shan't make no difference, Phebe," he said; "I came to bring you +comfort, and I'll not take it away again. There they all are for you, +linen and pigs, and cows and poultry. I don't mind a straw what +mother'ill say. Only you wipe away those tears and laugh again, my +pretty dear. Look up at Simon and laugh again."</p> + +<p>"It's very good of you," she answered, looking up into his face with +her blue eyes simply and frankly, "and I shall never forget it. But I +could not marry you. I could not marry anybody."</p> + +<p>"But you must," he said imperiously; "a pretty young girl like you can't +live alone here in this lonesome place. Mother says it wouldn't be +decent or safe. You'll want a home, and it had best be mine. Come, now. +You'll never have a better offer if you've lost all your money. But your +land lies nighest to my farm, and it's worth more to me than anybody +else. It wouldn't be a bad bargain for me, Phebe; and I've waited five +years for you besides. If you'll only say yes, I'll go down and face +mother, and have it out with her at once."</p> + +<p>But Phebe could not be brought to say yes, though Nixey used every +argument and persuasion he could think. He went away at last, in +dudgeon, leaving her alone, but not so sad as before. The new volume of +her life had already been opened.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> + +<h3>ANOTHER OFFER.</h3> + + +<p>The next day Phebe locked up her house and rode down to Riversborough. +As she descended into the valley and the open plain beyond her +sorrowfulness fell away from her. Her social instincts were strong, and +she delighted in companionship and in the help she could render to any +fellow-creature. If she overtook a boy trudging reluctantly to school +she would dismount from her rough pony and give him a ride; or if she +met with a woman carrying a heavy load, she took the burden from her, +and let her pony saunter slowly along, while she listened to the homely +gossip of the neighborhood. Phebe was a great favorite along these +roads, which she had traversed every week during summer to attend +Riversborough market for the last eight years. Her spirits rose as she +rode along, receiving many a kindly word, and more invitations to spend +a little while in different houses than she could have accepted if she +had been willing to give twelve months to visiting. It was market-day at +Riversborough, and the greetings there were still more numerous, and, if +possible, more kindly. Everybody had a word for Phebe Marlowe; +especially to-day, when her pretty black dress told of the loss she had +suffered.</p> + +<p>She made her way to Whitefriars Road. The Old Bank was not so full as it +had formerly been, for immediately after the panic last May a new bank +had been opened more in the centre of the town, and a good many of the +tradesmen and farmers had transferred their accounts to it. The outer +office was fairly busy, but Phebe had not long to wait before being +summoned to see Mr. Clifford. The muscles of his stern and careworn +features relaxed into something approaching a smile as she entered, and +he caught sight of her sweet and frank young face.</p> + +<p>"Sit down, Phebe," he said. "I did not hear of your loss before +yesterday; and I was just about to send for you to see your father's +will. It is in our strong room. You are not one-and-twenty yet?"</p> + +<p>"Not till next December, sir," she replied.</p> + +<p>"Roland Sefton is the only executor appointed," he continued, his face +contracting for an instant, as if some painful memory flashed across +him; "and, since he is dead, I succeed to the charge as his executor. +You will be my ward, Phebe, till you are of age."</p> + +<p>"Will it be much trouble, sir?" she asked anxiously.</p> + +<p>"None at all," he answered; "I hope it will be a pleasure; for, Phebe, +it will not be fit for you to live alone at Upfold Farm; and I wish you +to come here—to make your home with me till you are of age. It would be +a great pleasure to me, and I would take care you should have every +opportunity for self-improvement. I know you are not a fine young lady, +my dear, but you are sensible, modest, and sweet-tempered, and we should +get on well together. If you were happy with me I should regard you as +my adopted daughter, and provide accordingly for you. Think of it for a +few minutes while I look over these letters. Perhaps I seem a grim and +surly old man to you; but I am not naturally so. You would never +disappoint me."</p> + +<p>He turned away to his desk, and appeared to occupy himself with his +letters, but he did not take in a single line of them. He had set his +heart once more on the hope of winning love and gratitude from some +young wayfarer on life's rough road, whose path he could make smooth and +bright. He had been bitterly disappointed in his own son and his +friend's son. But if this simple, unspoiled, little country maiden would +leave her future life in his keeping, how easy and how happy it should +be!</p> + +<p>"It's very good of you," said Phebe, in a trembling voice; "and I'm not +afraid of you, Mr. Clifford, not in the least; but I could not keep from +fretting in this house. Oh, I loved them so, every one of them; but Mr. +Roland most of all. No one was ever so good to me as he was. If it +hadn't been for him I should have learned nothing, and father himself +would have been a dull, ignorant man. Mr. Roland learnt to talk to +father, and nobody else could talk with him but me. I used to think it +was as much like our Lord Jesus Christ as anything any one could do. Mr. +Roland could not open father's ears, but he learned how to talk to him, +to make him less lonely. That was the kindest thing any one on earth +could do."</p> + +<p>"Do you believe Mr. Roland was innocent?" asked Mr. Clifford.</p> + +<p>"I know he was guilty," answered Phebe sadly. "He told me all about it +himself, and I saw his sorrow. Before that he always seemed to me more +like what I think Jesus Christ was than any one else. He could never +think of himself while there were other people to care for. And I know," +she went on, with simple sagacity, "that it was not Mr. Roland's sin +that fretted father, but the loss of the money. If he had made six +hundred pounds by using it without his consent, and said, 'Here, +Marlowe, are twelve hundred pounds for you instead of six; I did not put +your money up as you wanted, but used it instead;' why, father would +have praised him up to the skies, and could never have been grateful +enough."</p> + +<p>Mr. Clifford's conscience smote him as he listened to Phebe's unworldly +comment on Roland Sefton's conduct. If Roland had met him with the +announcement of a gain of ten thousand pounds by a lucky though +unauthorized speculation, he knew very well his own feeling would have +been utterly different from that with which he had heard of the loss of +ten thousand pounds. The world itself would have cried out against him +if he had prosecuted a man by whose disregard of the laws he had gained +so large a profit. Was it, then, a simple love of justice that had +actuated him? Yet the breach of trust would have been the same.</p> + +<p>"But if you will not come to live with me, my dear," he said, "what do +you propose to do? You cannot live alone in your old home."</p> + +<p>"May I tell you what I should like to do?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Certainly," he answered. "I am bound to know it."</p> + +<p>"Those two who are dead," she said, "thought so much of my painting. +Mr. Roland was always wishing I could go to a school of art, and father +said when he was gone he should wish it too. But now we have lost our +money, the next best thing will be for me to go to live as servant to +some great artist, where I could see something of painting till I've +saved enough money to go to school. I can let Upfold Farm for fifteen +pounds a year to Simon Nixey, so I shall soon have money enough. I +promised father I would never sell our farm, that has belonged to +Marlowes ever since it was inclosed from the common. And if I go to +London, I shall be near Madame and the children, and Mrs. Roland +Sefton."</p> + +<p>The color had come back to Phebe's face, and her voice was steady and +musical again. There was a clear, frank shining in her blue eyes, +looking so pleasantly into his, that Mr. Clifford sighed regretfully as +he thought of his solitary and friendless life—self-chosen partly, but +growing more dreary as old age, with its infirmities, crept on.</p> + +<p>"No, no; you need not go into service," he said; "there is money enough +of your own to do what you wish with. Mrs. Roland refuses to receive +the income from her marriage settlement till every claim against her +husband is paid off. I shall pay your claim off at the rate of one +hundred a year, or more, if you like. You may have a sum sufficient to +keep you at an art school as long as you need be there."</p> + +<p>"Why, I shall be very rich!" exclaimed Phebe; "and father dreaded I +should be poor."</p> + +<p>"I will run up to London and see what arrangements I can make for you," +he continued. "Perhaps Mrs. Roland Sefton could find a corner for you in +her own house, small as it is, and Madame would make you as welcome as a +daughter. You are more of a daughter to her than Felicita. Only I must +make a bargain, that you and the children come down often to see me here +in the old house. I should have grown very fond of you, Phebe; and then +you would have married some man whom I detested, and disappointed me +bitterly again. It is best as it is, I suppose. But if you will change +your mind now, and stay with me as my adopted daughter, I'll run the +risk."</p> + +<p>"If it was anywhere else!" she answered with a wistful look into his +face, "but not here. If Mrs. Roland Sefton could find room for me I'd +rather live with them than anywhere else in the world. Only don't think +I'm ungrateful because I can't stay here."</p> + +<p>"No, no, Phebe," he replied; "it was for my own sake I asked it. As you +grow older, child, you'll find out that the secret root of nine tenths +of the benevolence you see is selfishness."</p> + +<p>Six weeks later all the arrangements for Phebe leaving her old home and +entering upon an utterly new life were completed. Simon Nixey, after +vainly urging her to accept himself, and to give herself and her little +farm and her restored fortune to him, offered to become her tenant at +£10 a year for the land, leaving the cottage uninhabited; for Phebe +could not bear the idea of any farm laborer and his family dwelling in +it, and destroying or injuring the curious carvings with which her +father had lined its walls. The spot was far out of the way of tramps +and wandering vagabonds, and there was no danger of damage being done +to it by the neighbors. Mrs. Nixey undertook to see that it was kept +from damp and dirt, promising to have a fire lighted there occasionally, +and Simon would see to the thatch being kept in repair, on condition +that Phebe would come herself once a year to receive her rent, and see +how the place was cared for. There was but a forlorn hope in Mrs. +Nixey's heart that Phebe would ever have Simon now she was going to +London; but it might possibly come about in the long run if he met with +no girl to accept him with as much fortune.</p> + +<p>Before leaving Upfold Farm Phebe received the following letter from +Felicita:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Phebe</span>: I shall be very glad to have you under my +roof. I believe I see in you a freshness and truthfulness of nature +on which I can rely for sympathy. I have always felt a sincere +regard for you, but of late I have learned to love you, and to +think of you as my friend. I love you next to my children. Let me +be a friend to you. Your pursuits will interest me, and you must +let me share them as your friend.</p> + +<p>"But one favor I must ask. Never mention my husband's name to me. +Madame will feel solace in talking of him, but the very sound of his +name is intolerable to me. It is my fault; but spare me. You are the +dearer to me because you love him, and because he prized your +affections so highly; but he must never be mentioned, if possible +not thought of, in my presence. If you think of him I shall feel it, +and be wounded. I say this before you come that you may spare me as +much pain as you can.</p> + +<p>"This is the only thing I dread. Otherwise your coming to us would +be the happiest thing that has befallen me for the last year.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Yours faithfully,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Felicita."<br /></span> +</div></div> +</div> + +<p>If Felicita was glad to have her, Phebe knew that Madame and the +children would be enraptured. Nor had she judged wrongly. Madame +received her as if she had been a favorite child, whose presence was the +very comfort and help she stood most in need of. Though she devoted +herself to Felicita, there was a distance between them, an impenetrable +reserve, that chilled her spirits and threw her love back upon herself. +But to Phebe she could pour out her heart unrestrainedly, dwelling upon +the memory of her lost son, and mourning openly for him. And Phebe never +spoke a word that could lead Roland's mother to think she believed him +to be guilty. With a loving tact she avoided all discussion on that +point; and, though again and again the pang of her own loss made itself +poignantly felt, she knew how to pour consolation into the heart of +Roland's mother.</p> + +<p>But to Felix and Hilda Phebe's companionship was an endless delight. She +came from her lonely homestead on the hills into the full stream of +London life, and it had a ceaseless interest for her. She could not grow +weary of the streets with their crowd of passers-by; and the shop +windows filled with wealth and curiosities fascinated her. All the stir +and tumult were joyous to her, and the faces she met as she walked along +the pavement possessed an unceasing influence over her. The love of +humanity, scarcely called into existence before, developed rapidly in +her. Felix and Hilda shared in her childish pleasure without +understanding the deep springs from which it came.</p> + +<p>It was an education in itself for the children. A drive in an omnibus, +with its frequent stoppages and its constant change of passengers, was +delightful to Phebe, and never lost its charm for her. She and the +children explored London, seeing all its sights, which Phebe, in her +rustic curiosity, wished to see. From west to east, from north to south, +they became acquainted with the great capital as few children, rich or +poor, have a chance of doing. They sought out all its public buildings, +every museum and picture gallery, the birthplaces of its famous men, the +places where they died, and their tombs if they were within London. +Westminster Abbey was as familiar to them as their own home. It seemed +as if Phebe was compensating herself for her lonely girlhood on the +barren and solitary uplands. Yet it was not simply sight-seeing, but the +outcome of an intelligent and genuine curiosity, which was only +satisfied by understanding all she could about the things and places she +saw.</p> + +<p>To the children, as well as to Madame, she often talked of Roland +Sefton. Felix loved nothing more than to listen to her recollections of +his lost father, who had so strangely disappeared out of his life. On a +Sunday evening when, of course, their wanderings were over, she would +sit with them in summer by the attic window, which, overlooked the +river, and in winter by the fireside, recounting again and again all she +knew of him, especially of how good he always was to her. There were a +vividness and vivacity in all she said of him which charmed their +imagination and kept the memory of him alive in their hearts. Phebe gave +dramatic effect to her stories of him. Hilda could scarcely remember +him, though she believed she did; but to Felix he remained the tall, +handsome, kindly father, who was his ideal of all a man should be; while +Phebe, perhaps unconsciously, portrayed him as all that was great and +good.</p> + +<p>For neither Madame nor Phebe could find it in their hearts to tell the +boy, so proud and fond of his father's memory, that any suspicion had +ever been attached to his name. Madame, who had mourned so bitterly over +his premature death in her native land, but so far from his own, had +never believed in his guilt; and Phebe, who knew him to be guilty, had +forgiven him with that forgiveness which possesses an almost sacred +forgetfulness. If she had been urged to look back and down into that +dark abyss in which he had been lost to her, she must have owned +reluctantly that he had once done wrong. But it was hard to remember +anything against the dead.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> + +<h3>AT HOME IN LONDON.</h3> + + +<p>Every summer Phebe went down to her own home on the uplands, according +to her promise to the Nixeys. Felix and Hilda always accompanied her, +for a change was necessary for the children, and Felicita seldom cared +to go far from London, and then only to some sea-side resort near at +hand, when Madame always went with her. Every summer Simon Nixey +repeated his offer the first evening of Phebe's residence under her own +roof; for, as Mrs. Nixey said, as long as she was wed to nobody else +there was a chance for him. Though they could see with sharp and envious +eyes the change that was coming over her, transforming her from the +simple, untaught country girl into an educated and self-possessed woman, +marking out her own path in life, yet the sweetness and the frankness +of Phebe's nature remained unchanged.</p> + +<p>"She's growing a notch or two higher every time she comes down," said +Mrs. Nixey regretfully; "she'll be far above thee, lad, next summer."</p> + +<p>"She's only old Dummy's daughter after all," answered Simon; "I'll never +give her up."</p> + +<p>To Phebe they were always old friends, whom she must care for as long as +she lived, however far she might travel from them or rise above them. +The free, homely life on the hills was as dear to her and the children +as their life in London. The little house, with its beautiful and +curious decorations; the small fields and twisted trees surrounding it; +the wide, purple moors, and all the associations Phebe conjured up for +them connected with their father, made the dumb old wood-carver's place +a second home to them.</p> + +<p>The happiest season of the year to Mr. Clifford was that when Phebe and +Roland Sefton's children were in his neighborhood. Felicita remained +firm to her resolution that Felix should have nothing to do with his +father's business, and the boy himself had decided in his very childhood +that he would follow in the footsteps of his ancestor, Felix Merle, the +brave pastor of the Jura. There was no hope of having him to train up +for the Old Bank. But every summer they spent a few days with him, in +the very house where their father had lived, and where Felix could still +associate him with the wainscoted rooms and the terraced garden. When +Felix talked of his father and asked questions about him, Mr. Clifford +always spoke of him in a regretful and affectionate tone. No hint +reached the boy that his father's memory was not revered in his native +town.</p> + +<p>"There is no stone to my father in the church," he said, one Sunday, +after he had been looking again and again at a tablet to his grandfather +on the church walls.</p> + +<p>"No; but I had a granite cross put over his grave in Engelberg," +answered Mr. Clifford; "when you can go to Switzerland you'll have no +trouble in finding it. Perhaps you and I may go there together some day. +I have some thoughts of it."</p> + +<p>"But my mother will not hear a word of any of us ever going to +Switzerland," said Felix. "I've asked her how soon she would think us +old enough to go, and she said never! Of course we don't expect she +would ever bear to go to the place where he was killed; but Phebe would +love to go, and so would I. We've saved enough money, Phebe and I; and +my mother will not let me say one word about it. She says I am never, +never to think of such a thing."</p> + +<p>"She is afraid of losing you as well as him," replied Mr. Clifford; "but +when you are more of a man she will let you go. You are all she has."</p> + +<p>"Except Hilda," said the boy fondly, "and I know she loves me most of +all. I do not wonder she cannot bear to hear about my father. My mother +is not like other women."</p> + +<p>"Your mother is a famous woman," rejoined Mr. Clifford; "you ought to be +proud of her."</p> + +<p>For as years passed on Felicita had attained some portion of her +ambition. In Riversborough it seemed as if she was the first writer of +the age; and though in London she had not won one of those extraordinary +successes which place an author suddenly at the top of the ladder, she +was steadily climbing upward, and was well known for her good and +conscientious work. The books she wrote were clever, though cynical and +captious; yet here and there they contained passages of pathos and +beauty which insured a fair amount of favor. Her work was always welcome +and well paid, so well that she could live comfortably on the income she +made for herself, without falling back on her marriage settlement. +Without an undue strain upon her mental powers she could earn a thousand +a year, which was amply sufficient for her small household.</p> + +<p>Though Roland Sefton had lavished upon his high-born wife all the pomp +and luxury he considered fitting to the position she had left for him, +Felicita's own tastes and habits were simple. Her father, Lord +Riversford, had been but a poor baron with an encumbered estate, and his +only child had been brought up in no extravagant ways. Now that she had +to earn most of the income of the household, for herself she had very +few personal expenses to curtail. Thanks to Madame and Phebe, the house +was kept in exquisite order, saving Felicita the shock of seeing the +rooms she dwelt in dingy and shabby. Excepting the use of a carriage, +there was no luxury that she greatly missed.</p> + +<p>As she became more widely known, Felicita was almost compelled to enter +into society, though she did it reluctantly. Old friends of her +father's, himself a literary man, sought her out; and her cousins from +Riversford insisted upon visiting her and being visited as her +relations. She could not altogether resist their overtures, partly on +account of her children, who, as they grew up, ought not to find +themselves without friends. But she went from home with unwillingness, +and returned to the refuge of her quiet study with alacrity.</p> + +<p>There was only one house where she visited voluntarily. A distant cousin +of hers had married a country clergyman, whose parish was about thirty +miles from London, in the flat, green meadows of Essex. The Pascals had +children the same age as Felix and Hilda; and when they engaged a tutor +for their own boys and girls they proposed to Felicita that her children +should join them. In Mr. Pascal's quiet country parsonage were to be met +some of the clearest and deepest thinkers of the day, who escaped from +the conventionalities of London society to the simple and pleasant +freedom they found there. Mr. Pascal himself was a leading spirit among +them, with an intellect and a heart large and broad enough to find +companionship in every human being who crossed his path. There was no +pleasure in life to Felicita equal to going down for a few days' rest to +this country parsonage.</p> + +<p>That she was still mourning bitterly for the husband, whose name could +never be mentioned to her, all the world believed. It made those who +loved her most feel very tenderly toward her. Though she never put on a +widow's garb she always wore black dresses. The jewels Roland had bought +for her in profusion lay in their cases, and never saw the light. She +could not bring herself to look at them; for she understood better now +the temptation that had assailed and conquered him. She knew that it was +for her chiefly, to gratify an ambition cherished on her account, that +he had fallen into crime.</p> + +<p>"I worship my mother still," said Felix one day to Phebe, "but I feel +more and more awe of her every day. What is it that separates her from +us? It would be different if my father had not died."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it would have been different," answered Phebe, thinking of how +terrible a change it must have made in their young lives if Roland +Sefton had not died. She, too, understood better what his crime had +been, and how the world regarded it; and she thanked God in her secret +soul that Roland was dead, and his wife and children saved from sharing +his punishment. It had all been for the best, sad as it was at the time. +Madame also was comforted, though she had not forgotten her son. It was +the will of God: it was God who had called him, as He would call her +some day. There was no bitterness in her grief, and she did not perplex +her soul with brooding over the impenetrable mystery of death.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> + +<h3>DEAD TO THE WORLD.</h3> + + +<p>In an hospital at Lucerne a peasant had been lying ill for many weeks of +a brain fever, which left him so absolutely helpless that it was +impossible to turn him out into the streets on his recovery from the +fever, as he had no home or friends to go to. When his mind seemed clear +enough to give some account of himself, he was incoherent and bewildered +in the few statements he made. He did not answer to his own name, Jean +Merle; and he appeared incapable of understanding even a simple +question. That his brain had been, perhaps, permanently affected by the +fever was highly probable.</p> + +<p>When at length the authorities of the hospital were obliged to discharge +him, a purse was made up for him, containing enough money to keep him +in his own station for the next three months.</p> + +<p>By this time Jean Merle was no longer confused and unintelligible when +he opened his lips, but he very rarely uttered a word beyond what was +absolutely necessary. He appeared to the physicians attending him to be +bent on recollecting something that had occurred in the past before his +brain gave way. His face was always preoccupied and moody, and scarcely +any sound would catch his ear and make him lift up his head. There must +be mania somewhere, but it could not be discovered.</p> + +<p>"Have you any plans for the future, Merle?" he was asked the day he was +discharged as cured.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Monsieur," he replied; "I am a wood-carver by trade."</p> + +<p>"And where are you going to now?" was the next question.</p> + +<p>"I must go to Engelberg," answered Merle, with a shudder.</p> + +<p>"Ah! to Monsieur Nicodemus; then," said the doctor, "you must be a good +hand at your work to please him, my good fellow."</p> + +<p>"I am a good hand," replied Merle.</p> + +<p>The valley of Engelberg lies high, and is little more than a cleft in +the huge mass of mountains; a narrow gap where storms gather, and bring +themselves into a focus. In the summer thunder-clouds draw together, and +fill up the whole valley, while rain falls in torrents, and the streams +war and rage along their stony channels. But when Jean Merle returned to +it in March, after four months' absence, the valley was covered with +snow stretching up to the summits of the mountains around it, save only +where the rocks were too precipitous for it to lodge.</p> + +<p>He had come back to Engelberg because there was the grave of the +friendless man who bore his former name. It had a fascination for him, +this grave, where he was supposed to be at rest. The handsome granite +cross, bearing only the name of Roland Sefton and the date of his death, +attracted him, and held him by an irresistible spell. At first, in the +strange weakness of his mind, he could hardly believe but that he was +dead, and this inexplicable second life as Jean Merle was an illusion. +It would not have amazed him if he had been invisible and inaudible to +those about him. That which filled him with astonishment and terror was +the fact that the people took him to be what he said he was, a Swiss +peasant, and a wood-carver.</p> + +<p>He had no difficulty in getting work as soon as he had done a piece as a +specimen of his skill. Monsieur Nicodemus recognized a delicate and +cultivated hand, and a faithful delineator of nature. As he acquired +more skill with steady practice he surpassed the master's most dexterous +helper, and bid fair to rival Monsieur Nicodemus himself. But Jean Merle +had no ambition; there was no desire to make himself known, or put his +productions forward. He was content with receiving liberal wages, such +as the master, with the generosity of a true artist, paid to him. But +for the unflagging care he expended upon his work, his fellow-craftsmen +would have thought him indifferent to it.</p> + +<p>For nine months in the year Jean Merle remained in Engelberg, giving +himself no holiday, no leisure, no breathing time. He lived on the +poorest fare, and in the meanest lodging. His clothing was often little +better than rags. His wages brought him no relaxation from toil, or +delivered him from self-chosen wretchedness. Silent and morose, he lived +apart from all his fellows, who regarded him as a half-witted miser.</p> + +<p>When the summer season brought flights of foreign tourists, Merle +disappeared, and was seen no more till autumn. Nobody knew whither he +went, but it was believed he acted as a guide to some of the highest and +most perilous of the Alps. When he came back to his work at the end of +the season, his blackened and swarthy face, from which the skin had +peeled, and his hands wounded and torn as if from scaling jagged cliffs, +bore testimony to these conjectures.</p> + +<p>He never entered the church when mass was performed, or any congregation +assembled; but at rare intervals he might be seen kneeling on the steps +before the high altar, his shaggy head bent down, and his frame shaken +with repressed sobs which no one could hear. The curé had tried to win +his confidence, but had failed. Jean Merle was a heretic.</p> + +<p>When he was spoken to he would speak, but he never addressed himself to +any one. He was not a native-born Swiss, and he did not seek +naturalization, or claim any right in the canton. He did not seek +permission to marry or to build a house, but as he was skilful and +industrious and thrifty, a man in the prime of life, the commune left +him alone.</p> + +<p>He seemed to have taken it as a self-imposed task that he should have +the charge of the granite cross, erected over the man whose death he had +witnessed. He was recognized in Engelberg as the man who had spent the +last hours with the buried Englishman, but no suspicion attached to him. +So careful was he of the monument that it was generally rumored he +received a sum of money yearly for keeping it in order. No doubt the +friends of the rich Englishman, who had erected so handsome a stone to +his memory, made it worth the man's while to attend to it. Besides this +grave, which he could not keep himself from haunting, Engelberg +attracted him by its double association with Felicita. Here he had seen +her for the first and for the last time. There was no other spot in the +world, except the home he had lost forever, so full of memories of her. +He could live over again every instant of each interview with her, with +all the happy interval that lay between them. The rest of his life was +steeped in shadow; the earlier years before he knew Felicita were pale +and dim; the time since he lost her was unreal and empty, like a +confused dream.</p> + +<p>After a while a dull despondency succeeded to the acute misery of his +first winter and summer. His second fraud had been terribly successful; +in a certain measure he was duped by it himself. All the world believed +him to be dead, and he lived as a shadow among shadows. The wild and +solitary ice-peaks he sometimes scaled seemed to him the unsubstantial +phantasmagoria of a troubled sleep. He wondered with a dull amazement if +the crevasses which yawned before him would swallow him up, or the +shuddering violence of an avalanche bury him beneath it. His life had +been as a tale that is told, even to its last word, death.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II"></a>PART II.</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Ia" id="CHAPTER_Ia"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> + +<h3>AFTER MANY YEARS.</h3> + + +<p>The busy, monotonous years ran through their course tranquilly, marked +only by a change of residence from the narrow little house suited to +Felicita's slender means to a larger, more commodious, and more +fashionable dwelling-place in a West End square. Both Felicita and Phebe +had won their share of public favor and a fair measure of fame; and the +new home was chosen partly on account of an artist's studio with a +separate entrance, through which Phebe could go in and out, and admit +her visitors and sitters, in independence of the rest of the household.</p> + +<p>Never once had Felix wavered in his desire to take orders and become a +clergyman, from the time his boyish imagination had been fired by the +stories of his great-grandfather's perils and labors in the Jura. +Felicita had looked coldly on his resolution, having a quiet contempt +for English clergymen, in spite of her friendship for Mr. Pascal, if +friendship it could be called. For each year as it passed over Felicita +left her in a separation from her fellow-creatures, always growing more +chilly and dreary. It seemed to herself as if her lips were even losing +the use of language, and that only with her pen could she find vent in +expression. And these written thoughts of hers, printed and published +for any eye to read, how unutterably empty of all but bitterness she +found them. She almost marvelled at the popularity of her own books. How +could it be that the cynical, scornful pictures she drew of human nature +and human fellowship could be read so eagerly? She felt ashamed of her +children seeing them, lest they should learn to distrust all men's truth +and honor, and she would not suffer a word to be said about them in her +own family.</p> + +<p>But Madame Sefton, in her failing old age, was always ready to +sympathize with Felix, and to help to keep him steady to her own simple +faith; and Phebe was on the same side. These two women, with their +quiet, unquestioning trust in God, and sweet charity toward their +fellow-men, did more for Felix than all the opposing influences of +college life could undo; and when his grandmother's peaceful and happy +death set the last seal on her truthful life, Felix devoted himself with +renewed earnestness to the career he had chosen. To enter the lists in +the battle against darkness, and ignorance, and sin, wherever these foes +were to be met in close quarters, was his ambition; and the enthusiasm +with which he followed it made Felicita smile, yet sigh with unutterable +bitterness as she looked into the midnight gloom of her own soul.</p> + +<p>It became quite plain to Felicita as the years passed by that her son +was no genius. At present there was a freshness and singleness of +purpose about him, which, with the charm of his handsome young face and +the genial simplicity of his manners, made him everywhere a favorite, +and carried him into circles where a graver man and a deeper thinker +could not find entrance; but let twenty years pass by, and Felix, she +said to herself, would be nothing but a commonplace country clergyman, +looking after his glebe lands and riding lazily about his parish, +talking with old women and consulting farmers about his crops and +cattle. She felt disappointed in him; and this disappointment removed +him far away from her. The enchanted circle of her own isolation was +complete.</p> + +<p>The subtle influence of Felicita's dissatisfaction was vaguely felt by +Felix. He had done well at Oxford, and had satisfied his friend and +tutor, Mr. Pascal; but he knew that his mother wished him to make a +great name there, and he had failed to do it. Every day, when he spent a +few minutes in Felicita's library, lined with books which were her only +companions, their conversation grew more and more vapid, unless his +mother gave utterance to some of her sarcastic sayings, which he only +half understood and altogether disliked.</p> + +<p>But in Phebe's studio all was different; he was at home there. Though it +was separate from the house, it had from the first been the favorite +haunt of all the other members of the family. Madame had been wont to +bring her knitting and sit beside Phebe's easel, talking of old times, +and of the dear son she had lost so sorrowfully. Felix had read his +school-boy stories aloud to her whilst she was painting; and Hilda +flitted in and out restlessly, carrying every bit of news she picked up +from her girl friends to Phebe. Even Felicita was used to steal in +silently in the dusk, when no one else was there, and talk in her low +sad voice as she talked to no one else.</p> + +<p>As soon as Felix was old enough, within a few months of Madame's death, +he took orders, and accepted a curacy in a poor and densely populated +London district. It was not much more than two miles from home, but it +was considered advisable that he should take lodgings near his vicar's +church, and dwell in the midst of the people with whom he had to do. The +separation was not so complete as if he had gone into a country parish, +but it brought another blank into the home, which had not yet ceased to +miss the tranquil and quiet presence of the old grandmother.</p> + +<p>"I shall not have to fight with wolves like Felix Merle, my +great-grandfather," said Felix, the evening before he left home, as he +and Phebe were sitting over her studio fire. "I think sometimes I ought +to go out as a missionary to some wild country. Yet there are dangers to +meet here in London, and risks to run; ay! and battles to fight. I shall +have a good fist for drunken men beating helpless women in my parish. I +couldn't stand by and see a woman ill-used without striking a blow, +could I, Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"I hope you'll strike as few blows as you can," she answered, smiling.</p> + +<p>"How could I help standing up for a woman when I think of my mother, and +you, and little Hilda, and her who is gone?" asked Felix.</p> + +<p>"Is there nobody else?" inquired Phebe, with a mischievous tone in her +pleasant voice.</p> + +<p>"When I think of the good women I have known," he answered evasively, +"the sweet true, noble women, I feel my blood boil at the thought of any +man ill-using any woman. Phebe, I can just remember my father speaking +of it with the utmost contempt and anger, with a fire in his eyes and a +sternness in his voice which made me tremble with fear. He was in a +righteous passion; it was the other side of his worship of my mother."</p> + +<p>"He was always kind and tender toward all women," answered Phebe. "All +the Seftons have been like that; they could never be harsh to any woman. +But your father almost worshipped the ground your mother trod upon; +nothing on earth was good enough for her. Look here, my dear boy, I've +been trying to paint a picture for you."</p> + +<p>She lifted up a stretcher which had been turned with the canvas to the +wall, and placed it on her easel in the full light of a shaded lamp. For +a moment she stood between him and it, gazing at it with tears in her +blue eyes. Then she fell back to his side to look at it with him, +clasping his hand in hers, and holding it in a warm, fond grasp.</p> + +<p>It was a portrait of Roland Sefton, painted from her faithful memory, +which had been aided by a photograph taken when he was the same age +Felix was now. Phebe could only see it dimly through her tears, and for +a moment or two both of them were silent.</p> + +<p>"My father?" said Felix, his face flushing and his voice faltering; "is +it like him, Phebe? Yes, yes! I recollect him now; only he looked +happier or merrier than he does there. There is something sad about his +face that I do not remember. What a king he was among men! I'm not +worthy to be the son of such a man and such a woman."</p> + +<p>"No, no; don't say that," she answered eagerly; "you're not as handsome, +or as strong, or as clever as he was; but you may be as good a man—yes, +a better man."</p> + +<p>She spoke with a deep, low sigh that was almost a sob, as the memory of +how she had seen him last—crushed under a weight of sin and flying from +the penalty of crime—flashed across her brain. She knew now why there +had lurked a subtle sadness in the face she had been painting, which she +had not been able to banish.</p> + +<p>"I think," she said, as if speaking to herself, "that the sense of sin +links us to God almost as closely as love does. I never understood Jesus +Christ until I knew something of the wickedness of the world, and the +frailty of our nature at its best. It is when a good man has to cry, +'Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy +sight,' that we feel something of the awful sinfulness of sin."</p> + +<p>"And have you this sense of sin, Phebe?" asked Felix in a low voice. "I +have thought sometimes that you, and my mother, and men like my father +and Mr. Pascal, felt but little of the inward strength of sin. Your +lives stand out so clear and true. If there is a stain upon them it is +so slight, so plainly a defect of the physical nature, that it often +seems to me you do not know what evil is."</p> + +<p>"We all know it," she answered, "and that shadow of sorrow you see in +your father's face must bear witness for him to you that he has passed +through the same conflict you may be fighting. The sins of good men are +greater than the sins of bad men. One lie from a truthful man is more +hurtful than all the lies of a liar. The sins of a man after God's own +heart have done more harm than all the crimes of all the Pagan +emperors."</p> + +<p>"It is true," he said thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"If I told you a falsehood, what would you think of me?"</p> + +<p>"I believe it would almost break my heart if you or my mother told me a +falsehood," he answered.</p> + +<p>"I could not paint this portrait while your grandmother was living," +said Phebe, after a short silence; "I tried it once or twice, but I +could never succeed. See; here is the photograph your father gave me +when I was quite a little girl, because I cried so bitterly at his going +away for a few months on his wedding trip. There were only two taken, +and your mother has the other. They were both very young; he was only +your age, and your mother was not twenty. But Lord Riversford was dead, +and she was not happy with her cousins; and your grandfather, who was +living then, was eager for the match. Everybody said it was a great +match for your father."</p> + +<p>"They were very happy; they were not too young to be married," answered +Felix, with a deep flush on his handsome face. "Why should not people +marry young, if they love one another?"</p> + +<p>"I would ask Canon Pascal that question if I were you," she said, +smiling significantly.</p> + +<p>"I have a good mind to ask him to-night," he replied, stooping down to +kiss Phebe's cheek; "he is at Westminster, and Alice is there too. Bid +me good speed, Phebe."</p> + +<p>"God bless you, my Felix," she whispered.</p> + +<p>He turned abruptly away, though he lingered for a minute or two longer, +gazing at his father's portrait. How like him, and yet how unlike him, +he was in Phebe's eyes! Then, with a gentle pressure of her hand, he +went away in silence; while she took down the painting, and set it again +with its face to the wall, lest Felicita coming in should catch a sight +of it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIa" id="CHAPTER_IIa"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2> + +<h3>CANON PASCAL.</h3> + + +<p>The massive pile of the old Abbey stood darkly against the sky, with not +a glimmer of light shining through its many windows; whilst behind it +the Houses of Parliament, now in full session, glittered from roof to +basement with innumerable lamps. All about them there was the rush and +rattle of busy life, but the Abbey seemed inclosed in a magic circle of +solitude and stillness. Overhead a countless host of little silvery +clouds covered the sky, with fine threads and interspaces of dark blue +lying between them. The moon, pale and bright, seemed to be drifting +slowly among them, sometimes behind them, and faintly veiled by their +light vapor; but more often the little clouds made way for her, and +clustered round, in a circle of vaguely outlined cherub-heads, golden +brown in the halo she shed about her. These child-like angel-heads, +floating over the greater part of the sky, seemed pressing forward, one +behind the other, and hastening into the narrow ring of light, with a +gentle eagerness; and fading softly away as the moon passed by.</p> + +<p>Felix stood still for a minute or two looking up from the dark and +silent front of the Abbey to the silent and silvery clouds above it. +Almost every stone of the venerable old walls was familiar and dear to +him. For Phebe, when she came from the broad, grand solitude of her +native moors, had fixed at once upon the Abbey as the one spot in London +where she could find something of the repose she had been accustomed to +meet with in the sight of the far-stretching horizon, and the unbroken +vault of heaven overarching it. Felicita, too, had attended the +cathedral service every Sunday morning, since she had been wealthy +enough to set up a carriage, which was the first luxury she had allowed +herself. The music, the chants, the dim light of the colored windows, +the long aisle of lofty arches, and the many persistent and dominant +associations taking possession of her memory and imagination, made the +Abbey almost as dear to Felicita as it was through its mysterious and +sacred repose to Phebe.</p> + +<p>Felix had paced along the streets with rapid and headlong haste, but now +he hesitated before turning into Dean's Yard. When he did so, he +sauntered round the inclosure two or three times, wondering in what +words he could best move the Canon, and framing half a dozen speeches in +his mind, which seemed ridiculous to himself when he whispered them half +aloud. At last, with a sudden determination to trust to the inspiration +of the moment, he turned his steps hurriedly into the dark, low arches +of the cloisters.</p> + +<p>But he had not many steps to take. The tall, somewhat stooping figure of +Canon Pascal, so familiar to him, was leaving through one of the +archways, with head upturned to the little field of sky above the +quadrangle, where the moon was to be seen with her attendant clouds. +Felix could read every line in his strongly marked features, and the +deep furrows which lay between his thick brows. The tinge of gray in his +dark hair was visible in the moonlight, or rather the pale gleam caused +all his hair to seem silvery. His eyes were glistening with delight, and +as he heard steps pausing at his side, he turned, and at the sight of +Felix his harsh face melted into almost a womanly smile of greeting.</p> + +<p>"Welcome, my son," he said, in a pleasant and deep voice; "you are just +in time to share this glorious sight with me. Pity 'tis it vanishes so +soon!"</p> + +<p>He clasped Felix's hand with a warm, hearty pressure, such as few hands +know how to give; though it is one of the most tender and most refined +expressions of friendship. Felix grasped his with an unconscious grip +which made Canon Pascal wince, though he said nothing. For a few minutes +the two men stood gazing upward in reverent silence, each brain busy +with its own thoughts.</p> + +<p>"You were coming to see me?" said Canon Pascal at last.</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Felix, in a voice faltering with eager emotion.</p> + +<p>"On some special errand?" pursued Canon Pascal. "Don't let us lose time +in beating about the bush, then. You cannot say anything that will not +be interesting to me, Felix; for I always find a lad like you, and at +your age, has something in his mind worth listening to. What is it, my +son?"</p> + +<p>"I don't want to beat about the bush," stammered Felix, "but oh! if you +only knew how I love Alice! More than words can tell. You've known me +all my life, and Alice has known me. Will you let her be my wife?"</p> + +<p>The smile was gone from Canon Pascal's face. A moment ago, and he, +gazing up at the moon, had been recalling, with a boyish freshness of +heart, the days of his own happy though protracted courtship of the dear +wife, who might be gazing at the same scene from her window in his +country rectory. His face grew almost harsh with its grave +thoughtfulness as his eyes fastened upon the agitated features of the +young man beside him. A fine-looking young fellow, he said to himself; +with a frank, open nature, and a constitution and disposition unspoiled +by the world. He needed nobody to tell him what his old pupil was, for +he knew him as well as he knew his own boys, but he had never thought +of him as any other than a boy. Alice, too, was a child still. This +sudden demand struck him into a mood of silent and serious thought; and +he paced to and fro for a while along the corridor, with Felix equally +silent and serious at his side.</p> + +<p>"You've no idea how much I love her!" Felix at last ventured to say.</p> + +<p>"Hush, my boy!" he answered, with a sharp, imperative tone in his voice. +"I loved Alice's mother before you were born; and I love her more every +day of my life. You children don't know what love means."</p> + +<p>Felix answered by a gesture of protest. Not know what love meant, when +neither day nor night was the thought of Alice absent from his inmost +heart! He had been almost afraid of the vehemence of his own passion, +lest it should prove a hindrance to him in God's service. Canon Pascal +drew his arm affectionately through his and turned back to pace the +cloister once more.</p> + +<p>"I'm trying to think," he said, in a gentler voice, "that Alice is out +of the nursery, and you out of the schoolroom. It is difficult, Felix."</p> + + +<p>"You were present at my ordination last week," exclaimed Felix, in an +aggrieved tone; "the Church, and the Bishop, and you did not think me +too young to take charge of souls. Surely you cannot urge that I am not +old enough to take care of one whom I love better than my own life!"</p> + +<p>Canon Pascal pressed Felix's arm closer to his side.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my boy!" he said, "you will discover that it is easier to commit +unknown souls to anybody's charge, than to give away one's child, body, +soul, and spirit. It is a solemn thing we are talking of; more solemn, +in some respects, than my girl's death. I would rather follow Alice to +the grave than see her enter into a marriage not made for her in +heaven."</p> + +<p>"So would I," answered Felix tremulously.</p> + +<p>"And to make sure that any marriage is made in heaven!" mused the Canon, +speaking as if to himself, with his head sunk in thought. "There's the +grand difficulty! For oh! Felix, my son, it is not love only that is +needed, but wisdom; yes! the highest wisdom, that which cometh down +from above, and is first pure, and then peaceable. For how could Christ +Himself be the husband of the Church, if He was not both the wisdom of +God and the love of God? How could God be the heavenly Father of us all, +if He was not infinite in wisdom? Know you not what Bacon saith; 'To +love and to be wise is not granted unto man?'"</p> + +<p>"I dare not say I am wise," answered Felix, "but surely such love as I +bear to Alice will bring wisdom."</p> + +<p>"And does Alice love you?" asked Canon Pascal.</p> + +<p>"I did not think it right to ask her?" he replied.</p> + +<p>"Then there's some hope still," said the Canon, more joyously; "the +child is scarcely twenty yet. Do not you be in a hurry, my boy. You do +not know what woman is yet; how delicately and tenderly organized; how +full of seeming contradictions and uncertainties, often with a blessed +meaning in them, ah, a heavenly meaning, but hard to be understood and +apprehended by the rougher portion of humanity. Study them a little +longer, Felix; take another year or two before you fix on your life +mistress."</p> + +<p>"You forget how many years I have lived under the same roof as Alice," +replied Felix eagerly, "and how many women I have lived with; my mother, +my grandmother, Phebe, and Hilda. Surely I know more about them than +most men."</p> + +<p>"All good women," he answered, "happy lad! blessed lad, I should rather +say. They have been better to thee than angels. Phebe has been more than +a guardian angel to thee, though thou knowest not all thou owest to her +yet. But a wife, Felix, is different, God knows, from mother, or sister, +or friend. God chooses our kinsfolk for us; but man chooses his own +wife; having free will in that choice on which hangs his own life, and +the lives of others. Yet the wisest of men said, 'Whoso findeth a wife +findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord.' Ay, a good wife +is the token of such loving favor as we know not yet in this world."</p> + +<p>The Canon's voice had fallen into a low and gentle tone, little louder +than a whisper. The dim, obscure light in the cloisters scarcely gave +Felix a chance of seeing the expression of his face; but the young man's +heart beat high with hope.</p> + +<p>"You don't say No to me?" he faltered.</p> + +<p>"How can I say No or Yes?" asked Canon Pascal, almost with an accent of +surprise. "I will talk it over with your mother and Alice's mother; but +the Yes or No must come from Alice herself. What am I that I should +stand between you two and God, if it is His will to bestow His sweet +boon upon you both? Only do not disturb the child, Felix. Leave her +fancy-free a little longer."</p> + +<p>"And you are willing to take me as your son? You do not count me +unworthy?" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"I've boys of my own," he answered, "whose up-growing I've watched from +the day of their birth, and who are precious to me as my own soul; and +you, Felix, come next to them. You've been like another son to me. But I +must see your mother. Who knows what thoughts she may not have for her +only son?"</p> + +<p>"None, none that can come between Alice and me," cried Felix +rapturously. "Father! yes, I shall know again what it is to have a +father."</p> + +<p>A sob rose to his throat as he uttered the word. He seemed to see his +own father again, as he remembered him in his childhood, and as Phebe's +portrait had recalled him vividly to his mind. If he had only lived till +now to witness, and to share in this new happiness! It seemed as if his +early death gathered an additional sadness about it, since he had left +the world while so much joy and gladness had been enfolded in the +future. Even in this first moment of ineffable happiness he promised +himself that he would go and visit his father's foreign grave.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IIIa" id="CHAPTER_IIIa"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> + +<h3>FELICITA'S REFUSAL.</h3> + + +<p>Now there was no longer a doubt weighing upon his spirit, Felix longed +to tell his mother all. The slight cloud that had arisen of late years +between them was so gossamer-like yet, that the faintest breath could +drive it away. Though her boy was not the brilliant genius she had +secretly and fondly hoped he would prove, he was still dearer to +Felicita than ought else on earth or, indeed, in heaven; and her love +for him was deeper than she supposed. On his part he had never lost that +chivalrous tenderness, blended with deferential awe, with which he had +regarded her from his early boyhood. His love for Alice was so utterly +different from his devotion to her, that he had never compared them, and +they had not come into any kind of collision yet.</p> + +<p>Felix sought his mother in her library. Felicita was alone, reading in +the light of a lamp which shed a strong illumination over her. In his +eyes she was incomparably the loveliest woman he had ever seen, not even +excepting Alice; and the stately magnificence of her velvet dress, and +rich lace, and costly jewels, was utterly different from that of any +other woman he knew. For Mrs. Pascal dressed simply, as became the wife +of a country rector; and Phebe, in her studio, always wore a blouse or +apron of brown holland, which suited her well, making her homely and +domestic in appearance as she was in nature. Felicita looked like a +queen in his eyes.</p> + +<p>When she heard his voice speaking to her, having not caught the sound of +his step on the soft carpet, Felicita looked up with a smile in her dark +eyes. In a day or two her son was about to leave her roof, and her heart +felt very soft toward him. She had scarcely realized that he was a man, +until she knew that he had decided to have a place and a dwelling of his +own.</p> + +<p>She stretched out both hands to him, with a gesture of tenderness +peculiar to herself, and shown only to him. It was as if one hand could +not link them closely enough; could not bring them so nearly heart to +heart. Felix took them both into his own, and knelt down before her; his +young face flushed with eagerness, and his eyes, so like her own, +fastened upon hers.</p> + +<p>"Your face speaks for you," she said, pressing one of her rare kisses +upon it. "What is it my boy has to tell me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, mother," he cried, "you will never think I love you less than I +have always done? See, I kiss your feet still as I used to do when I was +a boy."</p> + +<p>He bent his head to caress the little feet, and then laid it on his +mother's lap, while she let her white fingers play with his hair.</p> + +<p>"Why should you love me less than you have always done?" she asked, in a +sweet languid voice. "Have I ever changed toward you, Felix?"</p> + +<p>"No, mother, no," he answered, "but to-night I feel how different I am +from what I was but a year or two ago. I am a man now; I was a boy +then."</p> + +<p>"You will always be a boy to me," she said, with a tender smile.</p> + +<p>"Yet I am as old as my father was when you were married," he replied.</p> + +<p>Felicita's face grew white, and she leaned back in her chair with a +sudden feeling of faintness. It was years since the boy had spoken of +his father; why should he utter his name now? He had raised his head +when he felt her move, and her dim and failing eyes saw his face in a +mist, looking so like his father when she had known him first, that she +shrank from him, with a terror and aversion too deep to be concealed.</p> + +<p>"Roland!" she cried.</p> + +<p>He did not speak or move, being too bewildered and wonderstruck at his +mother's agitation. Felicita hid her face in her white hands, and sat +still recovering herself. The pang had been sudden, and poignant; it had +smitten her so unawares that she had betrayed its anguish. But, she felt +in an instant, her boy had no thought of wounding her; and for her own +sake, as well as his, she must conquer this painful excitement. There +must be no scene to awaken observation or suspicion.</p> + +<p>"Mother, forgive me," he exclaimed, "I did not mean to distress you."</p> + +<p>"No," she breathed with difficulty, "I am sure of it. Go on Felix."</p> + +<p>"I came to tell you," he said gravely, "that as long as I can +remember—at least as long as we have been in London and known the +Pascals—I have loved Alice. Oh, mother, I've thought sometimes you +seemed as fond of her as you are of Hilda. You will be glad to have her +as your daughter?"</p> + +<p>Felicita closed her eyes with a feeling of helpless misery. She could +hardly give a thought to Felix and the words he uttered; yet it was +those words which brought a flood of hidden memories and fears sweeping +over her shrinking soul. It was so long since she had thought much of +Roland! She had persuaded herself that as so many years had passed by +bringing to her no hint or token of his existence, he must be dead; and +as one dead passes presently out of the active thoughts, busy only with +the present, so had her husband passed away from her mind into some dim, +hidden cell of memory, with which she had long ceased to trouble +herself.</p> + +<p>Her husband seemed to stand before her as she had seen him last, a +haggard, way-worn, ruined man, beggared and stripped of all that makes +life desirable. And this was only six months after he had lost all. What +would he be after thirteen years if he was living still?</p> + +<p>But if it had appeared to her out of the question to face and bear the +ignominy and disgrace he had brought upon her thirteen years ago, how +utterly impossible it was now. She could never retrace her steps. To +confess the deception she had herself consented to, and taken part in, +would be to pull down with her own hands the fair edifice of her life. +The very name she had made for herself, and the broader light in which +her fame had placed her, made any repentance impossible. "A city that is +set on a hill cannot be hid." Her hill was not as lofty as she had once +fancied it would be; but still she was not on the low and safer level +of the plain. She was honorably famous. She could not stain her honor by +the acknowledgment of dishonor. The chief question, after all, was +whether Roland was alive or dead.</p> + +<p>Her colorless face and closed eyes, the expression of unutterable +perplexity and anguish in her knitted brows and quivering lips, filled +Felix with wonder and grief. He had risen from his kneeling posture at +her feet, and now his reverential awe of her yielded to the tender +compassion of a man for a weak and suffering woman. He drew her beloved +head on to his breast, and held her in a firm and loving grasp.</p> + +<p>"I would not grieve or pain you for worlds," he said falteringly, "nor +would Alice. I love you better than myself; as much as I love her. We +will talk of it another day, mother."</p> + +<p>She pressed close to him, and he felt her arms strained about him, as if +she could not hold him near enough to her. It seemed to him as if she +was striving to draw him into the very heart of her motherhood; but she +knew how deep the gulf was between her and him, and shuddered at her own +loneliness.</p> + +<p>"It is losing you, my son," she whispered with her quivering lips.</p> + +<p>"No, no," he said eagerly; "it is not losing me, but finding another +child. Don't take a gloomy view of it, mother. I shall be as happy as my +father was with you."</p> + +<p>He could not keep himself from thinking of his father, or of speaking of +him. He understood more perfectly now what his father's worship of his +mother had been; the tenderness of a stronger being toward a weaker one, +blended with the chivalrous homage of a generous nature to the one woman +chosen to represent all womanhood. There was a keener trouble to him +to-night, than ever before, in the thought that his mother was a widow.</p> + +<p>"Leave me now, Felix," she said, loosing him from her close embrace, and +shutting her eyes from the sight of him. "Do not let any one come to me +again to-night. I must be alone."</p> + +<p>But when she was alone it was only to let her thoughts whirl round and +round in one monotonous circle. If Roland was dead, her secret was +safe, and Felix might be happy. If he was not dead, Felix must not marry +Alice Pascal. She had not looked forward to this difficulty. There had +been an unconscious and vague feeling in her heart that her son loved +her too passionately to be easily pleased by any girl; and, almost +unawares to herself, she had been in the habit of comparing her own +attractions and loveliness with those of the younger women who crossed +his path. Yet there was no personal vanity in the calm conviction she +possessed that Felix had never seen a woman more beautiful and +fascinating than the mother he had always admired with so much +enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>She was not jealous of Alice Pascal, she said to herself, and yet her +heart was sore when she said it. Why could not Felix remain simply +constant to her? He was the only being she had ever really loved; and +her love for him was deeper than she had known it to be. Yet to crush +his hopes, to wound him, would be like the bitterness of death to her. +If she could but let him marry his Alice, how much easier it would be +than throwing obstacles in the way of his happiness; obstacles that +would seem but the weak and wilful caprices of a foolish mother.</p> + +<p>When the morning came, and Canon Pascal made his appearance, Felicita +received him in her library, apparently composed, but grave and almost +stern in her manner. They were old friends; but the friendship on his +side was warm and genial, while on hers it was cold and reserved. He +lost no time in beginning on the subject which had brought him to her.</p> + +<p>"My dear Felicita," he said, "Felix tells me he had some talk with you +last night. What do you think of our young people?"</p> + +<p>"What does Alice say?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Alice!" he answered in an amused yet tender tone; "she would be of +one mind with Felix. There is something beautiful in the innocent, +unworldly love of children like these, who are ready to build a nest +under any eaves. Felicita, you do not disapprove of it?"</p> + +<p>"I cannot disapprove of Alice," she replied gloomily; "but I do +disapprove of Felix marrying so young. A man should not marry under +thirty."</p> + +<p>"Thirty!" echoed Canon Pascal; "that would be in seven years. It is a +long time; but if they do not object I should not. I'm in no hurry to +lose my daughter. But they will not wait so long."</p> + +<p>"Do not let them be engaged yet," she said in hurried and sad tones. +"They may see others whom they would love more. Early marriages and long +engagements are both bad. Tell them from me that it is better for them +to be free a while longer, till they know themselves and the world +better. I would rather Felix and Hilda never married. When I see Phebe +so free from all the gnawing cares and anxieties of this life, and so +joyous in her freedom, I wish to heaven I could have had a single life +like hers."</p> + +<p>"Why! Felicita!" he exclaimed; "this is morbid. You have never forgiven +God for taking away your husband. You have been keeping a grudge against +Him all these years of your widowhood."</p> + +<p>"No, no!" she interrupted; "it is not that. They married me too soon, my +uncle and Mr. Sefton. I never loved Roland as I ought. Oh! if I had +loved him, how different my life would have been, and his!"</p> + +<p>Her voice faltered and broke into deep sobs, which cut off all further +speech. For a few minutes Canon Pascal endeavored to reason with her and +comfort her, but in vain. At length he quietly went away and sent Phebe +to her. There could be no more discussion of the subject for the +present.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IVa" id="CHAPTER_IVa"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> + +<h3>TAKING ORDERS.</h3> + + +<p>The darkness that had dwelt so long in the heart of Felicita began now +to cast its gloom over the whole household. A sharp attack of illness, +which followed immediately upon her great and inexplicable agitation, +caused great consternation to her friends, and above all to Felix. The +eminent physician who was called in said her brain had been over-worked, +and she must be kept absolutely free of all worry and anxiety. How +easily is this direction given, and how difficult, how impossible, in +many cases, is it to follow! That any soul, except that of a child, can +be freed from all anxiety, is possible only to the soul that knows and +trusts God.</p> + +<p>All further mention of his love for Alice was out of the question now +for Felix. Bitter as silence was, it was imperative; for while his +mother's objections and prejudices were not overcome, Canon Pascal +would not hear of any closer tie than that which already existed being +formed between the young people. He had, however, the comfort of +believing that Alice had heard so much of what had passed from her +mother, as that she knew he loved her, and had owned his love to her +father. There was a subtle change in her manner toward him; she was more +silent in his presence, and there was a tremulous tone in her voice at +times when she spoke to him, yet she lingered beside him, and listened +more closely to all he had to say; and when they left Westminster to +return to their country rectory the tears glistened in her eyes as they +had never done before when he bade her good-by.</p> + +<p>"Come and see us as soon as it will not vex your mother, my boy," said +Canon Pascal; "you may always think of our home as your own."</p> + +<p>The only person who was not perplexed by Felicita's inexplicable conduct +and her illness, was Phebe Marlowe, who believed that she knew the +cause, and was drawn closer to her in the deepest sympathy and pity. It +seemed to Phebe that Felicita was creating the obstacle, which existed +chiefly in her fancy; and with her usual frankness and directness she +went to Canon Pascal's abode in the Cloisters at Westminster, to tell +him simply what she thought.</p> + +<p>"I want to ask you," she said, with her clear, honest gaze fastened on +his face, "if you know why Mrs. Sefton left Riversborough thirteen years +ago?"</p> + +<p>"Partly," he answered; "my wife is a Riversdale, you know, Felicita's +second or third cousin. There was some painful suspicion attaching to +Roland Sefton."</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Phebe sadly.</p> + +<p>"Was it not quite cleared up?" asked Canon Pascal.</p> + +<p>Phebe shook her head.</p> + +<p>"We heard," he went on, "that it was believed Roland Sefton's +confidential clerk was the actual culprit; and Sefton himself was only +guilty of negligence. Mr. Clifford himself told Lord Riversdale that +Sefton was gone away on a long holiday, and might not be back for +months; and something of the same kind was put forth in a circular +issued from the Old Bank. I had one sent to me; for some little business +of my wife's was in the hands of the firm. I recollect thinking it was +an odd affair, but it passed out of my mind; and the poor fellow's death +quite obliterated all accusing thoughts against him."</p> + +<p>"That is the scruple in Felicita's mind," said Phebe in a sorrowful +tone; "she feels that you ought to know everything before you consent to +Alice marrying Felix, and she cannot bring herself to speak of it."</p> + +<p>"But how morbid that is!" he answered; "as if I did not know Felix, +every thought of him, and every motion of his soul! His father was a +careless, negligent man. He was nothing worse, was he, Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"He was the best friend I ever had," she answered earnestly, though her +face grew pale, and her eyelids drooped, "I owe all I am to him. But it +was not Acton who was guilty. It was Felix and Hilda's father."</p> + +<p>"And Felicita knew it?" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"She knew nothing about it until I told her," answered Phebe. "Roland +Sefton came to me when he was trying to escape out of the country, and +my father and I helped him to get away. He told me all; and oh! he was +not so much to blame as you might think. But he was guilty of the crime; +and if he had been taken he would have been sent to jail. I would have +died then sooner than let him be taken to jail."</p> + +<p>"If I had only known this from the beginning!" said Canon Pascal.</p> + +<p>"What would you have done?" asked Phebe eagerly. "Would you have refused +to take Felix into your home? He has done no wrong. Hilda has done no +wrong. There would have been disgrace and shame for them if their father +had been sent to jail; but his death saved them from all danger of that. +Nobody would ever speak a word against Roland Sefton now. Yet this is +what is preying on Felicita's mind. If she was sure you knew all, and +still consented to Felix marrying Alice, she would be at peace again. +And I too think you ought to know all. But you-will not visit the sins +of the father upon the son——"</p> + +<p>"Divine providence does so," he interrupted; "if the fathers eat sour +grapes the teeth of the sons are set on edge. Phebe, Phebe, that is only +too true."</p> + +<p>"But Roland's death set the children free from the curse," answered +Phebe, weeping. "If he had been taken, they would have gone away to some +foreign land where they were not known; or even if he had not died, we +must have done differently from what we have done. But there is no one +now to bring this condemnation against them. Even old Mr. Clifford has +more than forgiven Roland; and if possible would have the time back +again, that he might act so as to reinstate him in his position. No one +in the world bears a grudge against Roland."</p> + +<p>"I'm not hard-hearted, God knows," he answered, "but no man likes to +give his child to the son of a felon, convicted or unconvicted."</p> + +<p>"Then I have done harm by telling you."</p> + +<p>"No, no; you have done rightly," he replied, "it was good for me to know +the truth. We will let things be for awhile. And yet," he added, his +grave, stern face softening a little, "if it would be good for Felicita, +tell her that I know all, and that after a battle or two with myself, I +am sure to yield. I could not see Alice unhappy; and that lad holds her +heart in his hands. After all, she too must bear her part in the sins of +the world."</p> + +<p>But though Phebe watched for an opportunity for telling Felicita what +she had done, no chance came. If Felicita had been reserved before, she +inclosed herself in almost unbroken silence now. During her illness she +had been on the verge of delirium; and then she had shut her lips with a +stern determination, which even her weak and fevered brain could not +break. She had once begged Phebe, if she grew really delirious, to +dismiss all other attendants, so that no ear but hers might hear her +wanderings; but this emergency had not arisen. And since then she had +sunk more and more into a stern silence.</p> + +<p>Felix had left home, and entered into his lodgings, taking his father's +portrait with him. He was not so far from home but that he either +visited it, or received visitors from it almost every day. His mother's +illness troubled him; or otherwise the change in his life, his first +step in independent manhood, would have been one of great happiness to +him. He did not feel any deep misgivings as to Alice, and the +blessedness of the future with her; and in the mean-time, while he was +waiting, there was his work to do.</p> + +<p>He had taken orders, not from ambition or any hope of worldly gain, +those lay quite apart from the path he had chosen, but from the simple +desire of fighting as best he might against the growing vices and +miseries of civilization. Step for step with the ever-increasing luxury +of the rich he saw marching beside it the gaunt degradation of the poor. +The life of refined self-indulgence in the one class was caricatured by +loathsome self-indulgence in the other. On the one hand he saw, young as +he was, something of the languor and weariness of life of those who have +nothing to do, and from satiety have little to hope or to fear; and on +the other the ignorance and want which deprived both mind and body of +all healthful activity, and in the pressure of utter need left but +little scope for hope or fear. He fancied that such civilization sank +its victims into deeper depths of misery than those of barbarism.</p> + +<p>Before him seemed to lie a huge, weltering mass of slime, a very +quagmire of foulness and miasma, in the depths and darkness of which he +could dimly discern the innumerable coils of a deadly dragon, breathing +forth poison and death into the air, which those beloved of God and +himself must breathe, and crushing in its pestilential folds the bodies +and souls of immortal men. He was one of the young St. Michaels called +by God to give combat to that old serpent, called the Devil and Satan, +which was deceiving the old world.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Va" id="CHAPTER_Va"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> + +<h3>A LONDON CURACY.</h3> + + +<p>The district on which his vicar directed Felix to concentrate his +efforts was by no means a neglected one. It was rather suffering from +the multitude of laborers, who had chosen it as their part of the great +vineyard. Lying close to a wealthy and fashionable neighborhood, it had +long been a kind of pleasure-ground, or park for hunting sinners in, to +the charitable and religious inhabitants of the comfortable dwellings +standing within a stone's throw of the wretched streets. There was +interest and excitement to be found there for their own unoccupied time, +and a pleasant glow of approbation for their consciences. Every +denomination had a mission there; and the mission-halls stood thickly on +the ground. There were Bible-women, nurses, city missionaries, tract +distributors at work; mothers' meetings were held; classes of all sorts +were open; infirmaries and medical mission-rooms were established; and +coffee-rooms were to be found in nearly every street. Each body of +Christians acted as if there were no other workers in the field; each +was striving to hunt souls into its own special fold; and each +distributed its funds as if no money but theirs was being laid out for +the welfare of the poor district. Hence there were greater pauperism and +more complete poverty than in many a neglected quarter of the East End, +with all its untold misery. Spirit-vaults flourished; the low +lodging-houses were crowded to excess; rents rose rapidly; and the +narrow ill lighted streets swarmed with riff-raff after nightfall, when +the greater part of the wealthy district-visitors were spending their +evening hours in their comfortable homes, satisfied with their day's +work for the Lord.</p> + +<p>But Felix began his work in the evenings, when the few decent working +men, who still continued to live in the Brickfields, had come home from +their day's toil, and the throng of professional beggars and thieves, +who found themselves in good quarters there, poured in from their day's +prowling. It was well for him that he had an athletic and muscular +frame, well-knitted together, and strengthened by exercise, for many a +time he had to force his way out of houses, where he found himself +surrounded by a crew of half-drunken and dangerous men. Presently they +got to know and respect him both for his strength and forbearance, which +he exercised with good temper and generosity. He could give a blow, as +well as take one, when it was necessary. At one time his absence from +church was compulsory, because he had received a black eye when +defending a querulous old crone from her drunken son; he was seen about +the wretched streets of the Brickfields with this too familiar +decoration, but he took care not to go home until it was lost.</p> + +<p>With the more decent inhabitants of the district he was soon a great +favorite; but he was feared and abhorred by the others. Felix belonged +to the new school of philanthropic economy, which discerns, and protests +against thoughtless almsgiving; and above all, against doles to street +beggars. He would have made giving equally illegal with begging. But he +soon began to despair of effecting a reformation in this direction; for +even Phebe could not always refrain from finding a penny for some poor +little shivering urchin, dogging her steps on a winter's day.</p> + +<p>"You do not stop to think how cruel you are," Felix would say +indignantly; "if it was not for women giving to them, these poor little +wretches would never be sent out, with their naked feet on the frozen +pavement, and scarcely rags enough to hide their bodies, blue with cold. +If you could only step inside the gin-shops as I do, you would see a +drunken sinner of a father or a mother drinking down the pence you drop +into the children's hands. Your thoughtless kindness is as cruel as +their vice."</p> + +<p>But still, with all that fresh ardor and energy which is sneered at in +the familiar proverb, "A new broom sweeps clean," Felix swept away at +the misery, and the ignorance, and the vice of his degraded district. He +was not going to spare himself; it should be no sham fight with him. The +place was his first battlefield; and it had a strong attraction for him.</p> + + +<p>So through the pleasant months of spring, which for the last four years +had been spent at Oxford, and into the hot weeks of summer, Felix was +indefatigably at work, giving himself no rest and no recreation, besides +writing long and frequent letters to Mrs. Pascal, or rather to Alice. +For would not Alice always read those letters, every word of them? would +she not even often be the first to open them? it being the pleasant +custom of the Pascal household for most letters to be in common, +excepting such as were actually marked "private." And Mrs. Pascal's +answer might have been dictated by Alice herself, so exactly did they +express her mind. They did not as yet stand on the footing of betrothed +lovers; but neither of them doubted but that they soon would do so.</p> + +<p>It was not without a sharp pang, however, that Felix learned that the +Pascals were going to Switzerland for the summer. He had an intense +longing to visit the land, of which his grandmother had so often spoken +to him, and where his father's grave lay. But quite apart from his duty +to the district placed under his charge, there was an obstacle in the +absolute interdiction Felicita laid upon the country where her husband +had met with his terrible death. It was impossible even to hint at going +to Switzerland whilst she was in her present state of health. She had +only partially recovered from the low, nervous fever which had attacked +her during the winter; and still those about her strove their utmost to +save her from all worry and anxiety.</p> + +<p>The sultry, fervid days of August came; and if possible the narrow +thoroughfares of the Brickfields seemed more wretched than in the +winter. The pavements burned like an oven, and the thin walls of the +houses did not screen their inmates from the reeking heat. Not a breath +of fresh air seemed to wander through the low-lying streets, and a +sickly glare and heaviness brooded over them. No wonder there was fever +about. The fields were too far away to be reached in this tiring +weather; and when the men and women returned home from their day's work, +they sunk down in silent and languid groups on their door-steps, or on +the dirty flag-stones of the causeway. Even the professional beggars +suffered more than in the winter, for the tide of almsgiving is at its +lowest ebb during the summer, when the rich have many other and +pleasanter occupations.</p> + +<p>Felix walked through his "parish," as he called it, with slow and weary +steps. Yet his holiday was come, and this was the last evening he would +work thus for the present. The Pascals were in Switzerland; he had had a +letter from Mrs. Pascal, with a few lines from Alice herself in a +postscript, telling him she and her father were about to start for +Engelberg to visit his father's grave for him. It was a loving and +gracious thing to do, just suited to Canon Pascal's kindly nature; and +Felix felt his whole being lifted up by it to a happier level. Phebe and +Hilda were gone to their usual summer haunt, Phebe's quaint little +cottage on the solitary mountain-moor; where he was going to join them +for a day or two, before they went to Mr. Clifford, in the old house at +Riversborough. His mother alone, of all the friends he had, was +remaining in London; and she had refused to leave until Phebe and Hilda +had first paid their yearly visits to the old places.</p> + +<p>He reached his mission-room at last, through the close, unwholesome +atmosphere, and found it fairly filled, chiefly with working men, some +of whom had turned into it as being a trifle less hot and noisy than the +baking pavements without, crowded with quarrelsome children. It was, +moreover, the pay-night for a Providence club which Felix had +established for any, either men or women, who chose to contribute to it. +There was a short and simple lecture given first; and afterwards the +club-books were brought out, and a committee of working men received the +weekly subscriptions, and attended to the affairs of the little club.</p> + +<p>The lecture was near its close, when a drunken man, in the quarrelsome +stage of intoxication, stumbled in through the open door. Felix knew him +by sight well; a confirmed drunkard, a mere miserable sot, who hung +about the spirit-vaults, and lived only for the drink he could pour down +his throat. There had been a vague instinctive dread and disgust for the +man, mingled with a deep interest he could not understand, in Felix's +mind. He paused for an instant, looking at the dirty rags, and bleared +eyes, and degraded face of the drunkard standing just in the doorway, +with the summer's light behind him.</p> + +<p>"What's the parson's name?" he called in a thick, unsteady voice. "Is it +Sefton?"</p> + +<p>"Hush! hush!" cried two or three voices in answer.</p> + +<p>"I'll not hush! If it's Sefton, it were his father as made me what I am. +It were his father as stole every blessed penny of my earnings. It were +his father as drove me to drink, and ruined me, soul and body. Sefton! +I've a right to know the name of Sefton if any man on earth does. Curse +it!"</p> + +<p>Felix had ceased speaking, and stood facing his little congregation, +listening as in a dream. The men caught the drunken accuser by the arms, +and were violently expelling him, but his rough voice rose above the +noise of the scuffle.</p> + +<p>"Ay!" he shouted, "the parson won't hear the truth told. But take care +of your money, mates, or it'll go where mine went."</p> + +<p>"Don't turn him out," called Felix; "it's a mistake, my men. Let him +alone. He never knew my father."</p> + +<p>The drunkard turned round and confronted him, and the little assembly +was quiet again, with an intense quietness, waiting to hear what would +follow.</p> + +<p>"Your father's name was Roland Sefton?" said the drunkard.</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Felix.</p> + +<p>"And he was banker of the Old Bank at Riversborough?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Felix.</p> + +<p>"Then what I've got to say is this," went on the rough, thick voice of +the half-drunken man; "and the tale's true, mates. Roland Sefton, o' +Riversborough, cheated me out o' all my hard earnings—one hundred and +nineteen pounds—as I'd trusted him with, and drove me to drink. I were +a steady man till then, as steady as the best of ye; and he were a fine, +handsome, fair-spoken gentleman as ever walked; and we poor folks +trusted him as if he'd been God Almighty. There was a old deaf and dumb +man, called Marlowe, lost six hundred pound by him, and it broke his +heart; he never held his head up after, and he died. Me, it drove to +drink. That's the father o' the parson who stands here telling you about +Jesus Christ, and maybe trusted with your money, as I trusted mine with +him as cheated me. It's a true tale, mates, if God Almighty struck me +dead for it this moment."</p> + +<p>There was such a tone of truth in the hoarse and passionate tones, which +grew steadier as the speaker gained assurance by the silence of the +audience, that there was not one there who did not believe the story. +Even Felix, listening with white face and flaming eyes, dared not cry +out that the accusation was a lie. Horrible as it was, he could not say +to himself that it was all untrue. There came flashing across his mind +confused reminiscences of the time when his father had disappeared from +out of his life. He remembered asking his mother how long he would be +away, and did he never write to her? and she had answered him that he +was too young to understand the truth about his father. Was it possible +that this was the truth?</p> + +<p>In after years he never forgot that sultry evening, with the close, +noisome atmosphere of the hot mission-hall, and the confused buzzing of +many voices, which after a short silence began to hum in his ears. The +drunkard was still standing in the doorway, the very wreck and ruin of a +man; and every detail of his loathsome, degraded appearance was burnt in +on Felix's brain. He felt stupefied and bewildered—as if he had +received almost a death-blow. But in his inmost soul a cry went up to +heaven, "Lord, Thou also hast been a man!"</p> + +<p>Then he saw that the cross lay before him in his path. "Whosoever will +come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow +me." It had seemed to Felix at times as if he had never been called upon +to bear any cross. But now it lay there close before him. He could not +take another step forward unless he lifted it up and laid it on his +shoulders, whatever its weight might be. The cross of shame—the bearing +of another's sin—his father's sin. His whole soul recoiled from it. Any +other cross but this he could have borne after Christ with willing feet +and rejoicing heart. But to know that his father was a criminal; and to +bear the shame of it openly!</p> + +<p>Yet he could not stand there longer, fighting his battle, in the +presence of these curious eyes so keenly fastened upon him. The clock +over the door showed upon its dial only a minute or two gone; but to +Felix the time consumed in his brief foretaste of the cross seemed +years. He gathered together so much of his self-possession as could be +summoned at a moment's notice, and looked straight into the faces of his +audience.</p> + +<p>"Friends," he said, "if this is true, it is as new to me as it is to +you. My father died when I was a boy of ten; and no one had a heart hard +enough to tell me then my father was a rogue. But if I find it is true, +I'll not rest day nor night till this man has his money again. What is +his name?"</p> + +<p>"Nixey," called out three or four voices; "John Nixey."</p> + +<p>Again Felix's heart sank, for he knew Simon Nixey, whose farm lay +nearest to Phebe's little homestead; and there was a familiar ring in +the name.</p> + +<p>"Ay, ay!" stammered Nixey; "but old Clifford o' the Bank paid me the +money back all right; only I'd sworn a dreadful oath I'd never lay by +another farthin', and it soon came to an end. It were me as were lost as +well as the money."</p> + +<p>"Then what do you come bothering here for," asked one of the men, "if +you've had your money back all right? Get out with you."</p> + +<p>For a minute or two there was a scuffle, and then the drunkard was +hustled outside and the door shut behind him. For another half hour +Felix mechanically conducted the business of the club, as if he had been +in a dream; and then, bidding the members of the little committee good +night, he paced swiftly away from his district in the direction of his +home.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIa" id="CHAPTER_VIa"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> + +<h3>OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS.</h3> + + +<p>"But why go home?" Felix stopped as he asked himself this question. He +could not face his mother with any inquiry about the mystery that +surrounded his father's memory, that mystery which was slowly +dissipating like the mists which vanish imperceptibly from a landscape. +He was beginning to read his mother's life in a more intelligible light, +and all along the clearer line new meanings were springing into sight. +The solitude and sadness, the bitterness of spirit, which had separated +her from the genial influences of a society that had courted her, was +plain to him now at their fountain-head. She had known—if this terrible +thing was true—that shame, not glory, was hers; confusion of face, not +the bearing of the palm. His heart ached for her more than for himself.</p> + +<p>In his heart of hearts, Felix had triumphed greatly in his mother's +fame. From his very babyhood the first thought impressed upon his mind +had been that his mother was different from other women; far above them. +It had been his father who had given him that first impression, but it +had grown with strong and vigorous growth from its deep root, through +all the years which had passed since his father died. Even his love for +Alice had not touched his passionate loyalty and devotion to his mother. +He had rejoiced in thinking that she was known, not in England alone, +but in other countries into whose language her books had been +translated. Her celebrity shone in his eyes with a very strong and +brilliant splendor. How could he tell her that he had been thrust into +the secret of his father's infamy!</p> + +<p>There was only Phebe to whom he could just yet lay open the doubt and +terror of his soul. If it was true that her father, old Marlowe, had +died broken-hearted from the loss of his money, she would be sure to +know of it. His preparations for his journey to-morrow morning were +complete; and if he chose there was time enough for him to catch the +night train, and start at once for Riversborough. There would be no +sleep for him until some of these tormenting questions were answered.</p> + +<p>It was a little after sunrise when he reached Riversborough, where with +some difficulty he roused up a hostler and obtained a horse at one of +the inns. Before six he was riding up the long, steep lanes, fresh and +cool with dew, and overhung with tall hedgerows, which led up to the +moor. He had not met a living soul since he left the sleeping town +behind him, and it seemed to him as if he was in quite a different world +from the close, crowded, and noisome streets he had traversed only a few +hours ago. In the natural exhilaration of the sweet mountain air, and +the silence broken only by the singing of the birds, his fears fell from +him. There must be some mistake which Phebe would clear up. It was +nothing but the accusation of a besotted brain which had frightened him.</p> + +<p>He shouted boyishly when the quaint little cottage came in sight, with a +thin column of blue smoke floating upward from its ivy-clad chimney. +Phebe herself came to the door, and Hilda, with ruffled hair and a +sleepy face, looked out of the little window in the thatched roof. There +was nothing in his appearance a few hours earlier than he was expected +to alarm them, and their surprise and pleasure were complete. Even to +himself it seemed singular that he should sit down at the little +breakfast-table with them, the almost level rays of the morning sun +shining through the lattice window, instead of in the dingy parlor of +his London lodgings.</p> + +<p>"Come with me on to the moors, Phebe," he said as soon as breakfast was +over.</p> + +<p>She went out with him bareheaded, as she had been used to do when a girl +at home, and led him to a little knoll covered with short heath and +ferns, from which a broad landscape of many miles stretched under their +eyes to a far-off horizon. The hollow of the earth curved upwards in +perfect lines to meet the perfect curve of the blue dome of the sky +bending over it. They were resting as some small bird might rest in the +rounded shelter of two hands which held it safely. For a few minutes +they sat silent, gazing over the wide sweep of sky and land, till Felix +caught sight of a faint haze, through which two or three spires were +dimly visible. It was where Riversborough was lying.</p> + +<p>"Phebe," he said, "I want you to tell me the naked truth. Did my father +defraud yours of some money?"</p> + +<p>"Felix!" she cried, in startled tones.</p> + +<p>"Say only yes or no to me first," he continued; "explain it afterward. +Only say yes or no."</p> + +<p>Through Phebe's brain came trooping the vivid memories of the past. She +saw Roland again hurrying over the moors from his day's shooting to +mount his horse, which she had saddled for him, and to ride off down the +steep lanes, with a cheery shout of "Good-night" to her when he reached +the last point where she could catch sight of him; and she saw him as +his dark form walked beside her pony that night when he was already +crushed down beneath his weight of sin and shame, pouring out his +burdened heart into her ears. If Felix had asked her this question in +London it might have hurt her less poignantly; but here, where Roland +and her father filled all the place with the memory of their presence, +it wounded her like the thrust of a sword. She burst into a passion of +tears.</p> + +<p>"Yes or no?" urged Felix, setting his face like a flint, and striking +out blindly and pitilessly.</p> + +<p>"Yes!" she sobbed; "but, oh, your father was the dearest friend I ever +had!"</p> + +<p>The sharp, cruel sound of the yes smote him with a deadly force. He +could not tell himself what he had expected to hear; but now for a +certainty, his father, whom he had been taught to regard as a hero and a +saint, proved no other than a rogue.</p> + +<p>It was a long time before he spoke again, or lifted up his head; so long +that Phebe ceased weeping, and laid her hand tenderly on his to comfort +him by her mute sympathy. But he took no notice of her silent fellowship +in his suffering; it was too bitter for him to feel as yet that any one +could share it.</p> + +<p>"I must give up Alice!" he groaned at last.</p> + +<p>"No, no!" said Phebe. "I told Canon Pascal all, and he does not say so. +It is your mother who cannot give her consent, and she will do it some +day."</p> + +<p>"Does he know all?" cried Felix. "Is it possible he knows all, and will +let me love Alice still? I think I could bear anything if that is true. +But, oh! how could I offer to her a name stained like mine?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, the name was saved by his death," answered Phebe sadly. "There are +only three who knew he was guilty—Mr. Clifford, and your mother, and I. +If he had lived he might have been brought to trial and sent to a +convict prison; I suppose he would; but his death saved him and you. +Down in Riversborough yonder some few uncharitable people might tell you +there was some suspicion about him, but most of them speak of him still +as the kindest and the best man they ever knew. It Was covered up +skilfully, Felix, and nobody knew the truth but we three."</p> + +<p>"Alice is visiting my father's grave this very day," he said +falteringly.</p> + +<p>"Ah! how like that is to Canon Pascal!" answered Phebe; "he will not +tell Alice; no, she will never know, nor Hilda. Why should they be told? +But he will stand there by the grave, sorrowing over the sin which +drove your father into exile, and brought him to his sorrowful death. +And his heart will feel more tenderly than ever for you and your mother. +He will be devising some means for overcoming your mother's scruples and +making you and Alice happy."</p> + +<p>"I never ran be happy again," he exclaimed. "I never thought of such a +sorrow as this."</p> + +<p>"It was the sorrow that fell to Christ's lot," she answered; "the burden +of other people's sins."</p> + +<p>"Phebe," he said, "if I felt the misery of my fellow-man before, and I +did feel it, how can I bear now to remember the horrible degradation of +the man who told me of my father's sin? It was a drunkard——"</p> + +<p>"John Nixey," she interrupted; "ay, but he caught at your father's sin +as an excuse for his own. He was always a drinking man. No man is forced +into sin. Nothing can harm them who are the followers of God. Don't lay +on your father's shoulders more than his own wrong-doing. Sin spreads +misery around it only when there is ground ready for the bad seed. Your +father's sin opened my soul to deeper influences from God; I did not +love him less because he had fallen, but I learned to trust God more, +and walk more closely with Him. You, too, will be drawn nearer to God by +this sorrow."</p> + +<p>"Phebe," he said, "can I speak to Mr. Clifford about it? It would be +impossible to speak to my mother."</p> + +<p>"Quite impossible," she answered emphatically. "Yes, go down to +Riversborough, and hear what Mr. Clifford can tell you. Your father +repented of his sin bitterly, and paid a heavy price for it; but he was +forgiven. If my poor old father could not withhold his forgiveness, +would our heavenly Father fall short of it? You, too, must forgive him, +my Felix."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIa" id="CHAPTER_VIIa"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> + +<h3>AN OLD MAN'S PARDON.</h3> + + +<p>To forgive his father—that was a strange inversion of the attitude of +Felix's mind in regard to his father's memory. He had been taught to +think of him with reverence, and admiration, and deep filial love. As +Felicita looked back on the long line of her distinguished ancestry with +an exaltation of feeling which, if it was pride, was a legitimate pride, +so had Felix looked back upon the line of good men from whom his own +being had sprung. He had felt himself pledged to a Christian life by the +eminently Christian lives of his forefathers.</p> + +<p>Now, suddenly, with no warning, he was called upon to forgive his father +for a crime which had made him amenable to the penal laws of his +country; a mean, treacherous, cowardly crime. Like Judas, he had borne +the bag, and his fellow-pilgrims had trusted him with their money; and, +like Judas, he had been a thief. Felix could not understand how a +Christian man could be tempted by money. To attempt to serve Mammon as +well as God seemed utterly comtemptible and incredible to him.</p> + +<p>His heart was very heavy as he rode slowly down the lanes and along the +highway to Riversborough, which his father had so often traversed before +him. When he had come this way in the freshness and stillness of the +early morning there had been more hope in his soul than he had been +aware of, that Phebe would be able to remove this load from him; but now +he knew for a certainty that his father had left to him a heritage of +dishonor. She had told him all the circumstances known to her, and he +was going to learn more from Mr. Clifford.</p> + +<p>He entered his old home with more bitterness of spirit than he had ever +felt before in his young life. Here, of all places in the world, +clustered memories of his father; memories which he had fondly cherished +and graved as deeply as he could upon his mind. He could almost hear the +joyous tones of his father's voice, and see the summer gladness of his +face, as he remembered them. How was it possible that with such a hidden +load of shame he could have been so happy.</p> + +<p>Mr. Clifford, though a very old man, was still in full and clear +possession of his faculties, and had not yet given up an occasional +attention to the business of the bank. He was nearly eighty years of +age, and his hair was white, and the cold, stern blue eyes were watery +and sunken in their sockets. Some years ago, when Samuel Nixey had given +up his last hope of winning Phebe, and had married a farmer's daughter, +his mother, Mrs. Nixey, had come to the Old Bank as housekeeper to Mr. +Clifford, and looked well after his welfare. Felix found him sitting in +the wainscoted parlor, a withered, bent, old man, seldom leaving the +warm hearth, but keen in sight and memory, living over again in his +solitude the many years that had passed over him from his childhood +until now. He welcomed Felix with delight, holding his hands, and +looking earnestly into his face, with the half-childlike affection of +old age.</p> + +<p>"I've not seen you since you became a parson," he said, with a sigh; +"ah, my lad, you ought to have come to me. You don't get half as much as +my cashier, and not a tenth part of what I give my manager. But there! +that's your mother's fault, who would never let you touch business. She +would never hear of you taking your father's place."</p> + +<p>"How could she?" said Felix, indignantly. "Do you think my mother would +let me come into the house my father had disgraced and almost ruined?"</p> + +<p>"So you've plucked that bitter apple at last!" he answered, in a tone of +regret. "I thought it was possible you might never have to taste it. +Felix, my boy, your mother paid every farthing of the money your father +had, with interest and compound interest; even to me, who begged and +entreated to bear the loss. Your mother is a noble woman."</p> + +<p>A blessed ray of comfort shot across the gloom in Felix's heart, and lit +up his dejected face with a momentary smile; and Mr. Clifford stretched +out his thin old hand again, and clasped his feebly.</p> + +<p>"Ah, my boy!" he said, "and your father was not a bad man. I know how +you are sitting in judgment upon him, as young people do, who do not +know what it is to be sorely tempted. I judged him, and my son before +him, as harshly as man could do. Remember we judge hardest where we love +the most; there's selfishness in it. Our children, our fathers, must be +better than other folk's children and fathers. Don't begin to reckon up +your father's sins before you are thirty, and don't pass sentence till +you're fifty. Judges ought to be old men."</p> + +<p>Felix sat down near to the old man, whose chair was in the oriel window, +on which the sun was shining warmly. There below him lay the garden +where he had played as a child, with the river flowing swiftly past it, +and the boat-house in the corner, from which his father and he had so +often started for a pleasant hour or two on the rapid current. But he +could never think of his father again without sorrow and shame.</p> + +<p>"Sin hurts us most as it comes nearest to us," said old Mr. Clifford; +"the crime of a Frenchman does not make our blood boil as the crime of +an Englishman; our neighbor's sin is not half as black as our kinsman's +sin. But when we have to look it in the face in a son, in a father, then +we see the exceeding sinfulness of it. Why, Felix, you knew that men +defrauded one another; that even men professing godliness were +sometimes dishonest."</p> + +<p>"I knew it," he answered, "but I never felt it before."</p> + +<p>"And I never felt it till I saw it in my son," continued the old man, +sadly; "but there are other sins besides dishonesty, of a deeper dye, +perhaps, in the sight of our Creator. If Roland Sefton had met with a +more merciful man than I am he might have been saved."</p> + +<p>For a minute or two his white head was bowed down, and his wrinkled +eyelids were closed, whilst Felix sat beside him as sorrowful as +himself.</p> + +<p>"I could not be merciful," he burst out with a sudden fierceness in his +face and tone, "I could not spare him, because I had not spared my own +son. I had let one life go down into darkness, refusing to stretch out +so much as a little finger in help, though he was as dear to me as my +own life; and God required me yet again to see a life perish because of +my hardness of heart. I think sometimes if Roland had come and cast +himself on my mercy, I should have pardoned him; but again I think my +heart was too hard then to know what mercy was. But those two, Felix, my +son Robert, who died of starvation in the streets of Paris, and your +father, who perished on a winter's night in Switzerland, they are my +daily companions. They sit down beside me here, and by the fireside, and +at my solitary meals; and they watch beside me in the night. They will +never leave me till I see them again, and confess my sin to them."</p> + +<p>"It was not you alone whom my father wronged," said Felix, "there were +others besides you who might have prosecuted him."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but they were ignorant, simple men," replied Mr. Clifford, "they +need never have known of his crime. All their money could have been +replaced without their knowledge; it was of me Roland was afraid. If the +time could come over again—and I go over and over it in my own mind all +in vain—I would act altogether differently. I would make him feel to +the utmost the sin and peril of his course; but I would keep his secret. +Even Felicita should know nothing. It was partly my fault too. If I had +fulfilled my duty, and looked after my affairs instead of dreaming my +time away in Italy, your father, as the junior partner, could not have +fallen into this snare. When a crime is committed the criminal is not +the only one to be blamed. Consciously or unconsciously those about him +have been helping by their own carelessness and indolence, by cowardice, +by indifference to right and wrong. By a thousand subtle influences we +help our brother to disobey God; and when he is found out we stand aloof +and raise an outcry against him. God has made every one of us his +brother's keeper."</p> + +<p>"Then you too have forgiven him," said Felix, with a glowing sense of +comfort in his heart.</p> + +<p>"Forgiven him? ay!" he answered, "as he sits by me at the fireside, +invisible to all but me, I say to him again and again in words inaudible +to all but him:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Even as I hope for pardon in that day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the great Judge of heaven in scarlet sits,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So be thou pardoned.'"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The tremulous, weak old voice paused, and the withered hands lay feebly +on his knees as he looked out on the summer sky, seeing nothing of its +brightness, for the thoughts and memories that were flocking to his +brain. Felix's younger eyes caught every familiar object on which the +sun was shining, and knitted them up for ever with the memory of that +hour.</p> + +<p>"God help me!" he cried, "I forgive my father too; but I have lost him. +I never knew the real man."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIIIa" id="CHAPTER_VIIIa"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> + +<h3>THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG.</h3> + + +<p>On the same August morning when Felix was riding up the long lovely +lanes to Phebe Marlowe's little farmstead, Canon Pascal and Alice were +starting by the earliest boat which left Lucerne for Stansstad, in the +dewy coolness of the dawn. The short transit was quickly over, and an +omnibus carried them into Stans, where they left their knapsacks to be +sent on after them during the day. The long pleasant walk of fourteen +miles to Engelberg lay before them, to be taken leisurely, with many a +rest in the deep cool shades of the woods, or under the shadow of some +great rock. The only impediment with which Alice burdened herself was a +little green slip of ivy, which Felix had gathered from the walls of her +country home, and which she had carried in a little flower-pot filled +with English soil, to plant on his father's grave. It had been a sacred, +though somewhat troublesome charge to her, as they had travelled from +place to place, and she had not permitted any one to take the care of it +off her hands. This evening, with her own hands, she was going to plant +it upon the foreign grave of Roland Sefton; which had been so long +neglected, and unvisited by those whom he had left behind him. That +Felicita should never have made a pilgrimage to this sacred spot was a +wonder to her; but that she should so steadily resist the wish of Felix +to visit his father's resting-place, filled Alice's heart with grave +misgivings for her own future happiness.</p> + +<p>But she was not troubling herself with any misgivings to-day, as they +journeyed onward and upward through the rich meadows and thick forests +leading to the Alpine valley which lay under the snowy dome of the +Titlis. Her father's enjoyment of the sweet solitude and changeful +beauty of their pathway was too perfect for her to mar it by any +mournful forebodings. He walked beside her under the arched aisles of +the pine-woods bareheaded, singing snatches of song as joyously as a +school-boy, or waded off through marshy and miry places in quest of some +rare plant which ought to be growing there, splashing back to her +farther on in the winding road, scarcely less happy if he had not found +it than if he had. How could she be troubled whilst her father was +treading on enchanted ground?</p> + +<p>But the last time they allowed themselves to sit down to rest before +entering the village, Canon Pascal's face grew grave, and his manner +toward his daughter became more tender and caressing than usual. The +secret which Phebe had told him of Roland Sefton had been pondered over +these many weeks in his heart. If it had concerned Felix only he would +have felt himself grieved at this story of his father's sin, but he knew +too well it concerned Alice as closely. This little ivy-slip, so +carefully though silently guarded through all the journey, had been a +daily reminder to him of his girl's love for her old playfellow and +companion. Though she had not told him of its destiny he had guessed it, +and now as she screened it from the too direct rays of the hot sun it +spoke to her of Felix, and to him of his father's crime.</p> + +<p>He had no resolve to make his daughter miserable by raising obstacles to +her marriage with Felix, who was truly as dear to him as his own sons. +But yet, if he had only known this dishonest strain in the blood, would +he, years ago, have taken Felix into his home, and exposed Alice to the +danger of loving him? Felix was out of the way of temptation; there was +no stream of money passing through his hands, and it would be hard and +vile indeed for him to fall into any dishonest trickery. But it might be +that his children, Alice's children, might tread in the steps of their +forefather, Roland Sefton, and pursue the same devious course. Thieves +breed thieves, it was said, in the lowest dregs of social life. Would +there be some fatal weakness, some insidious improbity, in the nature of +those descending from Roland Sefton?</p> + +<p>It was a wrong against God, a faithless distrust of Him, he said to +himself, to let these dark thoughts distress his mind, at the close of a +day such as that which had been granted to him, almost as a direct and +perfect gift from heaven itself. He looked into the sweet, tranquil face +of his girl, and the trustful loving eyes which met his anxious gaze +with so open and frank an expression; yet he could not altogether shake +off the feeling of solicitude and foreboding which had fallen upon his +spirit.</p> + +<p>"Let us go on, and have a quiet dinner by ourselves," said Alice, at +last, "and then we shall have all the cool of the evening to wander +about as we please."</p> + +<p>They left their resting-place, and walked on in silence, as if they were +overawed by the snow-clad mountains and towering peaks hanging over the +valley. A little way off the road they saw a poor and miserable hut, +built on piles of stones, with deep, sheltering eaves, but with a broken +roof, and no light except such as entered it by the door. In the dimness +of the interior they just caught sight of a gray-headed man, sitting on +the floor, with his face hidden on his knees. It was an attitude telling +of deep wretchedness, and heaviness of heart; and though neither of them +spoke of the glimpse they had had, they drew nearer to one another, and +walked closely together until they reached the hotel.</p> + +<p>It was still broad daylight, though the sun had sunk behind the lofty +mountains when they strolled out again into the picturesque, irregular +street of the village. The clear blue sky above them was of the color of +the wild hyacinth, the simplest, purest blue, against which the pure and +simple white of the snowy domes and pinnacles of the mountain ranges +inclosing the valley stood out in sharp, bold outlines; whilst the dark +green of the solemn pine-forests climbing up the steep slopes looked +almost black against the pale grey peaks jutting up from among them, +with silver lines of snow marking out every line and crevice in their +furrowed and fretted architecture. Canon Pascal bared his head, as if he +had been entering his beloved Abbey in Westminster.</p> + +<p>"God is very glorious!" he said, in a low and reverent tone. "God is +very good!"</p> + +<p>In silence they sauntered on, with loitering steps, to the little +cemetery, where lay the grave they had come to seek. They found it in a +forlorn and deserted corner, but there was no trace of neglect about the +grey unpolished granite of the cross that marked it. No weeds were +growing around it, and no moss was gathering upon it; the lettering, +telling the name, and age, and date of death, of the man who lay beneath +it, was as clear as if it had just come from the chisel of the graver. +The tears sprang to Alice's eyes as she stood before it with reverently +bowed head, looking down on Roland Sefton's grave.</p> + +<p>"Did you ever see him, father?" she asked, almost in a whisper.</p> + +<p>"I saw him once," he answered, "at Riversdale Towers, when Felix was +still only a baby. He was a finer and handsomer man than Felix will ever +be; and there was more foreign blood in his veins, which gave him greater +gaiety and simpler vivacity than Englishmen usually have. I remember how +he watched over Felicita, and waited on her in an almost womanly fashion; +and fetched his baby himself for us to see, carrying him in his own arms +with the deft skill of a nurse. Felix is as tender-hearted, but he would +not make a show of it so openly."</p> + +<p>"Cousin Felicita must have loved him with her whole heart," sighed +Alice, "yet if I were in her place, I should come here often; it would +be the one place I loved to come to. She is a hard woman, father; hard, +and bitter, and obstinate. Do you think Felix's father would have set +himself against me as she has done?"</p> + +<p>She turned to him, her sad and pensive face, almost the dearest face in +the world to him; and he gazed into it with penetrating and loving eyes. +Would it not be best to tell the child the secret this grave covered, +here, by the grave itself? Better for her to know the truth concerning +the dead, than cherish hard and unjust thoughts of the living. Even if +Felicita consented, he could not let her marry Felix ignorant of the +facts which Phebe had disclosed to him. Felix himself must know them +some day; and was not this the hour and the place for revealing them to +Alice?</p> + +<p>"My darling," he said, "I know why Felicita never comes here, nor lets +her children come; and also why she is at present opposed to the thought +of Felix marrying. Roland Sefton, her husband, the unhappy man whose +body lies here, was guilty of a crime; and died miserably while a +fugitive from our country. His death consigned the crime to oblivion; no +one remembered it against her and her children. But if he had lived he +would have been a convict; and she, and Felix, and Hilda would have +shared his ignominy. She feels that she must not suffer Felix to enter +our family until she has told me this; and it is the mere thought and +dread of such a disclosure that has made her ill. We must wait till her +mind recovers its strength."</p> + +<p>"What was it he had done?" asked Alice, with quivering lips.</p> + +<p>"He had misappropriated a number of securities left in his charge," +answered Canon Pascal, "Phebe says to the amount of over £10,000; most +of it belonging to Mr. Clifford."</p> + +<p>"Is that all?" cried Alice, the color rushing back again to her face, +and the light to her eyes, "was it only money? Oh! I thought it was more +dreadful than that. Why! we should never blame cousin Felicita because +her husband misappropriated some securities belonging to old Mr. +Clifford. And Felix is not to blame at all; how could he be? Poor +Felix!"</p> + +<p>"But, Alice," he said, with a half smile, "if, instead of being buried +here, Roland Sefton had lived, and been arrested, and sent to a convict +prison for a term of imprisonment, Felicita's life, and the life of her +children, would have been altogether overshadowed by the disgrace and +infamy of it. There could have been no love between you and Felix."</p> + +<p>"It was a good thing that he died," she answered, looking down on the +grave again almost gladly. "Does Felix know this? But I am sure he does +not," she added quickly, and looking up with a heightened color into her +father's face, "he is all honor, and truth, and unselfishness. He could +not be guilty of a crime against any one."</p> + +<p>"I believe in Felix; I love him dearly," her father said, "but if I had +known of this I do not think I could have brought him up in my own home, +with my own boys and girls. God knows it would have been a difficult +point to settle; but it was not given to my poor wisdom to decide."</p> + +<p>"I shall not love Felix one jot less," she said, "or reverence him less. +If all his forefathers had been bad men I should be sure still that he +was good. I never knew him do or say anything that was mean or selfish. +My poor Felix! Oh, father! I shall love him more than ever now I know +there is something in his life that needs pity. When he knows it he will +come to me for comfort; and I will comfort him. His father shall hear me +promise it by this grave here. I will never, never visit Roland +Sefton's sin on his son; I will never in my heart think of it as a thing +against him. And if all the world came to know it, I would never once +feel a moment's shame of him."</p> + +<p>Her voice faltered a little, and she knelt down on the parched grass at +the foot of the cross, hiding her face in her hands. Canon Pascal laid +his hand fondly on her bowed head; and then he left her that she might +be alone with the grave, and God.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IXa" id="CHAPTER_IXa"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> + +<h3>THE LOWEST DEEPS.</h3> + + +<p>The miserable, delapidated hut at the entrance of Engelberg, with no +light save that which entered by the doorway, had been Jean Merle's +home since he had fixed his abode in the valley, drawn thither +irresistibly by the grave which bore Roland Sefton's name. There was +less provision for comfort in this dark hovel than in a monk's cell. A +log of rough, unbarked timber from the forest was the only seat, and a +rude framework of wood filled with straw or dry ferns was his bed. The +floor was bare, except near the door, the upper half of which usually +stood open, and here it was covered with fine chips of box and oak-wood, +and the dust which fell from his busy graver, the tool which was never +out of his fingers while the light served him. There was no more +decoration then there was comfort; except that on the smoke-stained +walls the mildew had pencilled out some strange and grotesque lines, as +if some mural painting had mouldered into ruin there. Two or three +English books alone, of the cheap continental editions, lay at one end +of a clumsy shelf; with the few cooking utensils which were absolutely +necessary, piled together on the other. There was a small stove in one +corner of the hovel, where a handful of embers could be seen at times, +like the eye of some wild creature lurking in the deep gloom.</p> + +<p>Jean Merle, though still two or three years under fifty, was looked upon +by his neighbors as being a man of great, though unknown age. Yet, +though he stooped in the shoulders a little, and walked with his head +bent down, he was not infirm, nor had he the appearance of infirmity. +His long mountain expeditions kept his muscles in full force and +activity. But his grey face was marked with many lines, so fine as to be +seen only at close quarters; yet on the whole forming a wrinkled and +aged mask as of one far advanced in life. In addition to this +singularity of aspect there was the extraordinary seclusion and sordid +miserliness of his mode of existence, more in harmony with the +passiveness of extreme old age, than with the energy of a man still in +the prime of his days. The village mothers frightened their children +with tales about Jean Merle's gigantic strength, which made him an +object of terror to them. He sought acquaintanceship with none of his +neighbors; and they avoided him as a heretic and a stranger.</p> + +<p>The rugged, simple, narrow life of his Swiss forefathers gathered around +him, and hedged him in. They had been peasant-farmers, with the +exception of the mountain-pastor his grandfather, and he still +well-remembered Felix Merle, after whom his boy had been called. All of +them had been men toiling with their own hands, with a never-ceasing +bodily activity, which had left them but little time or faculty for any +mental pursuit. This half of his nature fitted him well for the life +that now lay before him. As his Swiss ancestors had been for many +generations toil-worn and weather-beaten men, whose faces were sunburnt +and sun-blistered, whose backs were bent with labor, and whose weary +feet dragged heavily along the rough paths, so he became. The social +refinement of the prosperous Englishman, skin deep as it is, vanished in +the coarse and narrow life to which he had partly doomed himself, had +partly been doomed, by the dull, despondent apathy which had possessed +his soul, when he first left the hospital in Lucerne.</p> + +<p>His mode of living was as monotonous as it was solitary. His work only +gave him some passing interest, for in the bitterness of his spirit he +kept himself quite apart from all relation with his fellow-men. As far +as in him lay he shut out the memory of the irrevocable past, and +forbade his heart to wander back to the years that were gone. He strove +to concentrate himself upon his daily toil, and the few daily wants of +his body; and after a while a small degree of calm and composure had +been won by him. Roland Sefton was dead; let him lie motionless, as a +corpse should do, in the silence of his grave. But Jean Merle was +living, and might continue to live another twenty years or more, thus +solitarily and monotonously.</p> + +<p>But there was one project which he formed early in his new state of +existence, which linked him by a living link to the old. As soon as he +found he could earn handsome wages for his skilled and delicate work, +wages which he could in no way spend, and yet continue the penance which +he pronounced upon himself, the thought came to him of restoring the +money which had been intrusted to him by old Marlowe, and the other poor +men who had placed their savings in his care. To repay the larger amount +to which he was indebted to Mr. Clifford would be impossible; but to +earn the other sums, though it might be the work of years, was still +practicable, especially if from time to time he could make safe and +prudent speculations, such as his knowledge of the money-market might +enable him to do, so as to insure more rapid returns. At the village inn +he could see the newspapers, with their lists of the various continental +funds, and the share and stock markets; and without entering at all into +the world he could direct the buying in and selling out of his stock +through some bankers in Lucerne.</p> + +<p>Even this restitution must be made in secret, and be so wrapped up in +darkness and stealth that no one could suspect the hand from which it +came. For he knew that the net he had woven about himself was too strong +and intricate to be broken through without deadly injury to others, and +above all to Felicita. The grave yonder, and the stone cross above it, +barred the way to any return by the path he had come. But would it be +utterly impossible for him to venture back, changed as he was by these +many years, to England? It would be only Jean Merle who would travel +thither, there could be no resurrection for Roland Sefton. But could not +Jean Merle see from afar off the old home; or Phebe Marlowe's cottage on +the hill-side; or possibly his mother, or his children; nay, Felicita +herself? Only afar off; as some banished, repentant soul, drawing a +little nearer to the walls of the eternal city, might be favored with a +glimpse of the golden streets, and the white-robed citizens therein, the +memory of which would dwell within him for evermore.</p> + +<p>As he drew nearer the end he grew more eager to reach it. The dull +apathy of the past thirteen years was transformed into a feverish +anticipation of his secret journey to England with the accumulated +proceeds of his work and his speculations; which in some way or other +must find their way into the hands of the men who had trusted him in +time past. But at this juncture the bankers at Lucerne failed him, as +he had failed others. It was not simply that his speculations turned +out badly; but the men to whom he had intrusted the conduct of them, +from his solitary mountain-home, had defrauded him; and the bank broke. +The measure he had meted out to others had been measured to him again. +Whatsoever he had done unto men they had done unto him.</p> + +<p>For three days Jean Merle wandered about the eternal frosts of the +ice-bound peaks and snow-fields of the mountains around him, living he +did not himself know how. It was not money he had lost. Like old Marlowe +he realized how poor a symbol money was of the long years of ceaseless +toil, the days of self-denial, the hours of anxious thoughts it +represented. And besides this darker side, it stood also for the hopes +he had cherished, vaguely, almost unconsciously, but still with strong +earnestness. He had fled from the penalty the just laws of his country +demanded from him, taking refuge in a second and more terrible fraud, +and now God suffered him not to make this small reparation for his sin, +or to taste the single drop of satisfaction that he hoped for in +realizing the object he had set before him. There was no place of +repentance for him; not a foot-hold in all the wide wilderness of his +banishment on which he could stand, and repair one jot a little of the +injury he had inflicted upon his fellow-men.</p> + +<p>What passed through his soul those three days, amidst the ice-solitudes +where no life was, and where the only sounds that spoke to him were the +wild awful tones of nature in her dreariest haunts, he could never tell; +he could hardly recall it to his own memory. He felt as utterly alone as +if no other human being existed on the face of the earth; yet as if he +alone had to bear the burden of all the falsehood, and dishonesty and +dishonor of the countless generations of false and dishonorable men +which this earth has seen.</p> + +<p>All hope was dead now. There was nothing more to work for, or to look +forward to. Nothing lay before him but his solitary blank life in the +miserable hut below. There was no interest in the world for him but +Roland Sefton's grave.</p> + +<p>He descended the mountain-side at last. For the first time since he had +left the valley he noticed that the sun was shining, and that the whole +landscape below him was bathed in light. The village was all astir, and +travellers were coming and going. It was not in the sight of all the +world that he could drag his weary feet to the cemetery, where Roland +Sefton's grave was; and he turned aside into his own hut to wait till +the evening was come.</p> + +<p>At last the sun went down upon his misery, and the cool shades of the +long twilight crept on. He made a circuit round the village to reach the +spot he longed to visit. His downcast eyes saw nothing but the rough +ground he trod, and the narrow path his footsteps had made to the +solitary grave, until he was close to it; and then, looking up to read +the name upon the cross, he discerned the figure of a girl kneeling +before it, and carefully planting a little slip of ivy into the soil +beneath it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_Xa" id="CHAPTER_Xa"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2> + +<h3>ALICE PASCAL.</h3> + + +<p>Alice Pascal looked up into Jean Merle's face with the frank and easy +self-possession of a well-bred English woman; coloring a little with +girlish shyness, yet at the same time smiling with a pleasant light in +her dark eyes. The oval of her face, and the color of her hair and eyes, +resembled, though slightly, the more beautiful face of Felicita in her +girlhood; it was simply the curious likeness which runs through some +families to the remotest branches. But her smile, the shape of her eyes, +the kneeling attitude, riveted him to the spot where he stood, and +struck him dumb. A fancy flashed across his brain, which shone like a +light from heaven. Could this girl be Hilda, his little daughter, whom +he had seen last sleeping in her cot? Was she then come, after many +years, to visit her father's grave?</p> + +<p>There had always been a corroding grief to him in the thought that it +was Felicita herself who had erected that cross over the tomb of the +stranger, with whom his name was buried. He did not know that it was Mr. +Clifford alone who had thus set a mark upon the place where he believed +that the son of his old friend was lying. It had pained Jean Merle to +think that Felicita had commemorated their mutual sin by the erection +of an imperishable monument; and it had never surprised him that no one +had visited the grave. His astonishment came now. Was it possible that +Felicita had revisited Switzerland? Could she be near at hand, in the +village down yonder? His mother, also, and his boy, Felix, could they be +treading the same soil, and breathing the same air as himself? An agony +of mingled terror and rapture shot through his inmost soul. His lips +were dry, and his throat parched: he could not articulate a syllable.</p> + +<p>He did not know what a gaunt and haggard madman he appeared. His grey +hair was ragged and tangled, and his sunken eyes gleamed with a strange +brightness. The villagers, who were wont at times to call him an +imbecile, would have been sure they were right at this moment, as he +stood motionless and dumb, staring at Alice; but to her he looked more +like one whose reason was just trembling in the balance. She was alone, +her father was no longer in sight; but she was not easily frightened. +Rather a sense of sacred pity for the forlorn wretch before her filled +her heart.</p> + +<p>"See!" she said, in clear and penetrating accents, full, however, of +gentle kindness, and she spoke unconsciously in English, "see! I have +carried this little slip of ivy all the way from England to plant it +here. This is the grave of a man I should have loved very dearly."</p> + +<p>A rapid flush of color passed over her face as she spoke, leaving it +paler than before, while a slight sadness clouded the smile in her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Was he your father?" he articulated, with an immense effort.</p> + +<p>"No," she answered; "not my father, but the father of my dearest +friends. They cannot come here; but it was his son who gathered this +slip of ivy from our porch at home, and asked me to plant it here for +him. Will it grow, do you think?"</p> + +<p>"It shall grow," he muttered.</p> + +<p>It was not his daughter, then; none of his own blood was at hand. But +this English girl fascinated him; he could not turn away his eyes, but +watched every slight movement as she carefully gathered the soil about +the root of the little plant, which he vowed within himself should +grow. She was rather long about her task, for she wished this madman to +go away, and leave her alone beside Roland Sefton's grave. What her +father had told her about him was still strange to her, and she wanted +to familiarize it to herself. But still the haggard-looking peasant +lingered at her side, gazing at her with his glowering and sunken eyes; +yet neither moving nor speaking.</p> + +<p>"You know English?" she said, as all at once it occurred to her that she +had spoken to him as she would have spoken to one of the villagers in +their own country churchyard at home, and that he had answered her. He +replied only by a gesture.</p> + +<p>"Can you find me some one who will take charge of this little plant?" +she asked.</p> + +<p>Jean Merle raised his head and lifted up his dim eyes to the eastern +mountain-peaks, which were still shining in the rays of the sinking sun, +though the twilight was darkening everywhere in the valley. Only last +night he had slept among some juniper-bushes just below the boundary of +that everlasting snow, feeling himself cast out forever from any glimpse +of his old Paradise. But now, if he could only find words and +utterance, there was come to him, even to him, a messenger, an angel +direct from the very heart of his home, who could tell him all that last +night he believed that he should never know. The tears sprang to his +eyes, blessed tears; and a rush of uncontrollable longing overwhelmed +him. He must hear all he could of those whom he loved; and then, whether +he lived long or died soon, he would thank God as long as his miserable +life continued.</p> + +<p>"It is I who take care of this grave," he said; "I was with him when he +died. He spoke to me of Felix and Hilda and his mother; and I saw their +portraits. You hear? I know them all."</p> + +<p>"Was it you who watched beside him?" asked Alice eagerly. "Oh! sit down +here and tell me all about it; all you can remember. I will tell it all +again to Felix, and Hilda, and Phebe Marlowe; and oh! how glad, and how +sorry they will be to listen!"</p> + +<p>There was no mention of Felicita's name, and Jean Merle felt a terrible +dread come over him at this omission. He sank down on the ground beside +the grave, and looked up into Alice's bright young face, with eyes that +to her were no longer lit up with the fire of insanity, however intense +and eager they might seem. It was an undreamed-of chance which had +brought to her side the man who had watched by the death-bed of Felix's +father.</p> + +<p>"Tell me all you remember," she urged.</p> + +<p>"I remember nothing," he answered, pressing his dark hard hand against +his forehead, "it is more than thirteen years ago. But he showed to me +their portraits. Is his wife still living?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes!" she answered, "but she will not let either of them come to +Switzerland; neither Felix nor Hilda. Nobody speaks of this country in +her hearing; and his name is never uttered. But his mother used to talk +to us about him; and Phebe Marlowe does so still. She has painted a +portrait of him for Felix."</p> + +<p>"Is Roland Sefton's mother yet alive?" he asked, with a dull, aching +foreboding of her reply.</p> + +<p>"No," she said. "Oh! how we all loved dear old Madame Sefton! She was +always more like Felix and Hilda's mother than Cousin Felicita was. We +loved her more a hundred times than Cousin Felicita, for we are afraid +of her. It was her husband's death that spoiled her whole life and set +her quite apart from everybody else. But Madame—she was not made so +utterly miserable by it; she knew she would meet her son again in +heaven. When she was dying she said to Cousin Felicita, 'He did not +return to me, but I go to him; I go gladly to see again my dear son.' +The very last words they heard her say were, 'I come, Roland!'"</p> + +<p>Alice's voice trembled, and she laid her hand caressingly on the name of +Roland Sefton graved on the cross above her. Jean Merle listened, as if +he heard the words whispered a long way off, or as by some one speaking +in a dream. The meaning had not reached his brain, but was travelling +slowly to it, and would surely pierce his heart with a new sorrow and a +fresh pang of remorse. The loud chanting of the monks in the abbey close +by broke in upon their solemn silence, and awoke Alice from the reverie +into which she had fallen.</p> + +<p>"Can you tell me nothing about him?" she asked. "Talk to me as if I was +his child."</p> + +<p>"I have nothing to tell you," answered Jean Merle. "I remember nothing +he said."</p> + +<p>She looked down on the poor ragged peasant at her feet, with his gaunt +and scarred features, and his slowly articulated speech. There seemed +nothing strange in such a man not being able to recall Roland Sefton's +dying words. It was probable that he barely understood them; and most +likely he could not gather up the meaning of what she herself was +saying. The few words he uttered were English, but they were very few +and forced.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry," she said gently, "but I will tell them you promised to +take care of the ivy I have planted here."</p> + +<p>She wished the dull, gray-headed villager would go home, and leave her +alone for awhile in this solemn and sacred place; but he crouched still +on the ground, stirring neither hand nor foot. When at last she moved as +if to go away, he stretched out a toil-worn hand, and laid it on her +dress.</p> + +<p>"Stay," he said, "tell me more about Roland Sefton's children; I will +think of it when I am tending this grave."</p> + +<p>"What am I to tell you?" she asked gently, "Hilda is three years younger +than me, and people say we are like sisters. She and Felix were brought +up with me and my brothers in my father's house; we were like brothers +and sisters. And Felix is like another son to my father, who says he +will be both good and great some day. Good he is now; as good as man can +be."</p> + +<p>"And you love him!" said Jean Merle, in a low and humble voice, with his +head turned away from her, and resting on the lowest step of the cross.</p> + +<p>Alice started and trembled as she looked down on the grave and the +prostrate man. It seemed to her as if the words had almost come out of +this sad, and solitary, and forsaken grave, where Roland Sefton had lain +unvisited so many years. The last gleam of daylight had vanished from +the snowy peaks, leaving them wan and pallid as the dead. A sudden chill +came into the evening air which made her shiver; but she was not +terrified, though she felt a certain bewilderment and agitation creeping +through her. She could not resist the impulse to answer the strange +question.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I love Felix," she said simply. "We love each other dearly."</p> + +<p>"God bless you!" cried Jean Merle, in a tremulous voice. "God in heaven +bless you both, and preserve you to each other."</p> + +<p>He had lifted himself up, and was kneeling before her, eagerly scanning +her face, as if to impress it on his memory. He bent down his gray head +and kissed her hand humbly and reverently, touching it only with his +lips. Then starting to his feet he hastened away from the cemetery, and +was soon lost to her sight in the gathering gloom of the dusk.</p> + +<p>For a little while longer Alice lingered at the grave, thinking over +what had passed. It was not much as she recalled it, but it left her +agitated and disturbed. Yet after all she had only uttered aloud what +her heart would have said at the grave of Felix's father. But this +strange peasant, so miserable and poverty-stricken, so haggard and +hopeless-looking, haunted her thoughts both waking and sleeping. Early +the next morning she and Canon Pascal went to the hovel inhabited by +Jean Merle, but found it deserted and locked up. Some laborers had seen +him start off at daybreak up the Trübsee Alps, from which he might be +either ascending the Titlis or taking the route to the Joch-Pass. There +was no chance of his return that day, and Jean Merle's absence might +last for several days, as he was eccentric, and bestowed his confidence +on nobody. There was little more to be learned of him, except that he +was a heretic, a stranger, and a miser. Canon Pascal and Alice visited +once more Roland Sefton's grave, and then they went on their way over +the Joch-Pass, with some faint hopes of meeting with Jean Merle on their +route, hopes that were not fulfilled.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIa" id="CHAPTER_XIa"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2> + +<h3>COMING TO HIMSELF.</h3> + + +<p>When he left the cemetery Jean Merle went home to his wretched chalet, +flung himself down on his rough bed, and slept for some hours the +profound and dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. The last three nights +he had passed under the stars, and stretched upon the low +juniper-bushes. He awoke suddenly, from the bright, clear moonlight of a +cloudless sky and dry atmosphere streaming in through his door, which he +had left open. There was light enough for him to withdraw some money +from a safe hiding-place he had constructed in his crazy old hut, and to +make up a packet of most of the clothing he possessed. There were +between twenty and thirty pounds in gold pieces of twenty francs +each—the only money he was master of now his Lucerne bankers had failed +him. A vague purpose, dimly shaping itself, was in his brain, but he was +in no hurry to see it take definite form. With his small bundle of +clothes and his leathern purse he started off in the earliest rays of +the dawn to escape being visited by the young English girl, whom he had +seen at the grave, and who would probably seek him out in the morning +with her father. Who they were he could find out if he himself returned +to Engelberg.</p> + +<p><i>If</i> he returned; for, as he ascended the steep path leading up to the +Trübsee Alp, he turned back to look at the high mountain-valley where he +had dwelt so long, as though he was looking upon it for the last time. +It seemed to him as if he was awaking out of a long lethargy and +paralysis. Three days ago the dull round of incessant toil and +parsimonious hoarding had been abruptly broken up by the loss of all he +had toiled for and hoarded up, and the shock had driven him out like a +maniac, to wander about the desolate heights of Engelberg in a mood +bordering on despair, which had made him utterly reckless of his life. +Since then news had come to him from home—stray gleams from the +Paradise he had forfeited. Strongest of them all was the thought that +these fourteen years had transformed his little son Felix into a man, +loving as he himself had loved, and already called to take his part in +the battle of life. He had never realized this before, and it stirred +his heart to the very depths. His children had been but soft, vague +memories to him; it was Felicita who had engrossed all his thought. All +at once he comprehended that he was a father, the father of a son and +daughter, who had their own separate life and career. A deep and +poignant interest in these beings took possession of him. He had called +them into existence; they belonged to him by a tie which nothing on +earth, in heaven, or in hell itself could destroy. As long as they lived +there must be an indestructible interest for him in this world. Felicita +was no longer the first in his thoughts.</p> + +<p>The dim veil which time had drawn around them was rent asunder, and they +stood before him bathed in light, but placed on the other side of a gulf +as fathomless, as impassable, and as death-like as the ice-crevasses +yawning at his feet. He gazed down into the cold, gleaming abyss, and +across it to the sharp and slippery margin where there could be no +foot-hold, and he pictured to himself the springing across that horrible +gulf to reach them on the other side, and the falling, with outstretched +hands and clutching fingers, into the unseen icy depths below him. For +the first time in his life he shrank back shivering and terror-stricken +from the edge of the crevasse, with palsied limbs and treacherous +nerves. He felt that he must get back into safer standing-ground than +this solitary and perilous glacier.</p> + +<p>He reached at last a point of safety, where he could lie down and let +his trembling limbs rest awhile. The whole slope of the valley lay below +him, with its rich meadows of emerald green, and its silvery streams +wandering through them. Little farms and chalets were dotted about, some +of them clinging to the sides of the rocks opposite to him, or resting +on the very edge of precipices thousands of feet deep, and looking as if +they were about to slip over them. He felt his head grow giddy as he +looked at them, and thought of the children at play in such dangerous +playgrounds. There were a few gray clouds hanging about the Titlis, and +caught upon the sharp horns of the rugged peaks around the valley. Every +peak and precipice he knew; they had been his refuge in the hours of his +greatest anguish. But these palsied limbs and this giddy head could not +be trusted to carry him there again. He had lost his last hope of making +any atonement. Hope was gone; was he to lose his indomitable courage +also? It was the last faculty which made his present life endurable.</p> + +<p>He lay motionless for hours, neither listening nor looking. Yet he +heard, for the memory of it often came back to him in after years, the +tinkling of innumerable bells from the pastures below him, and around +him; and the voices of many waterfalls rushing down through the +pine-forests into the valley; and the tossing to and fro of the +interwoven branches of the trees. And he saw the sunlight stealing from +one point to another, chased by the shadows of the clouds, that gathered +and dispersed, dimming the blue sky for a little time, and then leaving +it brighter and deeper than before. He was unconscious of it all; he was +even unaware that his brain was at work at all, until suddenly, like a +flash, there rose upon him the clear, resolute, unchangeable +determination, "I will go to England."</p> + +<p>He started up at once, and seized his bundle and his alpenstock. The +afternoon was far advanced, but there was time enough to reach the +Engstlenalp, where he could stay the night, and go on in the morning to +Meiringen. He could be in England in three days.</p> + +<p>Three days: so short a time separated him from the country and the home +from which he had been exiled so many years. Any day during those +fourteen years he might have started homeward as he was doing now; but +there had not been the irresistible hunger in his heart that at this +moment drove him thither. He had been vainly seeking to satisfy himself +with husks; but even these, dry and empty, and bitter as they were, had +failed him. He had lost all; and having lost all, he was coming to +himself.</p> + +<p>There was not the slightest fear of detection in his mind. A gray-haired +man with bowed shoulders, and seamed and marred face, who had lost every +trace of the fastidiousness, which had verged upon foppery in the +handsome and prosperous Roland Sefton, ran no risk of recognition, more +especially as Roland Sefton had been reckoned among the dead and buried +for many a long year. The lineaments of the dead die with them, however +cunningly the artist may have used his skill to preserve them. The face +is gone, and the memory of it. Some hearts may long to keep it engraven +sharp and clear in their remembrance; but oh, when the "inward eye" +comes to look for it how dull and blurred it lies there, like a +forgotten photograph which has grown faded and stained in some +seldom-visited cabinet!</p> + +<p>Jean Merle travelled, as a man of his class would travel, in a +third-class wagon and a slow train; but he kept on, stopping nowhere for +rest, and advancing as rapidly as he could, until on the third day, in +the gray of the evening, he saw the chalk-line of the English coast +rising against the faint yellow light of the sunset; and as night fell +his feet once more trod upon his native soil.</p> + +<p>So far he had been simply yielding to his blind and irresistible longing +to get back to England, and nearer to his unknown children. He had heard +so little of them from Alice Pascal, that he could no longer rest +without knowing more. How to carry out his intention he did not know, +and he had hardly given it a thought. But now, as he strolled slowly +along the flat and sandy shore for an hour or two, with the darkness +hiding both sea and land from him, except the spot on which he stood, he +began to consider what steps he must take to learn what he wanted to +know, and to see their happiness afar off without in any way endangering +it. He had purchased it at too heavy a price to be willing to place it +in any peril now.</p> + +<p>That Felicita had left Riversborough he had heard from her own lips, but +there was no other place where he was sure of discovering her present +abode, for London was too wide a city, even if she had carried out her +intention of living there, for him to ascertain where she dwelt. Phebe +Marlowe would certainly know where he could find them, for the English +girl at Roland Sefton's grave had spoken of Phebe as familiarly as of +Felix and Hilda—spoken of her, in fact, as if she was quite one of the +family. There would be no danger in seeking out Phebe Marlowe. If his +own mother could not have recognized her son in the rugged peasant he +had become, there was no chance of a young girl such as Phebe had been +ever thinking of Roland Sefton in connection with him; and he could +learn all he wished to know from her.</p> + +<p>He was careful to take the precaution of exchanging his foreign garb of +a Swiss peasant for the dress of an English mechanic. The change did not +make him look any more like his old self, for there was no longer any +incongruity in his appearance. No soul on earth knew that he had not +died many years ago, except Felicita. He might saunter down the streets +of his native town in broad daylight on a market-day, and not a +suspicion would cross any brain that here was their old townsman, Roland +Sefton, the fraudulent banker.</p> + +<p>Yet he timed his journey so as not to reach Riversborough before the +evening of the next day; and it was growing dusk when he paced once more +the familiar streets, slowly, and at every step gathering up some sharp +reminiscence of the past. How little were they changed! The old +grammar-school, with its gray walls and mullioned windows, looked +exactly as it had done when he was yet a boy wearing his college-cap and +carrying his satchel of school-books. His name, he knew, was painted in +gold on a black tablet on the walls inside as a scholar who had gained +a scholarship. Most of the shops on each side of the streets bore the +same names and looked but little altered. In the churchyard the same +grave-stones were standing as they stood when he, as a child, spelt out +their inscriptions through the open railings which separated them from +the causeway. There was a zigzag crack in one of the flag-stones, which +was one of his earliest recollections; he stood and put his clumsy boot +upon it as he had often placed his little foot in those childish years, +and leaning his head against the railings of the churchyard, where all +his English forefathers for many a generation were buried, he waited as +if for some voice to speak to him.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the bells in the dark tower above him rang out a peal, clanging +and clashing noisily together as if to give him a welcome. They had rung +so the day he brought Felicita home after their long wedding journey. It +was Friday night, the night when the ringers had always been used to +practise, in the days when he was churchwarden. The pain of hearing them +was intolerable; he could bear no more that night. Not daring to go on +and look at the house where he was born, and where his children had been +born, but which he could never more enter, he sought out a quiet inn, +and shut himself up in a garret there to think, and at last to sleep.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIIa" id="CHAPTER_XIIa"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2> + +<h3>A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE.</h3> + + +<p>I cannot tell whether it was fancy merely, but the morning light which +streamed into his room seemed more familiar and home-like to him than +it had ever done in Switzerland. He was awakened by one of those sounds +which dwell longest in the memory—the chiming of the church bells +nearest home, which in childhood had so often called to him to shake off +his slumbers, and which spoke to him now in sweet and friendly tones, as +if he was still an innocent child. The tempest-tossed, sinful man lay +listening to them for a minute or two, half asleep yet. He had been +dreaming that he was in truth dead, but that the task assigned to him +was that of an invisible guardian and defender to those who had lost +him. He had been present all these years with his wife, and mother, and +children, going out and coming in with them, hearing all their +conversation, and sharing their family life, but himself unseen and +unheard, felt only by the spiritual influence he could exercise over +them. It had been a blissful dream, such as had never visited him in his +exile; and as the familiar chiming of the bells, high up in the belfry +not far from his attic, fell upon his ear, the dream for a brief moment +gathered a stronger sense of reality.</p> + +<p>It was with a strange feeling, as if he was himself a phantom mingling +with creatures of flesh and blood, that he went out into the streets. +His whole former life lay unrolled before him, but there was no point at +which he could touch it. Every object and every spot was commonplace, +yet invested with a singular and intense significance. Many a man among +the townsfolk he knew by name and history, whose eyes glanced at him as +a stranger, with no surprise at his appearance, and no show of suspicion +or of welcome. Certainly he was nothing but a ghost revisiting the +scenes of a life to which there was no possible return. Yet how he +longed to stretch out his hand and grasp those of these old towns-people +of his! Even the least interesting of the shopkeepers in the streets, +bestirring themselves to meet the business of a new day, seemed to him +one of the most desirable of companions.</p> + +<p>His heart was drawing him to Whitefriars Road, to that spot on earth of +all others most his own, but his resolution failed him whenever he +turned his face that way. He rambled into the ancient market square, +where stood a statue of his Felicita's great uncle, the first Baron +Riversdale. The long shadow of it fell across him as he lingered to look +in at a bookseller's window. He and the bookseller had been +school-fellows together at the grammar-school, and their friendship had +lasted after each was started in his own career. Hundreds of times he +had crossed this door-sill to have a chat with the studious and quiet +bookworm within whose modest life was so great a contrast with his own. +Jean Merle stopped at the well-remembered shop-window.</p> + +<p>His eyes glanced aimlessly along the crowded shelves, but suddenly his +attention was arrested, and his pulses, which had been beating somewhat +fast, throbbed with eager rapidity. A dozen volumes or more, ranged +together, were labelled, "Works by Mrs. Roland Sefton." Surprise, and +pride, and pleasure were in the rapid beatings of his heart. By +Felicita! He read over the titles with a new sense of delight and +admiration; and in the first glow of his astonishment he stepped quickly +into the shop, with erect head and firm tread, and found himself face +to face with his old school-fellow. The sight of his blank, +unrecognizing gaze brought him back to the consciousness of the utter +change in himself. He looked down at his coarse hands and mechanic's +dress, and remembered that he was no longer Roland Sefton. His tongue +was parched; it was difficult to stammer out a word.</p> + +<p>"Do you want anything, my good man?" asked the bookseller quietly.</p> + +<p>There was something in the words "my good man" that brought home to him +at once the complete separation between his former life and the present, +and the perfect security that existed for him in the conviction that +Roland Sefton was dead. With a great effort he commanded himself, and +answered the bookseller's question collectedly.</p> + +<p>"There are some books in the window by Mrs. Roland Sefton," he said, +"how much are they?"</p> + +<p>"That is the six shilling edition," replied the bookseller.</p> + +<p>Jean Merle was on the point of saying he would take them all, but he +checked himself. He must possess them all, and read every line that +Felicita had ever written, but not now, and not here.</p> + +<p>"Which do you think is the best?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"They are all good," was the answer; "we are very proud of Mrs. Roland +Sefton, who belongs to Riversborough. That is her great uncle yonder, +the first Lord Riversdale; and she married a prominent townsman, Roland +Sefton, of the Old Bank. I have a soiled copy or two, which I could sell +to you for half the price of the new ones."</p> + +<p>"She is famous then?" said Jean Merle.</p> + +<p>"She has won her rank as an author," replied the bookseller. "I knew her +husband well, and he always foretold that she would make her mark; and +she has. He died fourteen years ago; and, strange to say, there was +something about your step as you came in which reminded me of him. Do +you belong to Riversborough?"</p> + +<p>"No," he answered; "but my name is Jean Merle, and I am related to +Madame Sefton, his mother. I suppose there is some of the same blood in +Roland Sefton and me."</p> + +<p>"That is it," said the bookseller cordially. "I thought you were a +foreigner, though you speak English so well."</p> + +<p>"There was some mystery about Roland Sefton's death?" remarked Jean +Merle.</p> + +<p>"No, no; at least not much," was the answer. "He went away on a long +holiday, unluckily without announcing it, on account of bank business; +but Mr. Clifford, the senior partner, was on his way to take charge of +affairs. There was but one day between Roland Sefton's departure and Mr. +Clifford's arrival, but during that very day, for some reason or other +unknown, the head clerk committed suicide, and there was a panic and a +run upon the bank. Unfortunately there was no means of communicating +with Sefton, who had started at once for the continent. Mr. Clifford did +not see any necessity for his return, as the mischief was done; but just +as his six months' absence was over—not all holiday, as folks said, for +there was foreign business to see after—he died by accident in +Switzerland. I knew the truth better than most people; for Mr. Clifford +came here often, and dropped many a hint. Some persons still say the +police were seeking for Roland; but that is not true. It was an +unfortunate concatenation of circumstances."</p> + +<p>"You knew him well?" said Jean Merle.</p> + +<p>"Yes; we were school-fellows and friends," answered the bookseller, "and +a finer fellow never breathed. He was always eager to get on, and to +help other people on. We have not had such a public-spirited man amongst +us since he died. It cuts me to the heart when anybody pretends that he +absconded. Absconded! Why! there were dozens of us who would have made +him welcome to every penny we could command. But I own appearances were +against him, and he never came back to clear them up, and prove his +innocence."</p> + +<p>"And this is his wife's best book," said Jean Merle, holding it with +shaking, nerveless hands. Felicita's book! The tears burned under his +eyelids as he looked down on it.</p> + +<p>"I won't say it is the best; it is my favorite," replied the bookseller. +"Her son, Felix Sefton, a clergyman now, was in here yesterday, asking +the same question. If you are related to Madame Sefton, you'll be very +welcome at the Old Bank; and you'll find both of Madame's grand-children +visiting old Mr. Clifford. I'll send one of my boys to show you the +house."</p> + +<p>"Not now," said Jean Merle. If Mr. Clifford was living yet he must be +careful what risks he ran. Hatred has eyes as keen as love; and if any +one could break through his secret it would be the implacable old man, +who had still the power of sending him to a convict prison.</p> + +<p>A shudder ran through him at the dread idea of detection. What would it +be to Felicita now, when her name was famous, to have it dragged down to +ignominy and utter disgrace? The dishonor would be a hundred-fold the +greater for the fair reputation she had won, and the popularity she had +secured. And her children too! Worse for them past all words would it be +than if they were still little creatures, ignorant of the value of the +world's opinion. He bade the bookseller good-morning, and threaded his +way through many alleys and by-lanes of the old town until he reached a +ferry and a boat-house, where many a boat lay ready for him, as they +had always done when he was a boy. He seated himself in one of them, and +taking the oars fell down with the current to the willows under the +garden-wall of his old home.</p> + +<p>He steered his boat aside into a small creek, where the willow-wands +grew tall and thick, from which he could see the whole river frontage of +the old house. Was there any change in it? His keen, despairing gaze +could not detect one. The high tilted gables in the roof stood out clear +against the sky, with their spiral wooden rods projecting above them. +The oriel window cast its slowly moving shadow on the half-timber walls; +and the many lattice casements, with their small diamond-shaped panes, +glistened in the sun as in the days gone by. The garden-plots were +unchanged, and the smooth turf on the terraces was as green and soft as +when he ran along them at his mother's side. The old house brought to +his mind his mother rather than his wife. It was full of associations +and memories of her, with her sweet, humble, self-sacrificing nature. +There was repose and healing in the very thought of her, which seemed +to touch his anguish with a strong and soothing hand. Was there an echo +of her voice still lingering for him about the old spot where he had +listened to it so often? Could he hear her calling to him by his name, +the name he had buried irrecoverably in a foreign grave? For the first +time for many years he bent down his face upon his hands, and wept many +tears; not bitter ones, full of grief as they were. His mother was dead; +he had not wept for her till now.</p> + +<p>Presently there came upon the summer silence the sound of a young, +clear, laughing voice, calling "Phebe;" and he lifted up his head to +look once more at the house. An old man, with silvery white hair was +pacing slowly to and fro on the upper terrace, and a slight girlish +figure was beside him. That was old Clifford, his enemy; but could that +girl be Hilda? A face looked out of one of the windows, smiling down +upon this young girl, which he knew again as Phebe Marlowe's. By and by +she came down to the terrace, with a tall, fine-looking young man +walking beside her; and all three, bidding farewell to the old man, +descended from terrace to terrace, becoming every minute more distinct +to his eyes. Yes, there was Phebe; and these others must be his girl +Hilda and his son Felix. They were near to him, every word they spoke +reached his ears, and penetrated to his heart. They seemed more +beautiful, more perfect than any young creatures he had ever beheld. He +listened to them unfastening the chain which secured the boat, and to +the creaking of the row-locks as they fitted the oars into them. It was +as if one of his own long-lost days was come back again to earth, when +he had sat where Felix was now sitting, with Felicita instead of Hilda +dipping her little white hand into the water. He had scarcely eyes for +Phebe; but he was conscious that she was there, for Hilda was speaking +to her in a low voice which just reached him. "See," she said, "that man +has one of my mother's books! And he is quite a common man!"</p> + +<p>"As much a common man, perhaps, as I am a common woman," answered Phebe, +in a gentle though half-reproving tone.</p> + +<p>As long as his eyes could see them they were fastened upon the receding +boat; and long after, he gazed in the direction in which they had gone. +He had had the passing glimpse he longed for into the Paradise he had +forfeited. This had been his place, appointed to him by God, where he +could have served God best, and served Him in as perfect gladness and +freedom as the earth gives to any of her children. What lot could have +been more blessed? The lines had fallen unto him in pleasant places; he +had had a goodly heritage, and he had lost it through grasping +dishonestly at a larger share of what this world called success. The +madness and the folly of his sin smote him with unutterable bitterness.</p> + +<p>He could bear to look at it no longer. The yearning he had felt to see +his old home was satisfied; but the satisfaction seemed an increase of +sorrow. He would not wait to witness the return of his children. The old +man was gone into the house, and the garden was quiet and deserted. With +weary strokes he rowed back again up the river; and with a heavier +weight of sorrow and a keener consciousness of sin he made his way +through the streets so familiar to his tread. It was as if no eye saw +him, and no heart warmed to him in his native town. He was a stranger in +a strange place; there was none to say to him, here or elsewhere on +earth, "You are one of us."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIIIa" id="CHAPTER_XIIIa"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> + +<h3>A LONDON GARRET.</h3> + + +<p>There was one other place he must see before he went out again from this +region of many memories, to which all that he could call life was +linked—the little farmstead on the hills, which, of all places, had +been his favorite haunt when a boy, and which had been the last spot he +had visited before fleeing from England. Phebe Marlowe he had seen; if +he went away at once he could see her home before her return to it. Next +to his mother and his wife, he knew that Phebe was most likely to +recognize him, if recognition by any one was possible. Most likely old +Marlowe was dead; but if not, his senses would surely be too dull to +detect him.</p> + +<p>The long, hot, white highway, dusty with a week's drought, carried back +his thoughts so fully to old times that he walked on unconscious of the +noontide heat and the sultriness of the road. Yet when he came to the +lanes, green overhead and underfoot, and as silent as the +mountain-heights round Engelberg, he felt the solace of the change. All +the recollections treasured up in the secret cells of memory were +springing into light at every step; and these were remembrances less +bitter than those the sight of his lost home had called to mind. He felt +himself less of a phantom here, where no one met him or crossed his +path, than in the streets where many faces looking blankly at him wore +the well-known features of old comrades. By the time he gained the +moorlands, and looked across its purple heather and yellow gorse, his +mind was in a healthier mood than it had been for years. The low +thatched roof of the small homestead, and the stunted and twisted trees +surrounding it, seemed like a possible refuge to him, where for a little +while he might find shelter from the storm of life. He pressed on with +eagerness, and found himself quickly at the door, which he had never met +with fastened.</p> + +<p>But it was locked now. After knocking twice he tried the latch, but it +did not open. He went to the little window, uncurtained as usual and +peered in, but all was still and dark; there was not a glimmer of light +on the hearth, where he had always seen some glimmering embers. There +was no sign of life about the place; no dog barking, no sheep bleating, +or fowls fluttering about the little farm-yard. All the innocent, +joyous gayety of the place had vanished; yet he could see that it was +not falling into decay; the thatch was in repair, the dark interior, +dimly visible through the window, was as it used to be. It was not a +ruin, but it was not a home. A home might have received him with its +hospitable walls, or a ruin might have given him an hour's shelter. But +Phebe's door was shut against him, though it would have done him good to +stand within it once more, a penitent man.</p> + +<p>He was turning away sadly, when a loud rustic voice called to him; and +Simon Nixey, almost hidden under a huge load of dried ferns, came into +sight. Jean Merle stepped down the stone causeway of the farm-yard to +open the gate for him.</p> + +<p>"What are you doing here?" he inquired suspiciously.</p> + +<p>"A wood-carver, called old Marlowe, used to live here," he answered, +"what has become of him?"</p> + +<p>"Dead!" said Simon; "dead this many a year. Why, if you know anything +you ought to know that."</p> + +<p>"What did he die of?" asked Jean Merle.</p> + +<p>"A broken heart, if ever man did," answered Simon; "he'd saved a mint o' +money by scraping and moiling; and he lost it all when there was a run +on the Old Bank over thirteen years ago. He couldn't talk about it like +other folks, poor old Dummy! and it struck inwards, as you may say. It +killed him as certain as if they'd shot a bullet into him."</p> + +<p>Jean Merle staggered as if Simon had struck him a heavy blow. He had not +thought of anything like this, old Marlowe dying broken-hearted, and +Phebe left alone in the world. Simon Nixey seemed pleased at the +impression his words had produced.</p> + +<p>"Ay!" he said, "it was hard on old Marlowe; and drove my cousin, John +Nixey, into desperate ways o' drinking. Not but all the money was paid +up; only it was too late for them two. Every penny was paid, so as folks +had nothing to say against the Old Bank. Only money won't bring a dead +man back to life again. I offered Phebe to make her my wife before I +knew it'ud be paid back; but she always said no, till I grew tired of +it, and married somebody else."</p> + +<p>"And where is she now?" inquired Jean Merle.</p> + +<p>"Oh! she's quite the fine lady," answered Simon. "Mrs. Roland Sefton, +Lord Riversdale's daughter that was, took quite a fancy to her, and had +her to live with her in London; not as a servant, you know, but as a +friend; and she paints pictures wonderful. My mother, who lives +housekeeper with Mr. Clifford, hears say she can get sixty pounds or +more for one likeness. Think of that now! If she'd been my wife what a +fortune she'd have been to me!"</p> + +<p>"Has she sold this place?" asked Jean Merle.</p> + +<p>"There it is," he replied; "she gave her father a faithful promise never +to part with it, or I'd have bought it myself. She comes here once a +year with Miss Hilda and Mr. Felix, and they stay a week or two; and +it's shut up all the rest of the time. I've got the key here if you'd +like to look inside at old Dummy's carving."</p> + +<p>How familiar, yet how different, the interior of the cottage seemed! He +knew all these carvings, curious and beautiful, which lined the walls +and decorated every article of the old oak furniture. But the hearth was +cold, and there was no pleasant disorder about the small house telling +its story of daily work. In the deep recess of the window-frame, where +the western sun was already shining, stood old Marlowe's copy of a +carved crucifix, which he had himself once brought from the Tyrol, and +lent to him before finding a place for it in his own home. The sacred +head was bowed down so low as to be almost hidden under the shadow of +the crown of thorns. At the foot of the cross, in delicately small old +English letters, the old man had carved the words, "Come unto me all ye +that be weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He remembered +pointing out the mistake that he had made to old Marlowe.</p> + +<p>"I like it best," said the dumb man; "I have often been weary, but not +with labor; weary of myself, weary of the world, weary of life, weary of +everything but my Phebe. That is what Christ says to me."</p> + +<p>Jean Merle could see the old man's speaking face again, and the fingers +moving less swiftly when spelling out the words to him, than when he was +talking to Phebe. Weary! weary! was it not so with him? Could any man on +earth be more weary than he was?</p> + +<p>He loitered back to Riversborough through the cool of the evening, with +the pale stars shining dimly in the twilight of the summer sky; +pondering, brooding over what he had seen and heard that day. He had +already done much of what he had come to England to do; but what next? +What was the path he ought to take now? He was in a labyrinth, where +there were many false openings leading no-whither; and he had no clue to +guide him. All these years he had lain as one dead in the coil he had +wound about himself, but now he was living again. There was agony in the +life that he had entered into, but it was better than the apathy of his +death in life.</p> + +<p>He returned to London, and hired a garret for a small weekly rent, where +he would lodge until he could resolve what to do. But week after week +passed without bringing to his mind the solution of the problem. +Remorse had given place to repentance; but despair had not been +succeeded by hope. There was nothing to hope for. The irrevocable past +stood between him and any reparation for his sin which his soul +earnestly desired to make. An easy thing, and light, it would have been +to put himself into the power of his enemy, Mr. Clifford, and bear the +penalty of the law. He had suffered a hundred fold more than justice +would have exacted. The broken law demanded satisfaction, and it would +have been a blessed relief to him to give it. But that could never be. +He could never bear the penalty of his crime without dragging Felicita +into depths of shame and suffering deeper than they would have been if +he had borne it at first. The fame she had won for herself would lift up +his infamy and hers to the intolerable gaze of a keen and bitter +publicity. He must blacken her fair reputation if he sought to appease +his own conscience.</p> + +<p>He made no effort to find out where she and his children were living. +But one after another, in the solitude of his garret, he read every book +Felicita had written. They gave him no pleasure, and awoke in him no +admiration, for he read them through different eyes from her other +readers. There was great bitterness of soul for him in many of the +sentences she had penned; now and then he came upon some to which he +alone held the true key. He felt that he, her husband, was dwelling in +her mind as a type of subtle selfishness and weak ambition. When she +depicted a good or noble character it was almost invariably a woman, not +a man; it was never a man past his early manhood. However varied their +circumstances and temperaments, they were in the main worldly and mean; +sometimes they were successful hypocrites, deceiving those nearest and +dearest to them.</p> + +<p>It was a wholesome penance to him, perhaps, but it shook and troubled +his soul to its very depths. His sin had ruined the poor weakminded +drunkard, John Nixey, and hastened the end of dumb old Marlowe; these +consequences of it must, at any time, have clouded his own after-life. +But it had also wrought a baneful change in the spirit of the woman whom +he loved. It was he who had slain within her the hope, and the love, and +the faith in her fellow-men which had been needed for the full +perfecting of her genius.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIVa" id="CHAPTER_XIVa"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> + +<h3>HIS FATHER'S SIN.</h3> + + +<p>When Felix returned from his brief and clouded holiday to his work in +that corner of the great vineyard, so overcrowded with busy husbandmen +that they were always plucking up each others' plants, and pruning and +repruning each others' vines, till they made a wilderness where there +should have been a harvest, he found that his special plot there had +suffered much damage. John Nixey, following up the impression he had so +successfully made, had spread his story abroad, and found ears willing +to listen to it, and hearts willing to believe it. The small Provident +Club, instituted by Felix to check the waste and thriftlessness of the +people, had already, in his short absence, elected another treasurer of +its scanty funds; and the members who formed it, working men and women +who had been gathered together by his personal influence, treated him +with but scant civility. His evening lectures in the church +mission-house were sometimes scarcely attended, whilst on other days +there was an influx of hearers, among whom John Nixey was prominent, +with half-a-dozen rough and turbulent fellows like himself, hangers-on +at the nearest spirit-vaults, who were ready for any turn that might +lead to a row. The women and children who had been accustomed to come +stayed away, or went to some other of the numerous preaching-places, as +though afraid of this boisterous element in his little congregation.</p> + +<p>Now and then, too, he heard his name called out aloud in the streets by +some of Nixey's friends, as he passed the prospering gin-palaces with +their groups of loungers about the doors; but though he could catch the +sound of the laugh and the sneer that followed him, he could take no +notice. He could not turn round in righteous indignation and tell the +fellows, and the listening bystanders, that what they said of his father +was a lie. The poor young curate, with his high hopes and his +enthusiastic love of the work he had chosen for the sake of his +fellow-men, was compelled to pass on with bowed head, and silent lips, +and a heart burdened with the conviction that his influence was +altogether blighted and uprooted.</p> + +<p>"It isn't true, sir, is it, what folks are tellin' about your father?" +was a question put to him more than once, when he entered some squalid +home, in the hope of giving counsel, or help, or comfort. There was +something highly welcome and agreeable to these people, themselves +thieves or bordering on thievedom, in the idea that this fine, handsome, +gentlemanly young clergyman, who had set to work among them with so much +energy and zeal, was the son of a dishonest rogue, who ought to have +been sent to jail as many of them had been. Felix had not failed to make +enemies in the Brickfields by his youthful intolerance of idleness, +beggary, and drunkenness. The owners of the gin-palaces hated him, and +not a few of the rival religious sects were, to say the least, +uncharitably disposed towards one who had drawn so many of their +followers to himself. There was very little common social interest in +the population of the district, for the tramping classes of the lowest +London poor, such as were drawn to the Brickfields by its overflowing +charities, have as little cohesion as a rope of sand; but Felix was so +conspicuous a figure in its narrow and dirty streets, that even +strangers would nudge one another's elbows, and almost before he was +gone by narrate Nixey's story, with curious additions and alterations.</p> + +<p>It was gall and wormwood to Felix that he was unable to contradict the +story in full. He could say that his father had never been a convict; +but no inducement on earth could have wrung from him the declaration +that his father had never been guilty of fraud. Sometimes he wondered +whether it would not be well to own the simple truth, and endure the +shame: if he had been the sole survivor of his father's sin this he +would have done, and gone on toilsomely regaining the influence he had +lost. But the secret touched his mother even more closely than himself, +and Hilda was equally concerned in it. It had been sacredly kept by +those older than he was, and it was not for him to betray it. "My poor +mother!" he called her. Never, before he learned the secret burden she +had borne, had he called her by that tender and pitiful epithet; but as +often as he thought of her now his heart said, "My poor mother!"</p> + +<p>As soon as Canon Pascal returned to England Felix took a day's holiday, +and ran down by train to the quiet rectory in Essex, where he had spent +the greater portion of his boyhood. Only a few years separated him from +that careless and happiest period of his life; yet the last three months +had driven it into the far background. He almost smiled at the +recollection of how young he was half-a-year ago, when he had declared +his love for Alice. How far dearer to him she was now than then! The one +letter he had received from her, written in Switzerland, and telling him +in loving detail of her visit to his father's grave, would be forever +one of his most precious treasures. But he was not going to share his +blemished name with her. He had had nothing worthy of her, or of his +father, to lay at her feet, whilst he was yet in utter ignorance of the +shame he had inherited; and now? He must never more think of her as his +wife.</p> + +<p>She was at home, he knew; but he sternly forbade himself to seek for +her. It was Canon Pascal he had come down to see, and he went straight +on to his well-known study. He was busy in the preparation of next +Sunday's sermons, but at the sight of Felix's dejected, unsmiling face, +he swept away his books and papers with one hand, whilst he stretched +out his hand to give him such a warm, strong, hearty grip as he might +have given to a drowning man.</p> + +<p>"What is it, my son?" he asked.</p> + +<p>There was such a full sympathetic tone in the friendly voice speaking to +him, that Felix felt his burden already shared, and pressing less +heavily on his bruised spirit. He stood a little behind Canon Pascal, +with his hand upon his shoulder, as he had often placed himself before +when he was pleading for some boyish indulgence, or begging pardon for +some boyish fault.</p> + +<p>"You have been like a true father to me, and I come to tell you a great +trouble," he began in a tremulous voice.</p> + +<p>"I know it, my boy," replied Canon Pascal; "you have found out how true +it is, 'The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are +set on edge.' Ah! Felix, life teaches us so, as well as this wise old +Book."</p> + +<p>"You know it?" stammered Felix.</p> + +<p>"Phebe told me," he interrupted, "six months since. And now you and I +can understand Felicita. There was no prejudice against our Alice in her +mind; no unkindness to either of you. But she could not bring herself to +say the truth against the husband whom she has wept and mourned over so +long. And your mother is the soul of truth and honor; she could not let +you marry whilst we were ignorant of this matter. It has been a terrible +cross to bear, and she has borne it in silence. I love and revere your +mother more than ever."</p> + +<p>"Yes!" said Felix with a sob. He had not yet seen her since coming to +this fateful knowledge; for Phebe and Hilda had joined her at the +sea-side where they were still staying. But if his father had gone down +into depths of darkness, his mother had risen so much the higher in his +reverence and love. She had become a saint and a martyr in his eyes; and +to save her from a moment's grief seemed to be a cause worth dying for.</p> + +<p>"I came to tell you all," he went on, "and to say I cannot any more hope +that you will give Alice to me. God alone knows what it costs me to give +her up: and she will suffer too for a while, a long while, I fear; for +we have grown together so. But it must be. Alice cannot marry a man who +has not even an unblemished name to offer to her."</p> + +<p>"You should ask Alice herself about that," said Canon Pascal quietly.</p> + +<p>A thrill of rapture ran through Felix, and he grasped the shoulder, on +which his hand still rested, more firmly. What! was it possible that +this second father of his knew all his disgrace and dishonor, how his +teeth were set on edge by the sour grapes which he had not eaten, and +yet was willing that Alice should share his name and his lot? There was +no fear as to what Alice would say. He recollected how Phebe spoke, as +if her thoughts dwelt more on his father's sorrow and sad death, than on +his sin; and Alice would be the same. She would cover it with a woman's +sweet charity. He could not command his voice to speak; and after a +minute's pause Canon Pascal continued—</p> + +<p>"Yes! Alice, too, knows all about it. I told her beside your father's +grave. And do you suppose she said, 'Here is cause enough for me to +break with Felix'? Nay, I believe if the sin had been your own, Alice +would have said it was her duty to share it, and your repentance. Shall +our Lord come to save sinners, and we turn away from their blameless +children? Yet I thought it must be so at first, I own it, Felix; at +first, while my eyes were blinded and my heart hardened; and I looked at +it in the light of the world. But then I be-thought me of your mother. +Shall not she make good to you the evil your father has wrought? If he +dishonored your name in the eyes of a few, she has brought honor to it, +and made it known far beyond the limits it could have been known through +him. The world will regard you as her son, not as his."</p> + +<p>"But I came also to tell you that I wish to leave the country," said +Felix. "There is a difficulty in getting young men for our colonial +work; and I am young and strong, stronger than most young men in the +Church. I could endure hardships, and go in for work that feebler men +must leave untried; you have taken care of that for me. Such a life +would be more like old Felix Merle's than a London curacy. You let your +own sons emigrate, believing that the old country is getting +over-populated; and I thought I would go too."</p> + +<p>"Why?" asked Canon Pascal, turning round in his chair, and looking up +searchingly into his face.</p> + +<p>In a few words, and in short broken sentences, Felix told him of Nixey's +charge, and the change it had wrought in the London curacy, upon which +he had entered with so much enthusiasm and delight.</p> + +<p>"It will be the same wherever I go in England," he said in conclusion; +"and I cannot face them boldly and say it is all a falsehood."</p> + +<p>"You must live it down," answered Canon Pascal; "go on, and take no +notice of it."</p> + +<p>"But it hinders my work sadly," said Felix, "and I cannot go on in the +Brickfields. There might be a row any evening, and then the story would +come out in the police-courts; and what could I say? At least, I must +give up that."</p> + +<p>For a few minutes Canon Pascal was lost in thought. If Felix was right +in his apprehension, and the whole story came out in the police-court, +there were journals pandering to public curiosity that would gladly lay +hold of any gossip or scandal connected with Mrs. Roland Sefton. Her +name would ensure its publicity. And how could Felicita endure that, +especially now that her health was affected? If the dread of disclosing +her secret to him had wrought so powerfully upon her physical and mental +constitution, what would she suffer if it became a nine days' talk for +the world?</p> + +<p>"I will get your rector to exchange curates with me till we can see our +way clear," he said. "He is Alice's godfather, you know, and will do it +willingly. I am going up to Westminster in November, and you will be +here in my place, where everybody knows your face and you know theirs. +There will be no question here about your father, for you are looked +upon as my son. Now go away, and find Alice."</p> + +<p>When Felix turned out of Liverpool Street station that evening, a tall, +gaunt-looking workman man offered to carry his bag for him. It was +filled with choice fruit from the rectory garden, grown on trees grafted +and pruned by Canon Pascal's own hands; and Felix had helped Alice to +gather it for some of his sick parishioners in the unwholesome +dwelling-places he visited.</p> + +<p>"I am going no farther than the Mansion House," he answered, "and I can +carry it myself."</p> + +<p>"You'd do me a kindness if you'd let me carry it," said the man.</p> + +<p>It was not the tone of a common loafer, hanging about the station for +any chance job, and Felix turned to look at him in the light of the +street-lamp. It was the old story, he thought to himself, a decent +mechanic from the country, out of work, and lost in this great labyrinth +of a city. He handed his bag to him and walked on along the crowded +thoroughfare, soon forgetting that he was treading the flagged streets +of a city; he was back again, strolling through dewy fields in the cool +twilight, with Alice beside him, accompanying him to the quiet little +station. He thought no more of the stranger behind him, or of the bag he +carried, until he hailed an omnibus travelling westward.</p> + +<p>"Here is your bag, sir," said the man.</p> + +<p>"Ah! I'd forgotten it," exclaimed Felix. "Good night, and thank you."</p> + +<p>He had just time to drop a shilling into his hand before the omnibus was +off. But the man stood there in front of the Mansion House, motionless, +with all the busy sea of life roaring around him, hearing nothing and +seeing nothing. This coin that lay in his hand had been given to him by +his son; his son's voice was still sounding in his ears. He had walked +behind him taking note of his firm strong step, his upright carriage and +manly bearing. It had been too swift a march for him, full of exquisite +pain and pleasure, which chance might never offer to him again.</p> + +<p>"Move on, will you?" said a policeman authoritatively; and Jean Merle, +rousing himself from his reverie, went back to his lonely garret.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVa" id="CHAPTER_XVa"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2> + +<h3>HAUNTING MEMORIES.</h3> + + +<p>Felicita was slowly recovering her strength at the sea-side. She had +never before felt so seriously shaken in health, as since she had known +of the attachment of Felix to Alice Pascal; an attachment which would +have been quite to her mind, if there was no loss of honor in allowing +it whilst she held a secret which, in all probability, would seem an +insuperable barrier in the eyes of Canon Pascal.</p> + +<p>This secret she had kept resolutely in the background of her own memory, +conscious of its existence, but never turning her eyes towards it. The +fact that it was absolutely a secret, suspected by no one, made this +more possible; for there was no gleam of cognizance in any eye meeting +hers which could awaken even a momentary recollection of it. It seemed +so certain that her husband was dead to every one but herself, that she +came at last almost to believe that it was true.</p> + +<p>And was it not most likely to be true? Through all these long years +there had come no hint to her in any way that he was living. She had +never seen or heard of any man lingering about her home where she and +her children lived, all whom Roland loved, and loved so passionately. +Certainly she had made no effort to discover whether he was yet alive; +but though it would be well for her if he was dead—a cause of rest +almost amounting to satisfaction—it was not likely that he would remain +content with unbroken and complete ignorance of how she and her children +were faring. If he had been living, surely he would have given her some +sign.</p> + +<p>There was a terrible duty now lying in her path. Before she could give +her consent to Felix marrying Alice, she must ascertain positively if +her husband was dead. Should it be so, her secret was safe, and would +die with her. Nobody need ever know of this fraud, so successfully +carried out. But if not? Then she knew in herself that her lips could +never confess the sin in which she had shared; and nothing would remain +for her to do but to oppose with all the energy and persistence possible +the marriage either of her son or daughter. And she fully believed that +neither of them would marry against her will.</p> + +<p>Her health had not permitted her hitherto to make the exertion necessary +for ascertaining this fact, on which her whole future depended—hers and +her children's. The physician whom she had consulted in London had urged +upon her the imperative necessity of avoiding all excitement and +fatigue, and had ordered her down to this dull little village of +Freshwater, where not even a brass band on the unfinished pier or the +arrival of an excursion steamer could disturb or agitate her. She had +nothing to do but to sit on the quiet downs, where no sound could +startle her, and no spectacle flutter her, until the sea-breezes had +brought back her usual tone of health.</p> + +<p>How long this promised restoration was in coming! Phebe, who watched for +it anxiously, saw but little sign of it. Felicita was more silent than +ever, more withdrawn into herself, gazing for hours upon the changeful +surface of the sea with absent eyes, through which the brain was not +looking out. Neither sound nor sight reached the absorbed soul, that was +wandering through some intricate mazes to which Phebe had no clue. But +no color came to Felicita's pale face, and no light into her dim eyes. +There was a painful and weird feeling often in Phebe's heart that +Felicita herself was not there; only the fair, frail form, which was as +insensible as a corpse, until this spirit came back to it. At such times +Phebe was impelled to touch her, and speak to her, and call her back +again, though it might be to irritability and displeasure.</p> + +<p>"Phebe," said Felicita, one day when they sat on the cliff, so near the +edge that nothing but the sea lay within the range of their sight, "how +should you feel if, instead of helping a fellow-creature to save himself +from drowning, you had thrust him back into the water, and left him, +sure that he would perish?"</p> + +<p>"But I cannot tell you how I should feel," answered Phebe, "because I +could never do it. It makes me shudder to think of such a thing. No +human being could do it."</p> + +<p>"But if you had thrust the one fellow-creature nearest to you, the one +who loved you the most," pursued Felicita, "into sin, down into a deeper +gulf than he could have fallen into but for you—"</p> + +<p>"My dear, my dear!" cried Phebe, interrupting her in a tone of the +tenderest pity. "Oh! I know now what is preying upon you. Because Felix +loves Alice it has brought back all the sorrowful past to you, and you +are letting it kill you. Listen! Let me speak this once, and then I will +never speak again, if you wish it. Canon Pascal knows it all; I told +him. And Felix knows it, and he loves you more than ever; you are dearer +to him a hundred times than you were before. And he forgives his +father—fully. God has cast his sin as a stone into the depths of the +sea, to be remembered against him no more forever!"</p> + +<p>A slight flush crept over Felicita's pale face. It was a relief to her +to learn that Canon Pascal and Felix knew so much of the truth. The +darker secret must be hidden still in the depths of her heart until she +found out whether she was altogether free from the chance of discovery.</p> + +<p>"It was right they should know," she said in a low and dreamy tone; "and +Canon Pascal makes no difficulty of it?"</p> + +<p>"Canon Pascal said to me," answered Phebe, "that your noble life and the +fame you had won atoned for the error of which Felix and Hilda's father +had been guilty. He said they were your children, brought up under your +training and example, not their father's. Why do you dwell so bitterly +upon the past? It is all forgotten now."</p> + +<p>"Not by me," murmured Felicita, "nor by you, Phebe."</p> + +<p>"No; I have never forgotten him," cried Phebe, with a passionate sorrow +in her voice. "How good he was to me, and to all about him! Yes, he was +guilty of a sin before God and against man; I know it. But oh! if he had +only suffered the penalty, and come back to us again, for us to comfort +him, and to help him to live down the shame! Possibly we could not have +done it in Riversborough; I do not know; but I would have gone with you, +as your servant, to the ends of the earth, and you would have lived +happy days again—happier than the former days. And he would have proved +himself a good man, in spite of his sin; a Christian man, whom Christ +would not have been ashamed to own."</p> + +<p>"No, no," said Felicita; "that is impossible. I never loved Roland; can +you believe that, Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered in a whisper, and with downcast eyes.</p> + +<p>"Not as I think of love," continued Felicita in a dreary voice. "I have +tried to love you all; but you seem so far away from me, as if I could +never touch you. Even Felix and Hilda, they are like phantom children, +who do not warm my heart, or gladden it, as other mothers are made happy +by their children. Sometimes I have dreamed of what life would have been +if I had given myself to some man for whom I would have forfeited the +world, and counted the loss as nothing. But that is past now, and I feel +old. There is nothing more before me; all is gray and flat and cold, a +desolate monotony of years, till death comes."</p> + +<p>"You make me unhappy," said Phebe. "Ought we not to love God first, and +man for God's sake? There is no passion in that; but there is +inexhaustible faithfulness and tenderness."</p> + +<p>"How far away from me you are!" answered Felicita with a faint smile.</p> + +<p>She turned her sad face again towards the sea, and sat silent, watching +the flitting sails pass by, but holding Phebe's hand fast in her own, as +if she craved her companionship. Phebe, too, was silent, the tears +dimming her blue eyes and blotting out the scene before her. Her heart +was very heavy and troubled for Felicita.</p> + +<p>"Will you go to Engelberg with me by-and-by?" asked Felicita suddenly, +but in a calm and tranquil tone.</p> + +<p>"To Engelberg!" echoed Phebe.</p> + +<p>"I must go there before Felix thinks of marrying," she answered in short +and broken sentences; "but it cannot be till spring. Yet I cannot write +again until I have been there; the thought of it haunts me intolerably. +Sometimes, nay, often, the word Engelberg has slipped from my pen +unawares when I have tried to write; so I shall do no more work till I +have fulfilled this duty; but I will rest another few months. When I +have been to Engelberg again, for the last time, I shall be not happy, +but less miserable."</p> + +<p>"I will go with you wherever you wish," said Phebe.</p> + +<p>It was so great a relief to have said this much to Phebe, to have broken +through so much of the icy reserve which froze her heart, that +Felicita's spirits at once grew more cheerful. The dreaded words had +been uttered, and the plan was settled; though its fulfilment was +postponed till spring; a reprieve to Felicita. She regained health and +strength rapidly, and returned to London so far recovered that her +physician gave her permission to return to work.</p> + +<p>But she did not wish to take up her work again. It had long ago lost the +charm of novelty to her, and though circumstances had compelled her to +write, or to live upon her marriage settlement, which in her eyes was to +live upon the proceeds of a sin successfully carried out, her writing +itself had become tedious to her. "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity!" +and there is much vexation of spirit, as well as weariness of the flesh, +in the making of many books. She had made enemies who were spiteful, +and friends who were exacting; she, who felt equally the irksomeness of +petty enmities and of small friendships, which, like gnats buzzing +monotonously about her, were now and then ready to sting. The sting +itself might be trivial, but it was irritating.</p> + +<p>Felicita had soon found out how limited is the circle of fame for even a +successful writer. For one person who would read a book, there were +fifty who would go to hear a famous singer or actor, and a hundred who +would crowd to see a clever acrobat. As she read more she discovered +that what she had fondly imagined were ideas originated by her own +intellect, was, in reality, the echo only of thought long since given to +mankind by other minds, in other words, often better than her own. Her +own silent claim to genius was greatly modified; she was humbler than +she had been. But she knew painfully that her name was now a +hundred-fold better known than it had been while she was yet only the +wife of a Riversborough banker. All her work for the last fourteen years +had placed it more and more prominently before the public. Any scandal +attaching to it now would be blazoned farther and wider, in deeper and +more enduring characters, than if her life as an author had been a +failure.</p> + +<p>The subtle hope, very real, vague as it was, that her husband was in +truth dead, gathered strength. The silence that had engulfed him had +been so profound that it seemed impossible he should still be treading +the same earth as herself, and wearing through its slow and commonplace +days, sleeping and waking, eating and drinking like other men. Felicita +was not superstitious, but there was in her that deep-rooted, +instinctive sense of mystery in this double life of ours, dividing our +time into sleeping and waking hours, which is often apt to make our +dreams themselves omens of importance. She had never dreamed of Roland +as she did of those belonging to her who had already passed into the +invisible world about us. His spirit was not free, perhaps, from its +earthly fetters so as to be able to visit her, and haunt her sleeping +fancies. But now she began to dream of him frequently, and often in the +daytime flashes of memory darted vividly across her brain, lighting up +the dark forgotten past, and recalling to her some word of his, or a +glance merely. It was an inward persecution from which she could not +escape, but it seemed to her to indicate that her persecutor was no more +a denizen of this world.</p> + +<p>To get rid of these haunting memories as much as possible, she made such +a change in her mode of life as astonished all about her. She no longer +shut herself up in her library; as she had told Phebe, she resolved to +write no more, nor attempt to write, until she had been to Engelberg. +She seemed wishful to attract friends to her, and she renewed old +acquaintanceships with members of her own family which she had allowed +to drop during these many years. No sooner was it evident that Felicita +Sefton was willing to come out of the extremely quiet and solitary life +she had led hitherto, and take her place in society both as Lord +Riversdale's daughter and as the author of many popular books, than the +current of fashion set towards her. She was still a remarkably lovely +woman, possessing irresistible attractions in her refined face and soft +yet distant manners, as of one walking in a trance, and seeing and +hearing things invisible and inaudible to less favored mortals. Quite +unconsciously to herself she became the lion of the season, when the +next season opened. She had been so difficult to know, that as soon as +she was willing to be known invitations poured in upon her, and her +house was invaded by a throng of visitors, many of them more or less +distantly related to her.</p> + +<p>To Hilda this new life was one of unexpected and exquisite delight. +Phebe, also, with her genuine interest in her fellow-creatures, and her +warm sympathy in all human joys and sorrows, enjoyed the change, though +it perplexed her, and caused her to watch Felicita with anxiety. Felix +saw less of it than any one, for he was down in Essex, leading the +tranquil and not very laborious life of a country curate, chafing a +little now and then at his inactivity, yet blissful beyond words in the +close daily intercourse with Alice. There was no talk of their marriage, +but they were young and together. Their happiness was untroubled.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIa" id="CHAPTER_XVIa"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> + +<h3>THE VOICE OF THE DEAD.</h3> + + +<p>In his lonely garret in the East End, Jean Merle was living in an +isolation more complete even than that of Engelberg. There he had known +at least the names of those about him, and their faces had grown +familiar to him. More than once he had been asked to help when help was +sorely needed, and he had felt, though not quite consciously, that there +was still a link or two binding him to his fellow-men. But here, an unit +among millions, who hustled him at every step, breathed the same air, +and shared the common light with him, he was utterly alone. "Isolation +is the sum total of wretchedness to man," and no man could be more +completely isolated than he.</p> + +<p>Strangely enough, his Swiss proclivities seemed to have fallen from him +like a worn-out garment. The narrow, humble existence of his peasant +forefathers, to which he had so readily adapted himself, was no longer +tolerable in his eyes. He felt all the force and energy of the life of +the great city which surrounded him. His birthright as an Englishman +presented itself to his imagination with a splendor and importance that +it had never possessed before, even in those palmy days when it was no +unthought-of honor that he might some day take his place in the House +of Commons. He called himself Jean Merle, for no other name belonged to +him; but he felt himself to be an Englishman again, to whom the life of +a Swiss peasant would be a purgatory.</p> + +<p>Other natural instincts were asserting themselves. He had been a man of +genial, social habits, glad to gather round him smiling faces and +friendly voices; and this bias of his was stirring into life and shaking +off its long stupor. He longed, with intense longing, for some mortal +ear into which he could pour the story of his sins and sufferings, and +for some human tongue to utter friendly words of counsel to him. It was +not enough to pour out his confessions before God in agonizing prayer; +that he had done, and was doing daily. But it was not all. The natural +yearning for man's forgiveness, spoken in living human speech, grew +stronger within him. There was no longer a chance for him to make even a +partial reparation of the wrong he had committed; he felt himself +without courage to begin the long conflict again. What his soul hungered +for now was to see his life through another man's eyes.</p> + +<p>But his money, economize it as he might, was slowly melting away. Unless +he could get work—and all his efforts to find it failed—it would not +do to remain in England. At Engelberg had secured a position as a wood +carver, and his livelihood was assured. There, too, he possessed a +scanty knowledge of the neighbors, and they of him. It would be his +wisest course to return there, to forget what he had been, and to draw +nearer to him the simple and ignorant people, who might yet be won over +to regard him with good-will. This must be done before he found himself +penniless as well as friendless. He set aside a certain sum, when that +was spent he must once more be an exile.</p> + +<p>Until then, it was his life to pace to and fro along the streets of +London. Somewhere in this vast labyrinth there was a home to which he +had a right; a hearth where he could plant himself and claim it for his +own. He was master of it, and of a wife, and children; he, the lonely, +almost penniless man. It would be a small thing to him to pay the +penalty the law could demand of him. A few years more or less in +Dartmoor Prison would be nothing to him, if at the end of them he saw a +home waiting for him to return to it. But he never sought to look at the +exterior even of that spot to which he had a right. He made no effort to +see Felicita.</p> + +<p>He stayed till he touched his last shilling. It was already winter, and +the short, dark days, with their thick fogs, made the wintry months +little better than one long night. To-morrow he must leave England, +never to return to it. He strayed aimlessly about the gloomy streets, +letting his feet bear him whither they would, until he found himself +looking down through the iron railings upon the deserted yard in front +of the Houses of Parliament. The dark mass of the building loomed +heavily through the yellow fog, but beyond it came the sound of bells +ringing in the invisible Abbey. It was the hour for morning prayer, and +Jean Merle sauntered listlessly onwards until he reached the northern +entrance and turned into the transept. The dim daylight scarcely lit up +the lofty arches in the roof or the farther end of the long aisles, but +he gave no heed to either. He sank down on a chair and bent his gray +head on the back of the chair before him; the sweet solemn chanting of +the white-robed choristers echoed under the roof, and the sacred and +soothing tones of prayer floated pest him. But he did not move or lift +his head. He sat there absorbed in his own thoughts, and the hours +seemed only as floating minutes to him. Visitors came and went, chatting +close beside him, and the vergers, with their quiet footsteps, came one +by one to look at this motionless, poverty-stricken form, whose face no +man could see, but nobody disturbed him. He had a right to be there, as +still, and as solitary, and as silent as he pleased.</p> + +<p>But when Canon Pascal came up the long aisle to evening prayers and saw +again the same gray head bowed down in the same despondent attitude as +he had left it in the morning, he could scarcely refrain himself from +pausing then and there, before the evening service proceeded, to speak +to this man. He had caught a momentary glimpse of his face, and it had +haunted him in his study in the interval, until he had half reproached +himself for not answering to that silent appeal its wretchedness had +made. But he had had no expectation of seeing it again.</p> + +<p>It was dark by the time the evening service was over, and Canon Pascal +hastily divested himself of his surplice, that he might not seem to +approach the stranger as a clergyman, but rather as an equal. The Abbey +was being cleared of its visitors, and the lights were being put out one +by one, when he sat down on the seat next to Jean Merle's, and laid his +hand with a gentle pressure on his arm. Jean Merle started and lifted up +his head. It was too dark for them to see each other well; but Canon +Pascal's voice was full of friendly urgency.</p> + +<p>"They are going to close the Abbey," he said; "and you've been here all +day, without food, my friend. Is there any special reason why you should +pass a long, dark winter's day in such a manner? I would be glad to +serve you if I can. Perhaps you are a stranger in London?"</p> + +<p>"I have been seeking the guidance of God," answered Jean Merle, in a +bewildered yet unutterably sorrowful voice.</p> + +<p>"That is good," replied Canon Pascal; "that is the best. But it is good +also at times to seek man's guidance. It is God, doubtless, who has sent +me to you. As His servant, I earnestly desire to serve you."</p> + +<p>"If you would listen to me under a solemn seal of secrecy!" cried Jean +Merle.</p> + +<p>"Are you a Catholic?" asked Canon Pascal. "Is it a confessor you want?"</p> + +<p>"I am not a Catholic," he answered; "but there is a strong desire in my +soul to confess. My burden would be lighter if any man would share it, +so far as to keep my secret."</p> + +<p>"Does it touch the life of any fellow-creature?" inquired Canon Pascal; +"is there any great crime in it?"</p> + +<p>"No; not what you are thinking," he said; "there is sin in it; ay, and +crime; but not a crime like that."</p> + +<p>"Then I will listen to it under a solemn promise of secrecy, whatever it +may be," replied Canon Pascal. "But the vergers are waiting to close the +Abbey. Come with me; my home is close by, within the precincts."</p> + +<p>Jean Merle had risen obediently as he spoke, but, exhausted and weary, +he staggered as he stood upon his feet. Canon Pascal drew his arm within +his own. This simple action was to him full of a friendliness to which +he had been long a stranger. To clasp another man's hand, to walk +arm-in-arm with him, he felt keenly how much of implied brotherhood was +in them. He was ready to go anywhere with Canon Pascal, almost as a +child guided and cared for by an older and wiser brother.</p> + +<p>They passed out of the Abbey into the cloisters, dimly lighted by the +lamps, which had been lit in good time this dark November evening. The +low, black-browed arches, which had echoed to the footsteps of +sorrow-stricken men for more than eight hundred years, resounded to +their tread as they walked beneath them in silence. Jean Merle suffered +himself to be led without a question, like one in a dream. There seemed +some faint reminiscence from the past of this man, with his harsh +features, and kindly, genial expression, the deep-set eyes, beaming with +a benign light from under the rugged eyebrows, and the firm yet friendly +pressure of his guiding arm; and his mind was groping about the dark +labyrinth of memory to seize his former knowledge of him, if there had +ever been any. There was a vague apprehension about him lest he should +discover that this friend was no stranger, and his tongue must be tied, +even though what he was about to say would be under the inviolable seal +of secrecy.</p> + +<p>They had not far to go, for Canon Pascal turned aside into a little +square, open to the black November sky, and stopping at a door in the +gray, old walls, opened it with a latch-key. They entered a narrow +passage, and Canon Pascal turned at once to his study, which was close +by. As he pushed open the door, he said, "Go in, my friend; I will be +with you in a moment."</p> + +<p>Jean Merle saw before him an old-fashioned room with a low ceiling. +There was no light besides the warm, red glow of a fire, which was no +longer burning with yellow flame, but which lit up sufficiently the +figure of a woman seated on a low stool on the hearth, with her head +resting on the hand that shaded her eyes. It was a figure familiar to +him in his old life—that life which lay on the other side of Roland +Sefton's grave. He had seen the same well-shaped head, with its soft +brown hair, and the round outline of the averted cheek and chin, a +thousand times in old Marlowe's cottage on the uplands, sitting in the +red firelight as she was sitting now. All the intervening years were +swept away in an instant—his bitter anguish and unavailing +repentance—the long solitude and gnawing remorse—all was swept clean +away from his mind. He felt the strength and freshness of his boyhood +come back to him, as if the breeze of the uplands was blowing softly yet +keenly across his throbbing and fevered temples. Even his voice caught +back for the moment the ring of his early youth as he stood on the +threshold, forgetting all else but the sight that filled his eyes. +"Phebe!" he cried; "little Phebe Marlowe!"</p> + +<p>The cry startled Phebe, but she did not move. It was the voice of one +long since dead that rang in her ears—dead, and faithfully mourned +over; and every nerve tingled, and her heart seemed to stay its +beating. Roland Sefton's voice! She did not doubt it or mistake it. The +call had been too real. She had answered to it too many times to be +mistaken now. In those days of utter silence, when dumb signs only had +passed between her and her father, Roland's pleasant voice had sounded +too gladly in her ears ever to be forgotten or confounded with another. +But how could she hear it now? The voice of the dead! how could it reach +her? A strange pang of mingled joy and terror paralyzed her. She sat +motionless and bewildered, with a thrill of passionate expectation +quivering through her. Let Roland speak again; she could not answer his +first call!</p> + +<p>"Phebe!" She heard the cry again; but this time the voice was low, and +lamentable, and despairing. For in the few seconds he had been standing, +arrested on the threshold, the whole past had flitted through his brain +in dismal procession. She lifted herself up slowly and mechanically from +her low seat, and turned her face reluctantly towards the spot from +which the startling call had come. In the dusky, red light stood the +form of the one friend to whom she had been faithful with the utter +faithfulness of her nature. Whence he came she knew not—she was afraid +of knowing. But he was there, himself, and not another like him. There +was a change, she could see that dimly; but not such a change as could +disguise him from her. Of late, whilst she had been painting his +portrait from memory, every recollection of him had been revived with +keener vividness. Yet the terror of beholding him again on this side of +death struck her dumb. She stretched out her hands towards him, but she +could not speak.</p> + +<p>"I must speak to Phebe Marlowe alone," said Jean Merle to Canon Pascal, +and speaking in a tone of irresistible earnestness. "I have that to say +to her which no one else can hear. She is God's messenger to me."</p> + +<p>"Shall I leave you with this stranger, Phebe?" asked Canon Pascal.</p> + +<p>She made a gesture simply; her lips were too parched to open.</p> + +<p>"My dear girl, I will stay, if you please," he said again.</p> + +<p>"No," she breathed, in a voice scarcely audible.</p> + +<p>"There is a bell close at your hand," he went on, "and I shall be within +hearing of it. I will come myself if you ring it however faintly. You +know this man?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered.</p> + +<p>She saw him look across at her with an encouraging smile; and then the +door was shut, and she was alone with her mysterious visitor.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIIa" id="CHAPTER_XVIIa"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> + +<h3>NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE.</h3> + + +<p>They stood silent for a few moments;—moments which seemed hours to +Phebe. The stranger—for who could be so great a stranger as one who +had been many years dead?—had advanced only a step or two from the +threshold, and paused as if some invisible barrier was set up between +them. She had shrunk back, and stood leaning against the wall for the +support her trembling limbs needed. It was with a vehement effort that +at last she spoke.</p> + +<p>"Roland Sefton!" she faltered.</p> + +<p>"Yes!" he answered, "I am that most miserable man."</p> + +<p>"But you died," she said with quivering lips, "fourteen years ago."</p> + +<p>"No, Phebe, no," he replied; "would to God I had died then."</p> + +<p>Once more an agony of mingled fear and joy overwhelmed her. This dear +voice, so lamentable and hopeless, so well remembered in all its tones, +told her that he was still living, whom she had mourned over so many +years. But what could this mystery mean? What had he passed through? +What was about to happen now? A tumult of thoughts thronged to her +brain. But clearest of all came the assurance that he was alive, +standing there, desolate, changed, and friendless. She ran to him and +clasped his hands in hers; stooping down and kissing them, those hard +worn hands, which he left unresistingly in her grasp. These loving, and +deferential caresses belonged to the time when she was a humble country +girl, and he the friend very far above her.</p> + +<p>"Come closer to the fire, your hands are cold, Mr. Roland," she said, +speaking in the old long-disused accent of her early days, as she might +have spoken to him while she was yet a child. She threw a few logs on +the fire, and drew up Canon Pascal's chair to the hearth for him. She +felt spell-bound; and as if she had been suddenly thrust back upon those +old times.</p> + +<p>"I am no longer Roland Sefton," he said, sinking down into the chair; +"he died, as you say, many a long year ago. Do not light the lamp, +Phebe; let us talk by the firelight."</p> + +<p>The flicker of the flames creeping round the dry wood played upon his +face, and her eyes were fastened on it. Could this man really be Roland +Sefton, or was she being tricked by her fancy? Here was a scarred and +wrinkled face, blistered and burnt by the summer's sun, and cut and +frost-bitten by the winter's cold; the hair was gray and ragged, and the +eyes far sunk in the head met her gaze with a despairing and uneasy +glance, as if he shrank from her close scrutiny. His bowed shoulders and +hands roughened by toil, and worn-out mechanic's dress, were such a +change, that perhaps, she acknowledged it reluctantly to herself, if he +had not spoken as he did she might have passed him by undiscovered.</p> + +<p>"I am Jean Merle," he said, "not Roland Sefton."</p> + +<p>"Jean Merle?" she repeated in a low, bewildered tone, "not Roland +Sefton, but Jean Merle?"</p> + +<p>But she could not be bewildered or in doubt much longer. This was Roland +indeed, the hero of her life, come back to her a broken-down, desolate, +and hopeless man. She knelt down on the hearth beside him, and laid her +hand compassionately on his.</p> + +<p>"But you are Roland himself to me!" she cried. "Oh! be quick, and tell +me all about it. Why did we ever think you were dead?"</p> + +<p>"It was best for them all," he answered. "God knows I believed it was +best. But it was a second sin, worse than the first, Phebe. I did the +man who died no wrong, for he told me as he lay dying that he had no +friends to grieve for him, and no property to leave. All he wanted was a +decent grave; and he has it, and my name with it. The grave at Engelberg +contains a stranger. And I, Jean Merle, have taken charge of it."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" cried Phebe, with a pang of dread, "how will Felicita bear it?"</p> + +<p>"Felicita has known it; she consented to it," said Jean Merle. "If she +had uttered one word against my desperate plan, I should have recoiled +from it. To be dead whilst you are yet in the body; to have eyes to see +and ears to hear with, and a thinking brain and a hungry heart, whilst +there is no sign, or sound, or memory, or love from your former life; +you cannot conceive what that is, Phebe. I was dead, yet I was too +keenly alive in Jean Merle, the poor wood-carver and miser. They thought +I was imbecile; and I was almost a madman. I could not tear myself away +from the grave where Roland Sefton was buried; but oh! what I have +suffered!"</p> + +<p>He ended with a long shuddering sigh, which pierced Phebe to the heart. +The joy of seeing him again was vanishing in the sight of his suffering; +but the thought uppermost in her mind was of Felicita.</p> + +<p>"And she has known all along that you were not dead?" she said, in a +tone of awe.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Felicita knew," he answered.</p> + +<p>"And has she never seen you, never written to you?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"She knows nothing of me," he replied. "I was to be dead to her, and to +every one else. We parted forever in Engelberg fourteen years ago this +very month. Perhaps she believes me to be dead in reality. But I could +live no longer without knowing something of you all, of Felix and Hilda; +and I came over to England in August. I have seen all of you, except +Felicita."</p> + +<p>"Oh! it was wicked! it was cruel!" sobbed Phebe, shivering. "Your mother +died, believing she was going to rejoin you; and I, oh! how I have +mourned for you!"</p> + +<p>"Have you, Phebe?" he said sorrowfully; "but Felicita has been saved +from shame, and has been successful. She is too famous now for me to +retrace my steps, and get back into truthfulness. I can find no place +for repentance, let me seek it ever so carefully and with tears."</p> + +<p>"But you have repented?" she whispered.</p> + +<p>"Before God? yes!" he answered, "and I believe He has forgiven me. But +there is no way by which I can retrieve the past. I have forfeited +everything, and I am now shut out even from the duties of life. What +ought I to have done, Phebe? There was this way to save my mother, and +my children, and Felicita; and I took it. It has prospered for all of +them; they hold a different position in the world this day than they +could have done if I had lived."</p> + +<p>"In this world, yes!" answered Phebe, with a touch of scorn in her +voice; "but cannot you see what you have done for Felicita? Oh! it would +have been better for her to have endured the shame of your first sin, +than bear such a burden of guilt. And you might have outlived the +disgrace. There are Christian people in the world who can forgive sin, +even as Christ forgives it. Even my poor father forgave it; and Mr. +Clifford, he is repenting now that he did not forgive you; it weighs him +down in his old age. It would have been better for you and Felicita if +you had borne the penalty of your crime."</p> + +<p>"And our children, Phebe?" he said.</p> + +<p>"Could not God have made it up to them?" she asked. "Did He make it +necessary for you to sin again on their account? Oh! if you had only +trusted Him! If you had only waited to see how Christ could turn even +the sins of the father into blessings for his children! They have missed +you; it may be, I cannot see clearly, they must miss you now all their +lives. It would break their hearts to learn all this. Whether they must +know it, I cannot tell."</p> + +<p>"To what end should they know it?" he said. "Don't you see, Phebe, that +the distinction Felicita has won binds us to keep this secret? It cannot +be disclosed either to her or to them. I came to tell it to the man who +brought me here under a seal of secrecy."</p> + +<p>"To Canon Pascal?" she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Pascal?" he repeated, "ay? I remember him now. It would have been +terrible to have told it to him."</p> + +<p>"Let me think about it," said Phebe, "it has come too suddenly upon me. +There must be something we ought to do, but I cannot see it yet. I must +have time to recollect it all. And yet I am afraid to let you go, lest +you should disappear again, and all this should seem like a dreadful +dream."</p> + +<p>"You care for me still, Phebe?" he answered mournfully. "No, I shall not +disappear from you; I shall hold fast by you, now you have seen me +again. If that poor wretch in hell who lifted up his eyes, being in +torments, had caught sight of some pitying angel, who would now and then +dip the tip of her finger in water and cool his tongue, would he have +disappeared from her vision? Wouldn't he rather have had a horrible +dread lest she should disappear? But you will not forsake me, Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"Never!" replied Phebe, with an intense and mournful earnestness.</p> + +<p>"Then I will go," he said, rising reluctantly to his feet. The deep +tones of the Abbey clock were striking for the second time since he had +entered Canon Pascal's study, and they had been left in uninterrupted +conversation. It was time for him to go; yet it seemed to him as if he +had still so much to pour into Phebe's ear, that many hours would not +give him time enough. Unconstrained speech had proved a source of +ineffable solace and strength to him. He had been dying of thirst, and +he had found a spring of living waters. To Phebe, and to her alone, he +was still a living man, unless sometimes Felicita thought of him.</p> + +<p>"If you are still my friend, knowing all," he said, "I shall no longer +despair. When will you see me again?"</p> + +<p>"I will come to morning service in the Abbey to-morrow," she answered.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIIIa" id="CHAPTER_XVIIIa"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> + +<h3>WITHIN AND WITHOUT.</h3> + + +<p>After speaking to Canon Pascal for a few minutes, with an agitation and +a reserve which he could not but observe, Phebe left the house to go +home. In one of the darkest corners of the cloisters she caught sight of +the figure of Jean Merle, watching for her to come out. For an instant +Phebe paused, as if to speak to him once more; but her heart was +over-fraught with conflicting emotions, whilst bewildering thoughts +oppressed her brain. She longed for a solitary walk homewards, along the +two or three miles of a crowded thoroughfare, where she could how feel +as much alone as she had ever done on the solitary uplands about her +birth-place. She had always delighted to ramble about the streets alone +after nightfall, catching brief glimpses of the great out-door +population, who were content if they could get a shelter for their heads +during the few, short hours they could give to sleep, without indulging +in the luxury of a home. When talking to them she could return to the +rustic and homely dialect of her childhood; and from her own early +experience she could understand their wants, and look at them from their +stand-point, whilst feeling for them a sympathy and pity intensified by +the education which had lifted her above them.</p> + +<p>But to-night she passed along the busy streets both deaf and dumb, +mechanically choosing the right way between the Abbey and her home, +nearly three miles away. There was only one circumstance of which she +was conscious—that Jean Merle was following her. Possibly he was afraid +in the depths of his heart that she would fail him when she came to +deliberately consider all he had told her. He wronged her, she said to +herself indignantly. Still, whenever she turned her head she caught +sight of his tall, bent figure and gray head, stealing after her at some +distance, but never losing her. So mournful was it to Phebe, to see her +oldest and her dearest friend thus dogging her footsteps, that once or +twice she paused at a street corner to give him time to overtake her; +but he kept aloof. He wished only to see where she lived, for there also +lived Felicita and Hilda.</p> + +<p>She turned at last into the square where their house was. It was +brilliantly lighted up, for Felicita was having one of her rare +receptions that evening, and in another hour or two the rooms would be +filled with guests. It was too early yet, and Hilda was playing on her +piano in the drawing-room, the merry notes ringing out into the quiet +night. There was a side door to Phebe's studio, by which she could go in +and out at pleasure, and she stood at it trying to fit her latch-key +into the lock with her trembling hands. Looking back she saw Jean Merle +some little distance away, leaning against the railings that enclosed +the Square garden.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I must run back to him! I must speak to him again!" she cried to +her own heart. In another instant she was at his side, with her hands +clasping his.</p> + +<p>"Oh!" she sobbed, "what can I do for you? This is too miserable for you; +and for me as well. Tell me what I can do."</p> + +<p>"Nothing," he answered. "Why, you make me feel as if I had sinned again +in telling you all this. I ought not to have troubled your happy heart +with my sorrow."</p> + +<p>"It was not you," she said, "you did not even come to tell me; God +brought you. I can bear it. But oh! to see you shut out, and inside, +yonder, Hilda is playing, and Felix, perhaps, is there. They will be +singing by-and-by, and never know who is standing outside, in the foggy +night, listening to them."</p> + +<p>Her voice broke into sobs, but Jean Merle did not notice them.</p> + +<p>"And Felicita?" he said.</p> + +<p>Phebe could not answer him for weeping. Just yet she could hardly bring +herself to think distinctly of Felicita; though in fact her thoughts +were full of her. She ran back to her private door, and this time opened +it readily. There was a low light in the studio from a shaded lamp +standing on the chimney-piece, which made the hearth bright, but left +all the rest of the room in shadow. Phebe threw off her bonnet and cloak +with a very heavy and troubled sigh.</p> + +<p>"What can make you sigh, Phebe?" asked a low-toned and plaintive voice. +In the chair by the fire-place, pushed out of the circle of the light, +she saw Felicita leaning back, and looking up at her. The beauty of her +face had never struck harshly upon Phebe until now; at this moment it +was absolutely painful to her. The rich folds of her velvet dress, and +the soft and costly lace of her head-dress, distinct from though +resembling a widow's cap, set off both her face and figure to the utmost +advantage. Phebe's eyes seemed to behold her more distinctly and vividly +than they had done for some years past; for she was looking through them +with a dark background for what she saw in her own brain. She was a +strikingly beautiful woman; but the thought of what anguish and dread +had been concealed under her reserved and stately air, so cold yet so +gentle, filled Phebe's soul with a sudden terror. What an awful life of +self-approved, stoical falsehood she had been living! She could see the +man, from whom she had just parted, standing without, homeless and +friendless, on the verge of pennilessness; a dead man in a living world, +cut off from all the ties and duties of the home and the society he +loved. But to Phebe he did not appear so wretched as Felicita was.</p> + +<p>She sank down on a seat near Felicita, with such a feeling of +heart-sickness and heart-faintness as she had never experienced before. +The dreariness and perplexity of the present stretched before her into +the coming years. For almost the first time in her life she felt +worn-out; physically weary and exhausted, as if her strength had been +overtaxed. Her childhood on the fresh, breezy uplands, and her happy, +tranquil temperament had hitherto kept her in perfect health. But now +she felt as if the sins of those whom she had loved so tenderly and +loyally touched the very springs of her life. She could have shared any +other burden with them, and borne it with an unbroken spirit and an +uncrushed heart. But such a sin as this, so full of woe and bewilderment +to them all, entangled her soul also in its poisonous web.</p> + +<p>"Why did you sigh so bitterly?" asked Felicita again.</p> + +<p>"The world is so full of misery," she answered, in a tremulous and +troubled voice; "its happiness is such a mockery!"</p> + +<p>"Have you found that out at last, dear Phebe?" said Felicita. "I have +been telling you so for years. The Son of Man fainting under the +Cross—that is the true emblem of human life. Even He had not strength +enough to bear His cross to the place called Golgotha. Whenever I think +of what most truly represents our life here, I see Jesus, faltering +along the rough road, with Simon behind Him, whom they compelled to bear +His cross."</p> + +<p>"He fainted under the sins of the world," murmured Phebe. "It is +possible to bear the sorrows of others; but oh! it is hard to carry +their sins."</p> + +<p>"We all find that out," said Felicita, her face growing wan and white +even to the lips. "Can one man do evil without the whole world suffering +for it? Does the effect of a sin ever die out? What is done cannot be +undone through all eternity. There is the wretchedness of it, Phebe."</p> + +<p>"I never felt it as I do now," she answered.</p> + +<p>"Because you have kept yourself free from earthly ties," said Felicita +mournfully; "you have neither husband nor child to increase your power +of suffering a hundred-fold. I am entering upon another term of +tribulation in Felix and Hilda. If I had only been like you, dear Phebe, +I could have passed through life as happily as you do; but my life has +never belonged to myself; it has been forced to run in channels made by +others."</p> + +<p>Somewhere in the house behind them a door was left open accidentally, +and the sound of Hilda's piano and of voices singing broke in upon the +quiet studio. Phebe listened to them, and thought of the desolate, +broken-hearted man without, who was listening too. The clear young +voices of their children fell upon his ears as upon Felicita's; so near +they were to one another, yet so far apart. She shivered and drew nearer +to the fire.</p> + +<p>"I feel as cold as if I was a poor outcast in the streets," she said.</p> + +<p>"And I, too," responded Felicita; "but oh! Phebe, do not you lose heart +and courage, like me. You have always seemed in the sunshine, and I have +looked up to you and felt cheered. Don't come down into the darkness to +me."</p> + +<p>Phebe could not answer, for the darkness was closing round her. Until +now there had happened no perplexity in her life which made it difficult +to decide upon the right or the wrong. But here was come a coil. The +long years had reconciled her to Roland's death, and made the memory of +him sacred and sorrowfully sweet, to be brooded over in solitary hours +in the silent depths of her loyal heart. But he was alive again, with +no right to be alive, having no explanation to give which could +reinstate him in his old position. And Felicita? Oh! what a cruel, +unwomanly wrong Felicita had been guilty of! She could not command her +voice to speak again.</p> + +<p>"I must go," said Felicita, at last. "I wish I had not invited visitors +for to-night."</p> + +<p>"I cannot come in this evening," Phebe answered; "but Felix is there, +and Canon Pascal is coming. You will do very well without me."</p> + +<p>She breathed more freely when Felicita was gone. The dimly-lighted +studio, with the canvases she was at work upon, and the pictures she had +painted hanging on the walls, and her easels standing as she had left +them three or four hours ago, when the early dusk came on, soothed her +agitated spirit now she was alone. She moved slowly about, putting +everything into its place, and feeling as if her thoughts grew more +orderly as she did so. When all was done she opened the outer door +stealthily, and peeped out. Yes; he was there, leaning against the +railings, and looking up at the brilliantly-lighted windows. Carriages +were driving up and setting down Felicita's guests. Phebe's heart cried +out against the contrast between the lives of these two. She longed to +run out and stand beside him in the darkness and dampness of the +November night. But what good could she do? she asked bitterly. She did +not dare even to ask him in to sit beside her studio fire. The same roof +could not cover him and Felicita, without unspeakable pain to him.</p> + +<p>It was late before the house was quiet, and long after midnight when the +last light was put out. That was in Phebe's bedroom, and once again she +looked out, and saw the motionless figure, looking black amidst the +general darkness, as if it had never stirred since she had seen it +first. But whilst she was gazing, with quivering mouth and tear-dimmed +eyes, a policeman came up and spoke to Jean Merle, giving him an +authoritative shake, which seemed to arouse him. He moved gently away, +closely followed by the policeman till he passed out of her sight.</p> + +<p>There was no sleep for Phebe; she did not want to sleep. All night long +her brain was awake and busy; but it found no way out of the coil. Who +can make a crooked thing straight? or undo that which has been done?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIXa" id="CHAPTER_XIXa"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> + +<h3>IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE.</h3> + + +<p>When Phebe entered Westminster Abbey the next day the morning service +was already begun. Upon the bench nearest the door sat a working-man, +in worn-out clothes, whose gray hair was long and ragged, and whose +whole appearance was one of poverty and suffering. She was passing by, +when a gleam of recognition in the dark and sunken eyes of this poor man +arrested her. Could he possibly be Roland Sefton? The night before she +had seen him only in a friendly obscurity, which concealed the ravages +time, and sorrow, and labor had effected; but now the daylight, in +revealing them, cast a chill shadow of doubt into her heart. It was his +voice she had known and acknowledged the night before; but now he was +silent, and, revealed by the daylight, she felt troubled and +distrustful. Such a man she might have met a thousand times without once +recalling to her memory the handsome, manly presence and prosperous +bearing of Roland Sefton.</p> + +<p>Yet she sat down beside him in answer to that appealing gleam in his +eyes, and as his well-known voice joined hers in the responses to the +prayers, she acknowledged him again in her heart of hearts. And now all +thought of the sacred place, and of the worship she was engaged in, fled +from her mind. She was a girl at home again, dwelling in the silent +society of her dumb father, with this voice of Roland Sefton's coming to +break the stillness from time to time, and to fill it with that sweetest +music, the sound of human speech. If he had lost every vestige of +resemblance to his former self, his voice only, calling "Phebe" as he +had done the evening before, must have betrayed him to her. Not an +accent of it had been forgotten.</p> + +<p>To Jean Merle Phebe Marlowe was little altered, save that she had grown +from a simple rustic maiden into a cultivated and refined woman. The +sweet and gentle face beside him, with the deep peaceful blue of her +eyes, and the sensitive mouth so ready to break into a smile, was the +same he had seen when, on that terrible evening so many years ago, he +had craved her help to escape from his dreaded punishment. "I will help +you, even to dying for you and yours," she had said. He remembered +vividly how mournfully the girlish fervor of her manner had impressed +him. Even now he had no one else to help him; this woman's little hand +alone could reach him in the gulf where he lay; only the simple, pitiful +wisdom of her faithful heart could find a way for him out of this misery +of his into some place of safety and peace. He was willing to follow +wherever she might guide him.</p> + +<p>"I can see only one duty before us," she said, when the service was +over, and they stood together before one of the monuments in the Abbey; +"I think Mr. Clifford ought to know."</p> + +<p>"What will he do, Phebe?" asked Jean Merle. "God knows if I had only +myself to think of I would go into a convict-prison as thankfully as if +it was the gate of heaven. It would be as the gate of heaven to me if I +could pay the penalty of my crime. But there are Felicita and my +children; and the greater shock and shame to them of my conviction now."</p> + +<p>"Yet if Mr. Clifford demanded the penalty it must even now be paid," +answered Phebe; "but he will not. One reason why he ought to know is +that he mourns over you still, day and night, as if he had been the +chief cause of your death. He reproaches himself with his implacability +both towards you and his son. But even if the old resentment should +awaken, it is right you should run the risk. Why need it be known to any +one but us two that Felicita knew you were still alive?"</p> + +<p>"If we could save her and the children I should be satisfied," said Jean +Merle.</p> + +<p>"It would kill her to know you were here," answered Phebe, looking round +her with a terrified glance, as if she expected to see Felicita; "she is +not strong, and a sudden agitation and distress might cause her death +instantly. No, she must never know. And I am not afraid of Mr. Clifford; +he will forgive you with all his heart; and he will be made glad in his +old age. I will go down with you this evening. There is a train at four +o'clock, and we shall reach Riversborough at eight. Be at the station to +meet me."</p> + +<p>"You know," said Jean Merle, "that the lapse of years does not free one +from trial and conviction? Mr. Clifford can give me into the hands of +the police at once; and to-night may see me lodged in Riversborough +jail, as if I had been arrested fourteen years ago. You know this, +Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know it, but I am not afraid of it," she answered.</p> + +<p>She had not the slightest fear of old Mr. Clifford's vindictiveness. As +she travelled down to Riversborough, with Jean Merle in a third-class +carriage of the same train, her mind was very busy with troubled +thoughts. There was an unquiet joy stirring in the secret depths of her +heart, but she was too full of anxiety and bewilderment to be altogether +aware of it. Though it was not more than twenty-four hours since she had +known otherwise, it seemed to her as if she had never believed that +Roland Sefton was dead, and it appeared incredible that the report of +his death should have received such full acceptance as it had everywhere +done. Yet though he had come back, there could be no welcome for him. To +her and to old Mr. Clifford only could this return from the grave +contain any gladness. And was she glad? she asked herself, after a long +deliberation over the difficulties surrounding this strange +reappearance. She had sorrowed for him and comforted his mother in her +mourning, and talked of him as one talks fondly of the dead to his +children; and all the sacred healing of time had softened the grief she +once felt into a tranquil and grateful memory of him, as of the friend +she had loved most, and whose care for her had most widely influenced +her life. But she could not own yet that she was glad.</p> + +<p>Old Mr. Clifford was sitting in the wainscoted dining-room, his favorite +room, when Phebe opened the door silently, and looked in with a pale and +anxious face. His sight was dim, and a blaze of light fell upon the +dark, old panels, and the old-fashioned silver tankards and bright brass +salvers on the carved sideboard. Two or three of Phebe's sunniest +pictures hung against the oaken panels. There was a blazing fire on the +hearth, and the old man, with his elbows resting on the arms of his +chair, and his hands clasped lightly, was watching the play and dance of +the flames as they shot up the chimney. Some new books lay on a table +beside him, but he was not reading. He was sitting there in utter +loneliness, with no companionship except that of his own fading +memories. Phebe's tenderness for the old man was very great; and she +paused on the threshold gazing at him pitifully; whilst Jean Merle, +standing in the hall behind her, caught a glimpse of the hearth so +crowded with memories for him, but occupied now by one desolate old man, +before the door was closed, and he was left without.</p> + +<p>"Why, it's little Phebe Marlowe!" cried Mr. Clifford gladly, looking +round at the light sound of a footstep, very different from Mrs. Nixey's +heavy tread; "my dear child, you can't tell what a pleasure this is to +me."</p> + +<p>He had risen up, and stood holding both her hands and looking fondly +into her face.</p> + +<p>"This moment I was thinking of you, my dear," he said; "I was inditing a +long letter to you in my head, which these lazy old fingers of mine +would have refused to write. Sandon, the bookseller, has been in here, +bringing these books; and he told me a queer story enough. He says that +in August last a relation of Madame Sefton's was here, in Riversborough; +and told him who he was, in his shop, where he bought one of Felicita's +books. Why didn't Sandon come here at once and tell us then, so that you +could have found him out, Phebe? You and Felix and Hilda were here. He +was a poor man, and seemed badly off; and I guess he came to inquire +after Madame. Sandon says he reminded him of Roland—poor Roland! Why, +I'd have given the poor fellow a welcome for the sake of that +resemblance; and I was just thinking how Phebe's tender heart would have +been touched by even so faint a likeness."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she murmured.</p> + +<p>"And we could have lifted him up a little; quite a poor man, Sandon +says," continued Mr. Clifford; "but sit down, my dear. There is no one +in the wide world would be so welcome to me as little Phebe Marlowe, who +refused to be my adopted daughter."</p> + +<p>He had drawn a chair close beside his own, for he would not loose her +hand, but kept it closely grasped by his thin and crooked fingers.</p> + +<p>"You have altogether forgiven Roland?" she said tremulously.</p> + +<p>"Altogether, my dear," he answered.</p> + +<p>"As Christ forgives us, bearing away our sins Himself?" she said.</p> + +<p>"As Christ forgave us," he replied, bowing his head solemnly.</p> + +<p>"And if it was possible—think it possible," she went on, "that he could +come back again, that the grave in Engelberg could give up its dead, he +would be welcome to you?"</p> + +<p>"If my old friend Sefton's son, could come back again," he said, "he +would be more welcome to me than you are, Phebe. How often do I fancy +him sitting yonder in Sefton's chair, watching me with his dear eyes!"</p> + +<p>"But suppose he had deceived us all," she continued, "if he had escaped +from your anger by another fraud; a worse fraud! If he had managed so as +to bury some one else in his name, and go on living under a false one! +Could you forgive that?"</p> + +<p>"If Roland could come back a repentant man, I would forgive him every +sin," answered Mr. Clifford, "and rejoice that I had not driven him to +seek death. But what do you mean, Phebe? why do you ask?"</p> + +<p>"Because," she answered, speaking almost in a whisper, with her face +close to his, "Roland did not die. That man, who was here in August, and +called himself Jean Merle, is Roland himself. He saw you, and all of us, +and did not dare to make himself known. I can tell you all about it. +But, oh! he has bitterly repented; and there is no place of repentance +for him in this world. He cannot come back amongst us, and be Roland +Sefton again."</p> + +<p>"Where is he?" asked the old man, trembling.</p> + +<p>"He is here; he came with me. I will go and fetch him," she answered.</p> + +<p>Mr. Clifford leaned back in his arm-chair, and gazed towards the +half-open door. His memory had gone back twenty years, to the last time +he had seen Roland Sefton, in the prime of his youth, handsome, erect, +and happy, who had made his heart ache as he thought of his own +abandoned son, lying buried in a common grave in Paris. The man whom he +saw entering slowly and reluctantly into the room behind Phebe, was +gray-headed, bent, and abject. This man paused just within the doorway, +looking not at him but round the room, with a glance full of grief and +remembrance. The eager, questioning eyes of old Mr. Clifford did not +arrest his attention, or divert it from the aspect of the old familiar +place.</p> + +<p>"No, no, Phebe!" exclaimed Mr. Clifford, "he's an impostor, my dear. +That's not my old friend's son Roland."</p> + +<p>"Would to God I were not!" cried Jean Merle bitterly, "would to God I +stood in this room as a stranger! Phebe Marlowe, this is very hard; my +punishment is greater than I can bear. All my life comes back to me +here. This place, of all other places in the world, brings my sin and +folly to remembrance."</p> + +<p>He sank down on a chair, and buried his face in his hands, to shut out +the hateful sight of the old home. He was inside his Paradise again; and +behold, it was a place of torment. There was no room in his thoughts for +Mr. Clifford, it was nothing to him that he should be called an +impostor. He came to claim nothing, not even his own name. But the +avenging memories of the past claimed him and held him fast bound. Even +last night, when in the chill darkness of the November night he had +watched the house which held Felicita and their children, his pain had +been less poignant than now, within these walls, where all his happy +life had been passed. He was unconscious of everything but his pain. He +could not hear Phebe's voice speaking for him to Mr. Clifford. He saw +and felt nothing, until a gentle and trembling hand pressing on his +shoulder feebly and as tenderly as his mother's made him look up into +the gray and agitated face of Mr. Clifford bending over him.</p> + +<p>"Roland! Roland!" he said, in a voice broken by sobs, "my old friend's +son, forgive me as I forgive you. God be thanked, you have come back +again in time for me to see you and bid you welcome. I bless God with +all my heart. It is your own home, Roland, your own home."</p> + +<p>With his feeble but eager old hands he drew him to the hearth, and +placed him in the chair close beside his own, where Phebe had been +sitting, and kept his hand upon his arm, lest he should vanish out of +his sight.</p> + +<p>"You shall tell me nothing more to-night," he said; "I am old, and this +is enough for me. It is enough that to-night you and I have pardoned +one another from 'the low depths of our hearts.' Tell me nothing else +to-night."</p> + +<p>Phebe had slipped away from them to help Mrs. Nixey to prepare a room +for Jean Merle. It was the one that had been Roland Sefton's nursery, +and the nursery of his children, and it was still occupied by Felix, +when he visited his old home. The homely hospitable occupation was a +relief to her; but in the room that she had left the two men sat side by +side in unbroken silence.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXa" id="CHAPTER_XXa"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2> + +<h3>AS A HIRED SERVANT.</h3> + + +<p>From a profound and dreamless sleep Jean Merle awoke early the next +morning, with the blessed feeling of being at home again in his +father's house. The heavy cross-beams of black oak dividing the ceiling +into panels; the low broad lattice window with a few upper panes of old +stained glass; the faded familiar pictures on the wall; these all awoke +in him memories of his earliest years. In the corner of the room, hardly +to be distinguished from the wainscot, was the high narrow door +communicating with his mother's chamber, through which he had often, how +often! seen her come in softly, on tiptoe, to take a look at him. His +own children, too, had slept there; and it was here that he had last +seen his little son and daughter before fleeing from his home a +self-accused criminal. All the happy, prosperous life of Roland Sefton +had been encompassed round by these walls.</p> + +<p>But the dead past must bury the dead. If there had ever been a deep, +buried, hidden hope, that a possible return to something of the old life +lay in the unknown future, it was now utterly uprooted. Such a return +was only possible over the ruined lives and broken hearts of Felicita +and his children. If he made himself known, though he was secure against +prosecution, the story of his former crime would revive, and spread +wider, joined with the fair name of Felicita, than it would have done +when he was merely a fraudulent banker in a country town. However true +it might be what Phebe maintained, that he might have suffered the +penalty of his sin, and afterwards retrieved the past, whilst his +children were too young to feel the full bitterness of the shame, it was +too late to do it now. The name he had dishonored was forever forfeited. +His return to his former life was hedged up on every hand.</p> + +<p>But a new courage was awaking in him, which helped him to grapple with +his despair. He would bury the dead past, and go on into the future +making the best of his life, maimed and marred as it was by his own +folly. He was still in the prime of his age, thirty years younger than +Mr. Clifford, whose intellect was as keen and clear as ever; there was a +long span of time stretching before him, to be used or misused.</p> + +<p>"Come unto Me all ye that be weary, and heavy laden, and I will give +you rest." He seemed to see the words in the quaint upright characters +in which old Marlowe had carved them under the crucifix. He had fancied +he knew what coming to Christ meant in those old days of his, when he +was reputed a religious man, and was first and foremost in all religious +and philanthropic schemes, making his trespass more terrible and +pernicious than if it had been the transgression of a worldly man. But +it was not so when he came to Christ this morning. He was a +broken-hearted man, who had cut himself off from all human ties and +affections, and who was longing to feel that he was not forsaken of the +universal Brother and Saviour. His cry was, "My soul thirsteth for thee; +my flesh longeth for thee, in a dry and weary land, where no water is." +It was his own fault that he was in the dry and weary wilderness; but +oh! if Christ would not forsake him then, would dwell with him, even in +this desert made desolate by himself, then at last he might find peace +to his soul.</p> + +<p>There was a deep inner consciousness, the forgotten but not obliterated +faith of his boyhood and youth, before the world with its pomps and +ambitions had laid its iron hand upon him, that Christ was with him, +leading him day by day, if he would but follow nearer to God. Was it +impossible to follow His guidance now? Could he not, even yet, take up +his cross, and be willing to fill any place which he could yet fill +worthily and humbly; expiating his sins against his fellow-men by truer +devotion to their service, as Jean Merle, the working-man; not as Roland +Sefton, the prosperous and fraudulent banker?</p> + +<p>This return to his father's house, and all its associations, solemn and +sacred with a peculiar sacredness and solemnity, seemed to him a pledge +that he could once more be admitted into the great brotherhood and home +of Christ's disciples. Every object on which his eye rested smote him, +but it was with the stroke of a friend. A clear and sweet light from the +past shed its penetrating rays into the darkest corners of his soul. +Forgiven! God had forgiven him; and man had forgiven him. Before him lay +an obscure and humble path; but the heaviest part of his burden was +gone. He must go heavy-laden to the end of his days, treading in rough +paths; but despair had fled, and with it the sense of being separated +from God and man.</p> + +<p>He heard the feeble yet deep old voice of Mr. Clifford outside his door +inquiring from Mrs. Nixey if Mr. Merle was gone down-stairs yet. He made +haste to go down, treading the old staircase with something of the +alacrity of former days. Phebe was in the dining-room, and the servants +came in to prayer as they had been used to do forty years ago when he +was a child. An old-world tranquillity and peacefulness was in the +familiar scene which breathed a deep calm over his tempest-tossed +spirit.</p> + +<p>"Phebe has been telling me all," said Mr. Clifford, when breakfast was +over; "tell me what can be done to save Felicita and the children."</p> + +<p>"I am Jean Merle," he answered with a melancholy smile, "Jean Merle, and +no one else. I come back with no claims, and they must never know me. +Why should I cross their path and blight it? I cannot atone for the +past in any way, except by keeping away forever from them. I shall +injure no one by continuing to be Jean Merle."</p> + +<p>"No," said Phebe, "it is too late now, and it would kill Felicita."</p> + +<p>"This morning a thought struck me," he continued, "a project for my +future life, which you can help me to put into execution, Phebe. I have +an intolerable dread of losing sight of you all again; let me be at +least somewhere in England, when you can now and then give me tidings of +my children and Felicita."</p> + +<p>"I will do anything in the world to help you," cried Phebe eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Then let me go to your little farm," he answered, "and take up your +father's life, at least for a time, until I can see how to make myself +of greater use to my fellow-men. I will till the fields as he did, and +finish the carvings he has left undone, and live his simple, silent +life. It will be good for me, and I shall not be banished from my own +country. I shall be a happier man then than I have any right to be."</p> + +<p>"Have you no fear of being recognized?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"None," he replied. "Look at me, Phebe. Should you have known me again +if I had not betrayed myself to you?"</p> + +<p>"I should have known you again anywhere," she exclaimed. But it was her +heart that cried out that no change could have concealed him from her; +there was a dread lying deep down in her conscience that she might have +passed him by with no suspicion. He shook his head in answer to her +assertion.</p> + +<p>"I will go out into the town," he continued, "and speak to half-a-dozen +men who knew me best, and there will be no gleam of recognition in their +eyes. Recollect Roland Sefton is dead, and has been dead so long that +there will be no clear memory left of him as he was then to compare with +me. And any dim resemblance to him will be fully accounted for by my +relationship to Madame Sefton. No, I am not afraid of the keenest eyes."</p> + +<p>He went out as he had said, and met his old townsmen, many of whom were +themselves so changed that he could barely recognize them. The memory of +Roland Sefton was blotted out, he was utterly forgotten as a dead man +out of mind.</p> + +<p>As Jean Merle strayed through the streets crowded with market-people +come in from the country, his new scheme grew stronger and brighter to +him. It would keep him in England, within reach of all he had loved and +had lost. The little place was dear to him, and the laborious, secluded +peasant life had a charm for him who had so long lived as a Swiss +peasant. By-and-by, he thought, the chance resemblance in the names +would merge that of Merle into the more familiar name of Marlowe; and +the identity of his pursuits with those of the deaf and dumb old man +would hasten such a change. So the years to come would pass by in labor +and obscurity; and an obscure grave in the little churchyard, where all +the Marlowes lay, would shelter him at last. A quiet haven after many +storms; but oh! what a shipwreck had he made of his life!</p> + +<p>All the morning Mr. Clifford sat in his arm-chair lost in thought, only +looking up sometimes to ply Phebe with questions. When Jean Merle +returned, his gray, meditative face grew bright, with a faint smile +shining through his dim eyes.</p> + +<p>"You are no phantom then!" he said. "I've been so used to your company +as a ghost that when you are out of sight I fancy myself dreaming. I +could not let Phebe go away lest I should feel that all this is not +real. Did any one know you again?"</p> + +<p>"Not a soul," he answered; "how could they? Mrs. Nixey herself has no +remembrance of me. There is no fear of my being known."</p> + +<p>"Then I want you to stay with me," said old Mr. Clifford eagerly; "I'm a +lonely man, seventy-seven years old, with neither kith nor kin, and it +seems a long and dreary road to the grave. I want one to sit beside me +in these long evenings, and to take care of me as a son takes care of +his old father. Could you do it, Jean Merle? I beseech you, if it is +possible, give me your services in my old age."</p> + +<p>"It will be hard for you," pleaded Phebe in a low voice, "harder than +going out alone to my little home. But you would do more good here; you +could save us from anxiety, for we are often very anxious and sorrowful +about Mr. Clifford. I can take care that you should always know before +Felix and Hilda come down. Felicita never comes."</p> + +<p>How much harder it would be for him even Phebe could not guess. To dwell +within reach of his old home was altogether different from living in it, +with its countless memories, and the unremitting stings of conscience. +To have about him all that he had lost and made desolate; the empty +home, from which all the familiar faces and beloved voices had vanished; +this lot surely was harder than the humble, laborious life of old +Marlowe on the hills. Yet if any one living had a claim upon him for +such self-sacrifice, it was this feeble, tottering old man, who was +gazing up into his face with urgent and imploring eyes.</p> + +<p>"I will stay here and be your servant," he answered, "if there appears +no reason against it when we have given it more thought."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIa" id="CHAPTER_XXIa"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> + +<h3>PHEBE'S SECRET.</h3> + + +<p>For the first time in her life those who were about Phebe Marlowe felt +that she was under a cloud. The sweet sunny atmosphere, as of a clear +and peaceful day, which seemed to surround her, had fled. She was absent +and depressed, and avoided society, even that of Hilda, who had been +like her own child to her. Towards Felicita there was a subtle change in +Phebe's manner, which could not fail to impress deeply her sensitive +temperament. She felt that Phebe shrank from her, and that she was no +longer welcome to the studio, which of all places in the world had been +to her a place of repose, and of brief cessation of troubled thought. +Phebe's direct and simple nature, free from all guile and worldliness, +had made her a perfect sympathizer with any true feeling. And Felicita's +feeling with regard to her past most sorrowful life had been absolutely +real; if only Phebe had known all the circumstances of it as she had +always supposed she did.</p> + +<p>Phebe was, moreover, fearful of some accident betraying to Felicita the +circumstance of Jean Merle living at Riversborough. There had never +been any direct correspondence between Felicita and Mr. Clifford, except +on purely business matters; and Felix was too much engrossed with his +own affairs to find time to run down to Riversborough, or to keep up an +animated interchange of letters with his old friend there. The +intercourse between them had been chiefly carried on through Phebe +herself, who was the old man's prime favorite. Neither was he a man +likely to let out anything he might wish to conceal. But still she was +nervous and afraid. How far from improbable it was that through some +unthought-of channel Felicita might hear that a stranger, related to +Madame Sefton, had entered the household of Mr. Clifford as his +confidential attendant, and that this stranger's name was Jean Merle. +What would happen then?</p> + +<p>She was burdened with a secret, and her nature abhorred a secret. There +was gladness, almost utterly pure, to her in the belief that there was +One being who could read the inmost recesses of her heart, and see, with +the loving-kindness of an Allwise Father, its secret faults, the errors +which she did not herself understand. That she had nothing to tell to +God, which He did not know of her already, was one of the deepest +foundations of her spiritual life. And in some measure, in all possible +measure, she would have had it so with those whom she loved. She did not +shrink from showing to them her thoughts, and motives, and emotions. It +was the limit of expression, so quickly reached, so impassable, that +chafed her; and she was always searching for fresh modes of conveying +her own feeling to other souls. Possibly the enforced speechlessness in +which she had passed her early years had aided in creating this +passionate desire to impart herself to those about her in unfettered +communion, and she ardently delighted in the same unreserved confidence +in those who conversed with her. But now she was doomed to bear the +burden of a secret fraught with strange and painful consequences to +those whom she loved, if time should ever divulge it.</p> + +<p>The winter months passed away cheerlessly, though she worked with more +persistent energy than ever before, partly to drive away the thoughts +that troubled her. She heard from Mr. Clifford, but not more frequently +than usual, and Jean Merle did not venture upon sending her a line of +his hand-writing. Mr. Clifford spoke in guarded terms of the comfort he +found in the companionship of his attendant, in spite of his being a sad +and moody man. Now and then he told Phebe that this attendant of his had +gone for a day or two to her solitary little house on the uplands, of +which Mr. Clifford kept the key, and that he stayed there a day or two, +finishing the half-carved blocks of oak her father had left incomplete. +It would have been a happier existence, she knew, for himself, if Jean +Merle had gone to dwell there altogether; but it was along this path of +self-sacrifice and devotion alone lay the road back to a Christian life.</p> + +<p>One point troubled Phebe's conscience more than any other. Ought she not +at least to tell Canon Pascal what she knew? She could not help feeling +that this second fraud would seem worse in his estimation than the first +one. And Felicita, the very soul of truth and honor, had connived at it! +It seemed immeasurably more terrible in Phebe's own eyes. To her money +had so small a value, it lay on so low a level in the scale of life, +that a crime in connection with it had far less guilt than one against +the affections. And how unutterable a sin against all who loved him had +Roland and Felicita fallen into! She recalled his mother's mourning for +him through many long years, and her belief in death that she was going +soon to rejoin the beloved son whom she had lost. Her own grief she put +aside, but there was the deep, boyish sorrow of Felix, and even little +Hilda's fatherlessness, as the children had grown up through the various +stages of childhood. It might have been bad for them to bear the stigma +of their father's shame, but still Phebe believed it would have been +better for every one of them to have gone bravely forward to bear the +just consequences of sin.</p> + +<p>She went down into Essex to spend a day or two at Christmas, carrying +with her the fitful spirit so foreign to her. The perfect health that +had been hers hitherto was broken; and Mrs. Pascal, a confirmed invalid, +to whom Phebe's physical vigor and evenness of temper had been a +constant source of delight and invigoration, felt the change in her +keenly.</p> + +<p>"She has something on her mind," she said to her husband; "you must try +and find it out, or she will be ill."</p> + +<p>"I know she has a secret," he answered, "but it is not her own. Phebe +Marlowe is as open as the day; she will never have a secret of her own."</p> + +<p>But he made no effort to find out her secret. His searching, kindly eyes +met hers with the trustfulness of a frank and open nature that +recognized a nature akin to its own, and Phebe never shrank from his +gaze, though her lips remained closed. If it was right for her to tell +him anything of the stranger who had been about to make him his +confessor, she would do it. Canon Pascal would not ask any questions.</p> + +<p>"Felix and Alice are growing more and more deeply in love with each +other," he said to her; "there is something beautiful and pleasant in +being a spectator of these palmy days of theirs. Felicita even felt +something of their happiness when she was here last, and she will not +withhold her full approbation much longer."</p> + +<p>"And you," answered Phebe, with an eager flush on her face, "you do not +repent of giving Alice to the son of a man who might have been a +convict?"</p> + +<p>"I believe Alice would marry Felix if his father had been a murderer," +replied Canon Pascal; "it is too late to alter it now. Besides, I know +Felix through and through, he is himself; he is no longer the son of any +person, but a true man, one of the sons of God."</p> + +<p>The strong and emphatic tone of Canon Pascal's words brought great +consolation to Phebe's troubled mind. She might keep silence with a good +conscience, for the duty of disclosing all to Canon Pascal arose simply +from the possibility that his conduct would be altered by this further +knowledge of Roland and Felicita.</p> + +<p>"But this easy country life is not good for Felix," she said in a more +cheerful tone; "he needs a difficult parish to develop his energies. It +is not among your people he will become a second Felix Merle."</p> + +<p>"Patience! Phebe," he answered, "there is a probability in the future, +a bare probability, and dimly distant, which may change all that. He may +have as much to do as Felix Merle by and by."</p> + +<p>Phebe returned to her work in London with a somewhat lighter heart. Yet +the work was painful to her; work which a few months before would have +been a delight. For Felicita, yielding to the urgent entreaties of Felix +and Hilda, had consented to sit for her portrait. She was engaged in no +writing, and had ample leisure. Until now she had resisted all +importunity, and no likeness of her existed. She disliked photographs, +and had only had one taken for Roland alone when they were married, and +she could never bring herself to sit for an artist comparatively a +stranger to her. It was opposed to her reserved and somewhat haughty +temperament that any eye should scan too freely and too curiously the +lineaments of her beautiful face, with its singularly expressive +individuality. But now that Phebe's skill had been so highly cultivated, +and commanded an increasing reputation, she could no longer oppose her +children's reiterated entreaties.</p> + +<p>Felicita was groping blindly for the reason of the change in Phebe's +feeling towards her, for she was conscious of some vague, mysterious +barrier that had arisen between her and the tender, simple soul which +had been always full of lowly sympathy for her. But Phebe silently +shrank from her in a terror mingled with profound, unutterable pity. For +here was a secret misery of a solitary human spirit, ice-bound in a +self-chosen isolation, which was an utter mystery to her. All the old +love and reverence, amounting almost to adoration, which she had, +offered up as incense to some being far above her had died away; gone +also was the child-like simplicity with which she could always talk to +Felicita. She could read the pride and sadness of the lovely face before +her with a clear understanding now, but the lines which reproduced it on +her canvas were harder and sterner than they would have been if she had +known less of Felicita's heart. The painting grew into a likeness, but +it was a painful one, full of hidden sadness, bitterness, and +infelicity. Felix and Hilda gazed at it in silence, almost as solemn and +mournful as if they were looking on the face of their dead mother. She +herself turned from it with a feeling of dread.</p> + +<p>"How much do you know of me?" she cried; "how deep can you look into my +heart, Phebe?" Phebe glanced from her to the finished portrait, and only +answered by tears.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIIa" id="CHAPTER_XXIIa"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> + +<h3>NEAR THE END.</h3> + + +<p>Felicita had followed the urgent advice of her physicians in giving up +writing for a season. There was no longer any necessity for her work, +as some time since the money which Roland Sefton had fraudulently +appropriated, had been paid back with full interest, and she began to +feel justified in accepting the income from her marriage settlement. +During the winter and spring she spent her days much as other women of +her class and station, in a monotonous round of shopping, driving in the +parks, visiting, and being visited, partly for Hilda's sake, and partly +driven to it for want of occupation; but short as the time was which she +gave to this life, she grew inexpressibly weary of it. Early, in May she +turned into Phebe's studio, which she had seldom entered since her +portrait was finished. This portrait was in the Academy Exhibition, and +she was constantly receiving empty compliments about it.</p> + +<p>"Dear Phebe!" she exclaimed, "I have tried fashionable life to see how +much it is worth, and oh! it is altogether hollow and inane. I did not +expect much from it, but it is utter weariness to me."</p> + +<p>"And you will go back to your writing?" said Phebe.</p> + +<p>Felicita hesitated for a moment. There was a worn and harassed +expression on her pale face, as if she had not slept or rested well for +a long time, which touched Phebe's heart.</p> + +<p>"Not yet," she answered; "I am going on a journey. I shall start for +Switzerland to-night."</p> + +<p>"To Switzerland! To-night!" echoed Phebe. "Oh, no! you must not, you +cannot. And alone? How can you think of going alone?"</p> + +<p>"I went alone once," she answered, smiling with her lips, though her +dark eyes grew no brighter, "and I can go again. I shall manage very +well. I fancied you would not care to go with me," she added, sighing.</p> + +<p>"But I must go with you!" cried Phebe; "did I not promise long ago? Only +don't go to-night, stay a day or two."</p> + +<p>"No, no," she said with feverish impatience, "I have made all my +arrangements. Nobody must know, and Hilda is gone down into Essex for a +week, and my cousins fancy I am going to the sea-side for a few days' +rest. I must start to-night, in less than four hours, Phebe. You cannot +be ready in time?"</p> + +<p>But she spoke wistfully, as if it would be pleasant to hear Phebe say +she would go with her. For a few minutes Phebe was lost in bewildered +thought. Felicita had told her some months ago that she must go to +Engelberg before she could give her consent to Felix marrying Alice, but +it had escaped her memory, pushed out by more immediate and more present +cares. And now she could not tell what Jean Merle would have her do. To +discover suddenly that he was alive, and in England, nay, at +Riversborough itself, under their old roof, would be too great a shock +for Felicita. Phebe dared not tell her. Yet, to let her start off alone +on this fruitless errand, to find only an empty hut at Engelberg, with +no trace of its occupant left behind, was heartless, and might prove +equally injurious to Felicita. There was no time to communicate with +Riversborough, she must come to a decision for herself, and at once. The +white, worn face, with its air of sad determination, filled her with +deep and eager pity.</p> + +<p>"Oh! I will go with you," she cried. "I could never bear you to go +alone. But is there nothing you can tell me? Only trust me. What trouble +carries you there? Why must you go to Engelberg before Felix marries?"</p> + +<p>She had caught Felicita's small cold hand between her own and looked up +beseechingly into her face. Oh! if she would but now, at last, throw off +the burden which had so long bowed her down, and tell her secret, she +could let her know that this painful pilgrimage was utterly needless. +But the sweet, sad, proud lips were closed, and the dark eyes looking +down steadily into Phebe's, betrayed no wavering of her determined +reticence.</p> + +<p>"You shall come with me as far as Lucerne, dear Phebe," she answered, +stooping down to kiss her uplifted face, "but I must go alone to +Engelberg."</p> + +<p>There was barely time enough for Phebe to make any arrangements, there +was not a moment for deliberation. She wrote a few hurried words to Jean +Merle, imploring him to follow them at once, and promising to detain +Felicita on their way, if possible. Felicita's own preparations were +complete, and her route marked out, with the time of steamers and trains +set down. Through Paris, Mulhausen, and Basle she hastened on to +Lucerne. Now she had set out on this dreary and dolorous path there +could be no rest for her until she reached the end. Phebe recognized +this as soon as they had started. It would be impossible to detain +Felicita on the way.</p> + +<p>But Jean Merle could not be far behind them, a few hours would bring him +to them after they had reached Lucerne. Felicita was very silent as they +travelled on by the swiftest trains, and Phebe was glad of it. For what +could she say to her? She was herself lost in a whirl of bewilderment, +and of mingled hope and fear. Could it possibly be that Felicita would +learn that Jean Merle was still living, and the mode and manner of his +life through this long separation, and yet stand aloof from him, afar +off, as one on whom he had no claim, claim for pity and love? But if she +could relent towards him, how must it be in the future? It could never +be that she would own the wrong she had committed openly in the face of +the world. What was to happen now? Phebe was hardly less feverishly +agitated than Felicita herself.</p> + +<p>It was evening when they arrived at Lucerne, and Felicita was forced to +rest until the morning. They sat together in a small balcony opening out +of her chamber, which overlooked the Lake, where the moonbeams were +playing in glistening curves over the quiet ripples of the water. All +the mountains round it looked black in the dim light, and the rugged +summit of Pilatus, still slightly sprinkled with snow, frowned down upon +them; but southward, behind the dark range of lower hills, there stood +out against the almost black-blue of the sky a broken line of pale, +mysterious peaks, which might have been merely pallid clouds lying along +the horizon but for their stedfast, unaltering immobility. They were the +Engelberg Alps, with the snowy Titlis gleaming highest among them; and +Felicita's face, wan and pallid as themselves, was set towards them.</p> + +<p>"You will let me come with you to-morrow?" said Phebe, in a tone of +painful entreaty.</p> + +<p>"No, no," she answered. "I could not bear to have even you at Engelberg +with me. I must visit that grave alone. And yet I know you love me, dear +Phebe."</p> + +<p>"Dearly!" she sobbed.</p> + +<p>"Yes, you love me dearly," she repeated sorrowfully, "but not as you +once did; even your heart is changed towards me. If you went with me +to-morrow I might lose all the love that is left. I cannot afford to +lose that, my dear."</p> + +<p>"You could never lose it!" answered Phebe. "I love you differently? Yes, +but not less. I love you now as Christ loves us all, more for God's sake +than our own; and that is the deepest, most faithful love. That can +never be worn out or repulsed. As Christ has loved me, so I love you, my +Felicita."</p> + +<p>Her voice had fallen into an almost inaudible whisper, as she knelt down +beside her, pressing her lips upon the thin, cold hands lying listlessly +on Felicita's lap. It had been as an impulsive girl, worshipping her +from a lowly inferiority, that Phebe had been used long ago to kiss +Felicita's hand. But this was the humility of a great love, willing to +help, and seeking to save her. Felicita felt it through every fibre of +her sensitive nature. For an instant she thought it might be possible +that Phebe had caught some glimmer of the truth. With her weary and dim +eyes lifted up to the pale crests of the mountains, beneath which lay +the miserable secret of her life, she hesitated as to whether she could +tell Phebe all. But the effort to admit any human soul into the inner +recesses of her own was too great for her.</p> + +<p>"Christ loves me, you say," she murmured, "I don't know; I never felt +it. But I have felt sure of your love; and next to Felix and Hilda you +have stood nearest to me. Love me always, and in spite of all, my dear."</p> + +<p>She lifted up her bowed head and kissed her lips with a long and +lingering kiss. Then Phebe knew that she was bent upon going alone and +immediately to Engelberg.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The icy air of the morning, blowing down from the mountains where the +winter's snow was but partially melted, made Felicita shiver, though her +mind was too busy to notice why. Phebe had seen that she was warmly +clad, and had come down to the boat with her to start her on this last +day's journey; but Felicita had scarcely opened her pale lips to say +good-by. She stood on the quay, watching the boat as long as the white +steam from the funnel was in sight, and then she turned away, blind to +all the scenery about her, in the heaviness of heart she felt for the +sorrowful soul going out on so sad and vain a quest. There had been no +time for Jean Merle to overtake them, and now Felicita was gone when a +few words from her would have stopped her. But Phebe had not dared to +utter them.</p> + +<p>Felicita too had not seen either the sunlit hills lying about her, or +Phebe watching her departure. She had no thought for anything but what +there might be lying before her, in that lonely mountain village, to +which, after fourteen years, her reluctant feet were turned. Possibly +she might find no trace of the man who had been so long dead to her and +to all the world, and thus be baffled and defeated, yet relieved, at the +first stage of her search. For she did not desire to find him. Her heart +would be lightened of its miserable load, if she should discover that +Jean Merle was dead, and buried in the same quiet cemetery where the +granite cross marked the grave of Roland Sefton. That was a thing to be +hoped for. If Jean Merle was living still, and living there, what should +she say to him? Wild hopes and desires would be awakened within him if +he found her seeking after him? Nay, it might possibly be that he would +insist upon making their mutual sin known to the world, by claiming to +return to her and her children. It seemed a desperate thing to have +done; and for the first time since she left London she repented of +having done it. Was she not sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind? There +was still time for her to retrace her steps and go back home, the home +she owed altogether to herself; yet one which this man, whom she had not +seen for so long a time, had a right to enter as the master of it. What +fatal impulse had driven her to leave it on so wild and fruitless an +errand?</p> + +<p>Yet she felt she could no longer live without knowing the fate of Jean +Merle. Her heart had been gnawing itself ever since they parted with +vague remorses and self-accusations, slumbering often, but now aroused +into an activity that could not be laid to rest. This morning, for the +first time, beneath all her perplexity and fear and hope to find him +dead, there came to her a strange, undefined, scarcely conscious +tenderness towards the miserable man, whom she had last seen standing in +her presence, an uncouth, ragged, weather-beaten peasant. The man had +been her husband, the father of her children, and a deep, keen pain was +stirring in her soul, partly of the old love, for she had once loved +him, and partly of the pity she felt for him, as she began to realize +the difference there had existed between her lot and his.</p> + +<p>She scarcely felt how worn out she was, how dangerously fatigued with +this rapid travelling and the resistless current of agitation which had +possessed her. As she journeyed onwards she was altogether unconscious +of the roads she traversed, only arousing herself when any change of +conveyance made it necessary. Her brain was busy over the opinion, more +than once expressed by Phebe, that every man could live down the evil +consequences of his sin, if he had courage and faith enough. "If God +forgives us, man will forgive us," said Phebe. But Felicita pondered +over the possibility of Roland having paid the penalty of his crime, and +going back again to take up his life, walking more humbly in it +evermore, with no claim to preeminence save that of most diligently +serving his fellow-men. She endeavored to picture herself receiving him +back again from the convict prison, with all its shameful memories +branded on him, and looking upon him again as her husband and the father +of her children; and she found herself crying out to her own heart that +it would have been impossible to her. Phebe might have done it, but +she—never!</p> + +<p>The journey, though not more than fourteen miles from Stans to +Engelberg, occupied several hours, so broken up the narrow road was by +the winter's rains and the melting snow. The steep ascent between +Grafenort and Engelberg was dangerous, the more so as a heavy +thunderstorm broke over it; but Felicita remained insensible to any +peril. At length the long, narrow valley lay before her, stretching +upwards to the feet of the rocky hills. The thunderstorm that had met +them on the road had been raging fiercely in this mountain caldron, and +was but just passing away in long, low mutterings, echoed and prolonged +amid the precipitous walls of rock. Tall, trailing, spectre-like clouds +slowly followed each other in solemn and stately procession up the +valley, as though amid their light yet impenetrable folds of vapor they +bore the invisible form of some mysterious being; whether in triumph or +in sorrow it was impossible to tell. The sun caught their gray crests +and tinged them with rainbow colors; and as they floated unhastingly +along, the valley behind them seemed to spring into a new life of +sunshine and mirth.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIIIa" id="CHAPTER_XXIIIa"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> + +<h3>THE MOST MISERABLE.</h3> + + +<p>It was past noon when Felicita was driven up to the hotel in the +village, where, when she had last been at Engelberg, she had gone to +look upon the dead face of the stranger, who was to carry away the sin +of Roland Sefton, with the shame it would bring upon her, and bury it +forever in his grave. It seemed but a few days ago, and she felt +reluctant to enter the house again. In two or three hours when the +horses were rested, she said to the driver, she would be ready to return +to Stans. Then she wandered out into the village street, thinking she +might come across some peasant at work alone, or some woman standing +idly at her door, with whom she could fall into a casual conversation, +and learn what she had come to ascertain. But she met with no solitary +villager; and she strayed onward, almost unwittingly in the direction of +the cemetery. In passing by the church, she pushed open one of the +heavy, swinging doors, and cast a glance around; there was no one in +sight, but the gabble of boys' voices in some vestry close by reached +her ear, and a laugh rang after it, which echoed noisily in the quiet +aisles. The high altar was lit up by a light from a side-window and her +eye was arrested by it. Still, whether she saw and heard, or was deaf +and blind, she scarcely knew. Her feet were drawn by some irresistible +attraction towards the grave where her husband was not buried.</p> + +<p>She did not know in what corner of the graveyard it was to be found; and +when she entered the small enclosure, with its wooden cross at the head +of every narrow mound, she stood still for a minute or two, +hesitatingly, and looking before her with a bewildered and reluctant +air, as if engaged in an enterprise she recoiled from. A young priest, +the curé of the nearest mountain parish, who visiting the grave of one +of his parishioners lately buried at Engelberg, was passing to and fro +among the grassy mounds with his breviary in his hands, and his lips +moving as if in prayer; but at the unexpected sight of a traveller thus +early in the season, his curiosity was aroused, and he bent his steps +towards her. When he was sufficiently near to catch her wandering eye, +he spoke in a quiet and courteous manner—</p> + +<p>"Is madame seeking for any special spot?" he inquired.</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Felicita, fastening upon him her large; sad eyes, which +had dark rings below them, intensifying the mournfulness of their +expression, "I am looking for a grave. The grave of a stranger; Roland +Sefton. I have come from England to find it."</p> + +<p>Her voice was constrained and low; and the words came in brief, panting +syllables, which sounded almost like sobs. The black-robed priest looked +closely and scrutinizingly into the pallid face turned towards him, +which was as rigid as marble, except for the gleam of the dark eyes.</p> + +<p>"Madame is suffering; she is ill!" he said.</p> + +<p>"No, not ill," answered Felicita, in an absent manner, as if she was +speaking in a dream, "but of all women the most miserable."</p> + +<p>It seemed to the young curé that the English lady was not aware of what +words she uttered. He felt embarrassed and perplexed: all the English +were heretics, and how heretics could be comforted or counselled he did +not know. But the dreamy sadness of her face appealed to his compassion. +The only thing he could do for her was to guide her to the grave she +was seeking.</p> + +<p>For the last nine months no hand had cleared away the weeds from around +it, or the moss from gathering upon it. The little pathway trodden by +Jean Merle's feet was overgrown, though still perceptible, and the +priest walked along it, with Felicita following him. Little threads of +grass were filling up the deep clear-cut lettering on the cross; and the +gray and yellow lichens were creeping over the granite. Since the snow +had melted and the sun had shone hotly into the high-lying valley there +had been a rapid growth of vegetation here, as everywhere else, and the +weeds and grass had flourished luxuriantly; but amongst them Alice's +slip of ivy had thrown out new buds and tendrils. The priest paused +before the grave, with Felicita standing beside him silent and +spell-bound. She did not weep or cry, or fling herself upon the ground +beside it, as he had expected. When he looked askance at her marble face +there was no trace of emotion upon it, excepting that her lips moved +very slightly, as if they formed the words inscribed upon the cross.</p> + +<p>"It is not in good order just at present," he said, breaking the +oppressive silence; "the peasant who took charge of it, Jean Merle, +disappeared from Engelberg last summer, and has never since been seen or +heard of. They say he was paid to take care of this grave; and truly +when he was here there was no weed, no soil, no little speck of moss +upon it. There was no other grave kept like this. Was Roland Sefton a +relation of Madame?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," she whispered, or he thought she whispered it from the motion of +her lips.</p> + +<p>"Madame is not a Catholic?" he asked.</p> + +<p>Felicita shook her head.</p> + +<p>"What a pity! what a pity!" he continued, in a tone of mild regret, "or +I could console her. Yet I will pray for her this night to the good God, +and the Mother of Sorrows, to give her comfort. If she only knew the +solace of opening her heart; even to a fellow-mortal!"</p> + +<p>"Does no one know where Jean Merle is?" she asked, in a low but clear +penetrating voice, which startled him, he said afterwards, almost as +much as if the image of the blessed Virgin had spoken to him. With the +effort to speak, a slight color flushed across the pale wan face, and +her eyes fastened eagerly upon him.</p> + +<p>"No one, Madame," he replied; "the poor man was a misanthrope, and lived +quite alone, in misery. He came neither to confession nor to mass; but +whether he was a heretic or an atheist no man knew. Where he came from +or where he went to was known only to himself. But they think that he +must have perished on the mountains, for he disappeared suddenly last +August. His little hut is falling into ruins; it was too poor a place +for anybody but him."</p> + +<p>"I must go there; where is it?" she inquired, turning abruptly away from +the grave, without a tear or a prayer, he observed. The spell that had +bound her seemed broken; and she looked agitated and hurried. There was +more vigor and decision in her face and manner than he could have +believed possible a few moments before. She was no longer a marble image +of despair.</p> + +<p>"If Madame will go quite through the village," he answered, "it is the +last house on the way to Stans. But it cannot be called a house; it is +a ruin. It stands apart from all the rest, like an accursed spot; for no +person will go near it. If Madame goes, she will find no one there."</p> + +<p>With a quick yet stately gesture of farewell, Felicita turned away, and +walked swiftly down the little path, not running, but moving so rapidly +that she was soon out of sight. By and by, when he had had time to think +over the interview and to recover from his surprise, he followed her, +but he saw nothing of her; only the miserable hovel where poor Jean +Merle had lived, into which she had probably found an entrance.</p> + +<p>Felicita had learned something of what she had come to discover. Jean +Merle had been living in Engelberg until the last summer, though now he +had disappeared. Perished on the mountains! oh! could that be true? It +was likely to be true. He had always been a daring mountaineer when +there was every motive to make him careful of his life; and now what +could make it precious to him? There was no other reason for suddenly +breaking off the thread of his life here in Engelberg; for Felicita had +never imagined it possible that he would return to England. If he had +disappeared he must have perished on the mountains.</p> + +<p>Yet there was no relief to her in the thought. If she had heard in +England that he was dead there would have been a sense of deliverance, +and a secret consciousness of real freedom, which would have made her +future course lie before her in brighter and more tranquil light. She +would at least be what she seemed to be. But here, amid the scenes of +his past life, there was a deep compunction in her heart, and a profound +pity for the miserable man, whose neighbors knew nothing about him but +that he had disappeared out of their sight. That she should come to seek +him, and find not even his grave, oppressed her with anguish as she +passed along the village street, till she saw the deserted hut standing +apart like an accursed place, the fit dwelling of an outcast.</p> + +<p>The short ladder that led to it was half broken, but she could climb it +easily; and the upper part of the door was partly open, and swinging +lazily to and fro in the light breeze that was astir after the storm. +There was no difficulty in unfastening the bolt which held the lower +half; and Felicita stepped into the low room. She stood for awhile, how +long she did not know, gazing forward with wide open motionless eyes, +the brain scarcely conscious of seeing through them, though the sight +before her was reflected on their dark and glistening surface. A corner +of the roof had fallen in during the winter, and a stream of bright +light shone through it, irradiating the dim and desolate interior. The +abject poverty of her husband's dwelling-place was set in broad +daylight. The windowless walls, the bare black rafters overhead, the +rude bed of juniper branches and ferns, the log-seat, rough as it had +come out of the forest—she saw them all as if she saw them not, so busy +was her brain that it could take no notice of them just now.</p> + +<p>So busy was it that all her life seemed to be hurrying and crowding and +whirling through it, with swift pictures starting into momentary +distinctness and dying suddenly to give place to others. It was a +terrifying and enthralling phantasmagoria which held her spell-bound on +the threshold of this ruined hovel, her husband's last shelter.</p> + +<p>At last she roused herself, and stepped forward hesitatingly. Her eyes +had fallen upon a book or two at the end of a shelf as black as the +walls; and books had always called to her with a voice that could not be +resisted. She crept slowly and feebly across the mouldering planks of +the floor, through which she could see the grass springing on the turf +below the hut. But when she lifted up the mildewed and dust-covered +volume lying uppermost and opened it, her eyes fell first upon her own +portrait, stained, faded, nearly blotted out; yet herself as she was +when she became Roland Sefton's wife.</p> + +<p>She sank down, faint and trembling, on the rough block of wood, and +leaned back against the mouldy walls, with the photograph in her hand, +and her eyes fastened upon it. His mother's portrait, and his +children's, he had given up as evidence of his death; but he had never +parted with hers. Oh! how he had loved her! Would to God she had loved +him as dearly! But she had forsaken him, had separated him from her as +one who was accursed, and whose very name was a malediction. She had +exacted the uttermost farthing from him; his mother, his children, his +home, his very life, to save her name from dishonor. It seemed as if +this tarnished, discolored picture of herself, cherished through all his +misery and desolation, spoke more deeply and poignantly to her than +anything else could do. She fancied she could see him, the way-worn, +haggard, weather-beaten peasant, as she had seen him last, sitting here, +with the black walls shutting him out from all the world, but holding +this portrait in his hands, and looking at it as she did now. And he had +perished on the mountains!</p> + +<p>Suddenly all the whirl of her brain grew quiet; the swift thoughts +ceased to rush across it. She felt dull and benumbed as if she could no +longer exert herself to remember or to know anything. Her eyes were +weary of seeing, and the lids drooped over them. The light had become +dim as if the sun had already set. Her ears were growing heavy as though +no sound could ever disturb her again; when a bitter and piercing cry, +such as is seldom drawn from the heart of man, penetrated through all +the lethargy creeping over her. Looking up, with eyes that opened +slowly and painfully, she saw her husband's face bending over her. A +smile of exceeding sweetness and tenderness flitted across her face, and +she tried to stretch out both her hands towards him. But the effort was +the last faint token of life. They had found one another too late.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIVa" id="CHAPTER_XXIVa"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> + +<h3>FOR ONE MOMENT</h3> + + +<p>She had not uttered a word to him; but her smile and the tender gesture +of her dying hands had spoken more than words. He stood motionless, +gazing down upon her, and upon Phebe, who had thrown herself beside her, +encircling her with her arms, as if she would snatch her away from the +relentless grasp of death. A single cry of anguish had escaped him; but +he was dumb now, and no sound was heard in the silent hut, except those +that entered it from without. Phebe did not know what had happened, but +he knew. Quite clearly, without any hope or self-deception, he knew that +Felicita was dead.</p> + +<p>The dread of it had haunted him from the moment that he had heard of her +hurried departure in quest of him. When he read Phebe's words, imploring +him to follow them, the recollection had flashed across him of how the +thread of Lord Riversdale's life had snapped under the strain of unusual +anxiety and fatigue. Felicita's own delicate health had been failing for +some months past. As swiftly as he could follow he had pursued them; but +her impatient and feverish haste had prevented him from overtaking them +in time. What might have been the result if he had reached her sooner +he could not tell. That there could ever have been any knitting together +again of the tie that had ever united them seemed impossible. Death +alone, either hers or his, could have touched her heart to the +tenderness of her farewell smile and gesture.</p> + +<p>In after life Jean Merle never spoke of that hour of agony. But there +was nothing in the past which dwelt so deeply or lived again so often in +his memory. He had suffered before; but it seemed as nothing to the +intensity of the anguish that had befallen him now. The image of +Felicita's white and dying face lying against the darkened walls of the +hovel where she had gone to seek him, was indelibly printed on his +brain. He would see it till the hour of his own death.</p> + +<p>He lifted her up, holding her once more in his arms, and clasping her to +his heart, as he carried her through the village street to the hotel. +Phebe walked beside him, as yet only thinking that Felicita had fainted. +His old neighbors crowded out of their houses, scarcely recognizing Jean +Merle in this Monsieur in his good English dress, but with redoubled +curiosity when they saw who it was thus bearing the strange English lady +in his arms. When he had carried her to the hotel, and up-stairs to the +room where he had watched beside the stranger who had borne his name, he +broke through the gathering crowd of onlookers, and fled to his familiar +solitudes among the mountains.</p> + +<p>He had always told himself that Felicita was dead to him. There had not +been in his heart the faintest hope that she could ever again be +anything more to him than a memory and a dream. When he was in England, +though he had not been content until he had seen his children and his +old home, he had never sought to get a glimpse of her, so far beyond him +and above him. But now that she was indeed dead, those beloved eyes +closed forever more from the light of the sun, and the familiar earth +never again to be trodden by her feet, the awful chasm set between them +made him feel as if he was for the first time separated from her. Only +an hour ago and his voice could have reached her in words of entreaty +and of passionate repentance and humble self-renunciation. They could +have spoken face to face, and he might have had a brief interval for +pouring out his heart to her. But there had been no word uttered between +them. There had been only that one moment in which her soul looked back +upon him with a glance of tenderness, before she was gone from him +beyond recall. He came to himself, out of the confused agony of his +grief, as the sun was setting. He found himself in a wild and barren +wilderness of savage rocks, with a small black tarn lying at his feet, +which just caught the glimmer of the setting sun on its lurid surface. +The silence about him was intense. Gray clouds stretched across the +mountains, out of which a few sad peaks of rock rose against the gray +sky. The snowy dome of the Titlis towering above the rest looked down on +him out of the shadow of the clouded heavens with a ghostly paleness. +All the world about him was cold and wan, and solemn as the face of the +dead. There was death up here and in the valley yonder; but down in the +valley it bore too dear and too sorrowful a form.</p> + +<p>As the twilight deepened, the recollection of Phebe's loneliness and her +distress at his absence at last roused him. He could no longer leave +her, bewildered by this new trouble, and with slow and reluctant steps +he retraced his path through the deep gloom of the forests to the +village. There was much to be turned over in his mind and to be decided +upon before he reached the bustling hotel and the gaping throng of +spectators, marvelling at Jean Merle's reappearance under circumstances +so unaccountable. He had met with Phebe as she returned from starting +Felicita in the first boat, and they had waited for the next. At +Grafenort they had dismissed their carriage, thinking they could enter +the valleys with less observation on foot; and perhaps meet with +Felicita in such a manner as to avoid making his return known in +Engelberg. He had turned aside to take shelter in his old hut, whilst +Phebe went on to find Felicita, when his bitter cry of pain had called +her back to him. The villagers would probably take him for a courier in +attendance upon these ladies, if he acted as one when he reached the +hotel. But how was he to act?</p> + +<p>Two courses were open to him. There was no longer any reason to dread a +public trial and conviction for the crime he had committed so many years +ago. It was quite practicable to return to England, account plausibly +for his disappearance and the mistake as to identity which had caused a +stranger to be buried in his name, and take up his life again as Roland +Sefton. It was improbable that any searching investigation should be +made into his statements. Who would be interested in doing it? But the +old memories and suspicions would be awakened and strengthened a +hundred-fold by the mystery surrounding his return. No one could compel +him to reveal his secret, he had simply to keep his lips closed in +impenetrable silence. True he would be a suspected man, with a +disgraceful secrecy hanging like a cloud about him. He could not live so +at Riversborough, among his old towns-people, of whom he had once been a +leader. He must find some new sphere and dwell in it, always dreading +the tongue of rumor.</p> + +<p>And his son and daughter? How would they regard him if he maintained an +obstinate and ambiguous silence towards them? They were no longer little +children, scarcely separate from their father, seeing through his eyes, +and touching life only through him. They were separate individuals, +living souls, with a personality of their own, the more free from his +influence because of his long absence and supposed death. It was a young +man he must meet in Felix, a critic and a judge like other men; but with +a known interest in the criticism and the judgment he had to pass upon +his father, and less apt to pass it lightly. His son would ponder deeply +over any account he might give of himself. Hilda, too, was at a +sensitive and delicate point of girlhood, when she would inevitably +shrink from any contact with the suspicion and doubt that would surround +this strange return after so many years of disappearance.</p> + +<p>Yet how could he let them know the terrible fraud he had committed for +their mother's sake and with her connivance? Felix knew of his other +defalcations; but Hilda was still ignorant of them. If he returned to +them with the truth in his lips, they would lose the happy memory of +their mother and their pride in her fame. He understood only too well +how dominant must have been her influence over them, not merely by the +tender common ties of motherhood, but by the fascinating charm of her +whole nature, reserved and stately as it had been. He must betray her +and lessen her memory in their sorrowful esteem. To them, if not to the +world, he must disclose all, or resolve to remain a stranger to them +forever. During the last six months it had seemed to him that a humble +path lay before him, following which he might again live a life of lowly +discipleship. He had repented with a bitter repentance, and out of the +depths into which he had fallen he had cried unto God and been +delivered. He believed that he had received God's forgiveness, as he +knew that he had received men's forgiveness. Out of the wreck of his +former life he had constructed a little raft and trusted to it bearing +him safely through what remained of the storm of life. If Felicita had +lived he would have remained in the service of his father's old friend, +proving himself of use in numberless ways; not merely as an attendant, +but in assisting him with the affairs of the bank, with which he was +more conversant, from his early acquaintanceship with the families +transacting business with it, than the stranger who was acting manager +could be. He had not been long enough in Riversborough to gain any +influence in the town as a poor foreigner, but there had been a hope +dawning within that he might again do some good in his native place, the +dearer to him because of his long and dreary banishment. In time he +might perform some work worthy of his forefathers, though under another +name. If he could so live as to leave behind him the memory of a sincere +and simple Christian, who had denied himself daily to live a righteous, +sober, and godly life, and had cheerfully taken up his cross to follow +Christ, he would in some measure atone for the disgrace Roland Sefton's +defalcations had brought upon the name of Christ.</p> + +<p>This humble, ambitious career was still before him if he could forego +the joy of making himself known to his children—a doubtful joy. For +had he not cut himself from them by his reckless and despairing +abandonment of them in their childhood? He could bring them nothing now +but sorrow and shame. The sacrifice would be on their side, not his. It +needs all the links of all the years to bind parents and children in an +indestructible chain; and if he attempted to unite the broken links it +could only be by a knowledge of their mother's error as well as his. Let +him sacrifice himself for the last and final time to Felicita and the +fair name she had made for herself.</p> + +<p>He was stumbling along in the dense darkness of the forest with no gleam +of light to guide him on his way, and his feet were constantly snared in +the knotted roots of the trees intersecting the path. So must he stumble +along a dark and rugged track through the rest of his years. There was +no cheering gleam beckoning him to a happy future. But though it was +thorny and obscure it was not an ignoble path, and it might end at last +even for him in the welcome words, "Well done, good and faithful +servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."</p> + +<p>His mind was made up before he reached the valley. He could not unravel +the warp and woof of his life. The gossamer threads of the webs he had +begun to weave about himself so lightly in the heyday of his youth and +prosperity and happiness had thickened into cables and petrified; it was +impossible to break through the coil of them or find a way out of it. +Roland Sefton had died many years ago. Let him remain dead.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVa" id="CHAPTER_XXVa"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> + +<h3>THE FINAL RESOLVE.</h3> + + +<p>It was dark, with the pitchy darkness of a village street, where the +greater part of the population were gone to bed, when he passed through +Engelberg towards the hotel, where Phebe must be awaiting his return +anxiously. In carrying out his project it would be well for him to have +as little as possible to do with the inmates of the hotel, and he +approached it cautiously. All the ground-floor was dark, except for a +glimmer of light in a little room at the end of a long passage; but the +windows of the <i>salon</i> on the floor above were lit up, and Jean Merle +stepped quietly up the staircase unheard and unseen.</p> + +<p>Phebe was sitting by a table, her head buried in her arms, which rested +upon it—a forlorn and despondent attitude. She lifted up her face as he +entered and gazed pitifully into his; but for a minute or two neither of +them spoke. He stood just within the door, looking towards her as he had +done on the fateful night when Felicita had told him that she chose his +death rather than her share of the disgrace attaching to his crime. This +day just drawn to a close had been the bitterest fruit of the seed then +sown. Jean Merle's face, on which there was stamped an expression of +intense but patient suffering, steadfastly met Phebe's aching eyes.</p> + +<p>"She is dead!" she murmured.</p> + +<p>"I knew it," he answered.</p> + +<p>"I did not know what to do," she went on after a slight pause, and +speaking in a pitiful and deprecating tone.</p> + +<p>"Poor Phebe!" he said; "but I am come to tell you what I have resolved +to do—what seems best for us all to do. We must act as if I was only +what I seem to be, a stranger to you, a passing guide, who has no more +to do with these things than any other stranger. We will do what I +believe she would have desired; her name shall be as dear to us as it +was to her; no disgrace shall stain it now."</p> + +<p>"But can you never throw off your disguise?" she asked, weeping. "Must +you always be what you seem to be now?"</p> + +<p>"I must always be Jean Merle," he replied. "Roland Sefton cannot return +to life; it is impossible. Let us leave her children at least the tender +memory of their mother; I can bear being unknown to them for what +remains to me of life. And we do no one any harm, you and I, by keeping +this secret."</p> + +<p>"No, we wrong no one," she answered. "I have been thinking of it ever +since I was sure she was dead, and I counted upon you doing this. It +will save Felix and Hilda from bitter sorrow, and it would keep her +memory fair and true for them. But you—there will be so much to give +up. They will never know that you are their father; for if we do not +tell them now, we must never, never betray it. Can you do it?"</p> + +<p>"I gave them up long ago," he said; "and if there be any sacrifice I can +make for them, what should withhold me, Phebe? God only knows what an +unutterable relief it would be to me if I could lay bare my whole life +to the eyes of my fellow-men and henceforth walk in their sight in +simple honesty and truthfulness. But that is impossible. Not even you +can see my whole life as it has been. I must go softly all my days, +bearing my burden of secrecy."</p> + +<p>"I too shall have to bear it," she murmured almost inaudibly.</p> + +<p>"I shall start at once for Stans," he went on, "and go to Lucerne by the +first boat in the morning. You shall give me a telegram to send from +there to Canon Pascal, and Felix will be here in less than three days. I +must return direct to Riversborough. I must not perform the last duties +to the dead; even that is denied to me."</p> + +<p>"But Felicita must not be buried here," exclaimed Phebe, her voice +faltering, with an accent of horror at the thought of it. A shudder of +repugnance ran through him also. Roland Sefton's grave was here, and +what would be more natural than to bury Felicita beside it?</p> + +<p>"No, no," he cried, "you must save me from that, Phebe. She must be +brought home and buried among her own people. Promise to save her and me +from that."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I promise it," she said; "it shall never be. You shall not have +that grief."</p> + +<p>"If I stayed here myself," he continued, "it would make it more +difficult to take up my life in Riversborough unquestioned and +unsuspected. It can only be by a complete separation now that I can +effect my purpose. But I can hardly bear to go away, Phebe."</p> + +<p>The profound pitifulness of Phebe's heart was stirred to its inmost +depths by the sound of his voice and the expression of his hopeless +face. She left her seat and drew near to him.</p> + +<p>"Come and see her once more," she whispered.</p> + +<p>Silently he made a gesture of assent, and she led the way to the +adjoining room. He knew it better than she did; for it was here that he +had watched all the night long the death of the stranger who was buried +in Roland Sefton's grave. There was little change in it to his eyes. The +bare walls and the scanty homely furniture were the same now as then. +There was the glimmer of a little lamp falling on the tranquil figure on +the bed. The occupant of this chamber only was different, but oh! the +difference to him!</p> + +<p>"Do not leave me, Phebe!" he cried, stretching out his hand towards her, +as if blind and groping to be led. She stepped noiselessly across the +uncarpeted floor and looked down on the face lying on the pillow. The +smile that had been upon it in the last moment yet lingered about the +mouth, and added an inexpressible gentleness and tenderness to its +beauty. The long dark eyelashes shadowed the cheeks, which were suffused +with a faint flush. Felicita looked young again, with something of the +sweet shy grace of the girl whom he had first seen in this distant +mountain village so many years ago. He sank down on his knees, and shut +out the sight of her from his despairing eyes. The silent minutes crept +slowly away unheeded; he did not stir, or sob, or lift up his bowed +face. This kneeling figure at her feet was as rigid and as death-like as +the lifeless form lying on the bed; and Phebe grew frightened, yet dared +not break in upon his grief. At last a footstep came somewhat noisily up +the staircase, and she laid her hand softly on the gray head beneath +her.</p> + +<p>"Jean Merle," she said, "it is time for us to go."</p> + +<p>The sound of this name in Phebe's familiar voice aroused him. She had +never called him by it before; and its utterance was marked as a thing +irrevocably settled that his life henceforth was to be altogether +divorced from that of Roland Sefton. He had come to the last point which +connected him with it. When he turned away from this rigid form, in all +the awful loveliness of death, he would have cut himself off forever +from the past. He laid his hand upon the chilly forehead; but he dared +not stoop down to touch the sweet sad face with his lips. With no word +of farewell to Phebe, he rushed out into the dense darkness of the night +and made his way down the valley, and through the steep forest roads he +had traversed only a few hours ago with something like hope dawning in +his heart. For in the morning he had known that he should see Felicita +again, and there was expectation and a gleam of gladness in that; but +to-night his eyes had looked upon her for the last time.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIa" id="CHAPTER_XXVIa"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> + +<h3>IN LUCERNE.</h3> + + +<p>Phebe found herself alone, with the burden of Jean Merle's secret +resting on her unshared. It depended upon her sagacity and tact whether +he should escape being connected in a mysterious manner with the sad +event that had just transpired in Engelberg. The footstep she had heard +on the stairs was that of the landlady, who had gone into the salon and +had thus missed seeing Jean Merle as he left the house. Phebe met her in +the doorway.</p> + +<p>"I have sent a message by the guide who brought me here," she said in +slowly pronounced French; "he is gone to Lucerne, and he will telegraph +to England for me."</p> + +<p>"Is he gone—Jean Merle?" asked the landlady.</p> + +<p>"Certainly, yes," answered Phebe; "he is gone to Lucerne."</p> + +<p>"Will he return, then?" inquired the landlady.</p> + +<p>"No, I suppose not," she replied; "he has done all he had to do for me. +He will telegraph to England, and our friends will come to us +immediately. Good-night, Madame."</p> + +<p>"Good-night, Mademoiselle," was the response. "May you sleep well!"</p> + +<p>But sleep was far away from Phebe's agitated brain that night. She felt +herself alone in a strange land, with a great grief and a terrible +secret oppressing her. As the night wore on a feverish dread took +possession of her that she should be unable to prevent Felicita's burial +beside Roland Sefton's grave. Even Felix would decide that it ought to +be so. As soon as the dawn came she rose and went out into the icy +freshness of the morning air, blowing down from the snow-fields and the +glaciers around her.</p> + +<p>The village was beginning to arouse itself. The Abbey bells were +ringing, and at the sound of them, calling the laborers to a new day's +toil, here and there a shutter was thrown back or a door was opened, and +light volumes of gray wood-smoke stole upwards into the still air. There +was a breath of serenity and peace in this early hour which soothed +Phebe's fevered brain, as she slowly sauntered on with the purpose of +finding the cemetery, where the granite cross stood over the grave that +had occupied so much of her thoughts since she had heard of Roland +Sefton's death. She reached it at last and stood motionless before it, +looking back through all the years in which she had mourned with +Roland's mother his untimely death. He whom she had mourned for was not +lying here; but did not his life hold deeper cause for grief than his +death ever had? Standing there, so far from home, in the quiet morning, +with this grave at her feet, she answered to herself a question which +had been troubling her for many months. Yes, it was a right thing to do, +on the whole, to keep this secret—Felicita's secret as well as +Roland's—forever locked in her own heart. There was concealment in it +closely verging, as it must always do, on deception. Phebe's whole +nature revolted against concealment. She loved to live her life out in +the eye of day. But the story of Roland Sefton's crime, and the penance +done for it, in its completeness could never be given to the world; it +must always result in some measure in misleading the judgment of those +most interested in it. There was little to be gained and much to be +sacrificed by its disclosure. Felicita's death seemed to give a new +weight to every reason for keeping the secret; and it was safe in her +keeping and Mr. Clifford's: when a few years were gone it would be hers +alone. The cross most heavy for her to bear she must carry, hidden from +every eye; but she could bear it faithfully, even unto death.</p> + +<p>As her lips whispered the last three words, giving to her resolution a +definite form and utterance, a shadow beside her own fell upon the +cross. She turned quickly and met the kindly inquisitive gaze of the +mountain curé who had led Felicita to this spot yesterday. He had been +among the first who followed Jean Merle as he carried her lifeless form +through the village street; and he had run to the monastery to seek what +medical aid could be had there. The incident was one of great interest +to him. Phebe's frank yet sorrowful face, turned to him with its +expression of ready sympathy with any fellow-creature, won from the +young priest the cordial friendliness that everywhere greeted her. He +stood bareheaded before her, as he had done before Felicita, but he +spoke to her in a tone of more familiar intercourse.</p> + +<p>"Madame, pardon," he said, "but you are in grief, and I would offer you +my condolence. Behold! to me the lady who died yesterday spoke her last +words—here, on this spot. She said not a word afterwards to any human +creature. I come to communicate them to you. There is but little to +tell."</p> + +<p>It was so little that Phebe felt greatly disappointed; though her eyes +grew blind with tears as she thought of Felicita standing here before +this deceptive cross and calling herself of all women the most +miserable. The cross itself had had no message of peace to her troubled +heart. "Most miserable," repeated Phebe to herself, looking back upon +yesterday with a vain yearning that she had been there to tell Felicita +that she shared her misery, and could help her to bear it.</p> + +<p>"And now," continued the curé, "can I be of any service to Madame? You +are alone; and there are a few formalities to observe. It will be some +days before your friends can arrive. Command me, then, if I can be of +any service."</p> + +<p>"Can you help me to get away," she asked, in a tone of eager anxiety, +"down to Lucerne as quickly as possible? I have telegraphed to Madame's +son, and he will come immediately. Of course, I know in England when a +sudden death occurs there are inquiries made; and it is right and +necessary. But you see Madame died of a heart disease."</p> + +<p>"Without doubt," he interrupted; "she was ill here, and I followed her +down the village, and saw her enter Jean Merle's hut. I was about to +enter, for she had been there a long time, when you appeared with your +guide and went in. In a minute there was a cry, and I saw Jean Merle +bearing the poor lady out into the daylight and you following them. +Without doubt she died from natural causes."</p> + +<p>"There are formalities to observe," said Phebe earnestly, "and they take +much time. But I must leave Engelberg to-morrow, or the next day at the +latest, taking her with me. Can you help me to do this?"</p> + +<p>"But you will bury Madame here?" answered the curé, who felt deeply +what interest would attach to another English grave in the village +burial-ground; "she told me yesterday Roland Sefton was her relative, +and there will be many difficulties and great expenditure in taking her +away from this place."</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Phebe, "but Madame belongs to a great family in England; +she was the daughter of Baron Riversborough, and she must be buried +among her own people. You shall telegraph to the consul at Geneva, and +he will say she must be buried among her own people, not here. It does +not signify about the expenditure."</p> + +<p>"Ah! that makes it more easy," replied the curé, "and if Madame is of an +illustrious family—I was about to return to my parish this morning; but +I will stay and arrange matters for you. This is my native place, and I +know all the people. If I cannot do everything, the abbot and the +brethren will. Be tranquil; you shall leave Engelberg as early as +possible."</p> + +<p>It was impossible for Phebe to telegraph to England her intention of +returning immediately to Lucerne; for Felix must have set off already, +and would be on his way to the far-off valley among the Swiss +mountains, where he believed his father's grave lay, and where his +mother had met her death. Phebe's heart was wrung for him, as she +thought of the overwhelming and instantaneous shock it would be to him +and Hilda, who did not even know that their mother had left home; but +her dread lest he should judge it right to lay his mother beside this +grave, which had possessed so large a share in his thoughts hitherto, +compelled her to hasten her departure before he could arrive, even at +the risk of missing him on the way. The few formalities to be observed +seemed complicated and tedious; but at last they were ended. The +friendly priest accompanied her on her sorrowful return down the rough +mountain-roads, preceded by the litter bearing Felicita's coffin; and at +every hamlet they passed through he left minute instructions that a +young English gentleman travelling up to Engelberg was to be informed of +the little funeral cavalcade that was gone down to Lucerne.</p> + +<p>Down the green valley, and through the solemn forests, Phebe followed +the rustic litter on foot with the priest beside her, now and then +reciting a prayer in a low tone. When they reached Grafenort carriages +were in waiting to convey them as far as the Lake. It was only a week +since she and Felicita had started on their secret and disastrous +journey, and now her face was set homewards, with no companion save this +coffin, which she followed with so heavy a spirit. She had come up the +valley as Jean Merle had done, with vague, dim hopes, stretching vainly +forward to some impossible good that might come to him when he and +Felicita stood face to face once again. But now all was over.</p> + +<p>A boat was ready at Stans, and here the friendly curé bade her farewell, +leaving her to go on her way alone. And now it seemed to Phebe, more +than ever before, that she had been living and acting for a long while +in a painful dream. Her usually clear and tranquil soul was troubled and +bewildered as she sat in the boat at the head of Felicita's coffin, with +her dear face so near to her, yet hidden from her eyes. All around her +lay the Lake, with a fine rapid ripple on the silvery blue of its +waters, as the rowers, with measured and rhythmical strokes of their +oars, carried the boat's sad freight on towards Lucerne. The evening sun +was shining aslant down the wooded slopes of the lower hills, and dark +blue shadows gathered where its rays no longer penetrated. That +half-consciousness, common to all of us, that she had gone through this +passage in her life before, and that this sorrow had already had its +counterpart in some other state of existence, took possession of her; +and with it came a feeling of resigning herself to fate. She was worn +out with anxiety and grief. What would come might come. She could exert +herself no longer.</p> + +<p>As they drew near to Lucerne, the clangor of military music and the +merry pealing of bells rang across the water, jarring upon her faint and +sorrowful heart. Some fête was going on, and all the populace was +active. Banners floated from all the windows, and a gay procession was +parading along the quay, marching under the echoing roof of the long +wooden bridge which crossed the green torrent of the river. Numberless +little boats were darting to and fro on the smooth surface of the Lake, +and through them all her own, bearing Felicita's coffin, sped swiftly on +its way to the landing-stage, on which, as if standing there amid the +hubbub to receive it, her sad eyes saw Canon Pascal and Felix.</p> + +<p>They had but just reached Lucerne, and were waiting for the next steamer +starting to Stans, when Felix had caught sight of the boat afar off, +with its long, narrow burden, covered by a black pall; and as it drew +nearer he had distinguished Phebe sitting beside it alone. Until this +moment it had seemed absolutely incredible that his mother could be +dead, though the telegram to Canon Pascal had said so distinctly. There +must be some mistake, he had constantly reiterated as they hurried +through France to Lucerne; Phebe had been frightened, and in her terror +had misled herself and them. No wonder his mother should be +ill—dangerously so, after the fatigue and agitation of a journey to +Engelberg; but she could not be dead. Phebe had had no opportunity of +telegraphing again; for they had set off at once, and from Basle they +had brought on with them an eminent physician. So confident was Felix +in his asseverations that Canon Pascal himself had begun to hope that he +was right, and but that the steamer was about to start in a few minutes, +they would have hired a boat to carry them on to Stans, in order to lose +no time in taking medical aid to Felicita.</p> + +<p>But as Felix stood there, only dimly conscious of the scene about them, +the sight of the boat bringing Phebe to the shore with the covered +coffin beside her, extinguished in his heart the last glimmering of the +hope which had been little more than a natural recoil from despair. He +was not taken by surprise, or hurried into any vehemence of grief. A +cold stupor, which made him almost insensible to his loss, crept over +him. Sorrow would assert itself by and by; but now he felt dull and +torpid. When the coffin was lifted out of the boat, by bearers who were +waiting at the landing-stage for the purpose, he took up his post +immediately behind it, as if it were already the funeral procession +carrying his mother to the grave; and with all the din and tumult of the +streets sounding in his ears, he followed unquestioningly wherever it +might go. Why it was there, or why his mother's coffin was there, he did +not ask; he only knew that she was there.</p> + +<p>"My poor Phebe," said Canon Pascal, as they followed closely behind him, +"why did you start homewards? Would it not have been best to bury her at +Engelberg, beside her husband? Did not Felicita forgive him, even in her +death?"</p> + +<p>"No, no, it was not that," answered Phebe; "she forgave him, but I could +not bear to leave her there. I was with her just as she died; but she +had gone up to Engelberg alone, and I followed her, only too late. She +never spoke to me or looked at me. I could not leave Felicita in +Engelberg," she added excitedly; "it has been a fatal place to her."</p> + +<p>"Is there anything we must not know?" he inquired.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, turning to him her pale and quivering face, "I have a +secret to keep all my life long. But the evil of it is spent now. It +seems to me as if it is a sin no longer; all the selfishness is gone +out of it, and Felix and Hilda were as clear of it as Alice herself; if +I could tell you all, you would say so too."</p> + +<p>"You need tell me no more, dear Phebe," he replied; "God bless you in +the keeping of their secret!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIIa" id="CHAPTER_XXVIIa"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> + +<h3>HIS OWN CHILDREN.</h3> + + +<p>The tidings of Felicita's death spread rapidly in England, and the +circumstances attending it, its suddenness, and the fact that it had +occurred at the same place that her husband had perished by accident +many years before, gave it more than ordinary interest and excited more +than ordinary publicity. It was a good deal talked of in literary +circles, and in the fashionable clique to which she belonged through her +relationship with the Riversford family. There were the usual kindly +notices of her life and works in the daily papers; and her publisher +seized the occasion to advertise her books more largely. But it was in +Riversborough that the deepest impression was made, and the keenest +curiosity aroused by the story of her death, obscure in some of its +details, but full of romantic interest to her old towns-people, who were +thus recalled to the circumstances attending Roland Sefton's +disappearance and subsequent death. The funeral also was to be in the +immediate neighborhood, in the church where all the Riversfords had been +buried time out of mind, long before a title had been conferred on the +head of the house. It appeared quite right that Felicita should be +buried beside her own people; and every one who could get away from +business went down to the little country churchyard to be present at the +funeral.</p> + +<p>But Phebe was not there: when she reached London she was so worn out +with fatigue and agitation that she was compelled to remain at home, +brooding over what she had come through. And Jean Merle had not trusted +himself to look into the open grave, about to close over all that +remained of the woman he had so passionately loved. The tolling of the +minute-bell, which began early in the day and struck its deep knell +through the tardy hours till late in the evening, smote upon his ear and +heart every time the solemn tone sounded through the quiet hours. He was +left alone in his old home, for Mr. Clifford was gone as one of the +mourners to follow Felicita to the grave; and all the servants had asked +to be present at the funeral. There was nothing to demand his attention +or to distract his thoughts. The house was as silent as if it had been +the house of death and he himself but a phantom in it.</p> + +<p>Though he had been six months in the house, he had never yet been in +Felicita's study—that quiet room shut out from the noise both of the +street and the household, which he had set apart and prepared for her +when she was coming, stepping down a little from her own level to be his +wife. It was dismantled, he knew; her books were gone, and all the +costly decorative fittings he had chosen with so much joyous anxiety. +But the panelled doors which he had worked at with his own hands were +there, and the window, with its delicately tinted lattice-frames, +through which the sun had shone in daintily upon her at her desk. He +went slowly up the long staircase, pausing now and then lost in thought; +and standing, at last before the door, which he had never opened without +asking permission to enter in, he hesitated for many minutes before he +went in.</p> + +<p>An empty room, swept clean of everything which made it a living +habitation. The sunshine fell in pencils of colored light upon the bare +walls and uncarpeted floor. It bore no trace of any occupant; yet to him +it seemed but yesterday that he had been in here, listening to the low +tones of Felicita's sweet voice, and gazing with silent pride on her +beautiful face. There had been unmeasured passion and ambition in his +love for her, which had fatally changed his whole life. But he knew now +that he had failed in winning her love and in making her happy; and the +secret dissatisfaction she had felt in her ill-considered marriage had +been fatal both to her and to him. The restless eagerness it had +developed in him to gain a position that could content her, had been a +seed of worldliness, which had borne deadly fruit. He opened the +casement, and looked out on the familiar landscape, on which her eyes +had so often rested—eyes that were closed forever. The past, so keenly +present to him this moment, was in reality altogether dead and buried. +She had ceased to be his wife years ago, when she had accepted the +sacrifice he proposed to her of his very existence. That old life was +blotted out; and he had no right to mourn openly for the dead, who was +being laid in the grave of her fathers at this hour. His children were +counting themselves orphans, and it was not in his power to comfort +them. He knelt down at the open window, and rested his bowed head on +the window-sill. The empty room behind him was but a symbol of his own +empty lot, swept clean of all its affections and aspirations. Two thirds +of his term of years were already spent; and he found himself bereft and +dispossessed of all that makes life worth having—all except the power +of service. Even at this late hour a voice within him called to him, "Go +work to-day in my vineyard." It was not too late to serve God who had +forgiven him and mankind whom he had wronged. There was time to make +some atonement; to work out some redemption for his fellow-men. To +Roland Sefton had arisen a vision of a public and honorable career, +cheered on by applause of men and crowned with popularity and renown for +all he might achieve. But Jean Merle must toil in silence and +difficulty, amid rebuffs and discouragements, and do humble service +which would remain unrecognized and unthanked. Yet there was work to do, +if it were no more than cheering the last days of an old man, or +teaching a class of the most ignorant of his townsfolk in a night +school. He rose from his knees after a while, and left the room, +closing the door as softly as he had been used to do when afraid of any +noise grating on his wife's sensitive brain. It seemed to him like the +closing up of the vault where she was buried. She was gone from him +forever, and there was nothing left but to forget the past if that were +possible.</p> + +<p>As he went lingeringly down the staircase, which would henceforth be +trodden seldom if ever by him, he heard the ringing of the house-bell, +which announced the return of Mr. Clifford and of Felix and Hilda, who +were coming to stay the night in their old home, before returning to +London on the morrow. He hastened down to open the door and help them to +alight from their carriage. It was the first time he had been thus +brought into close contact with them; but this must happen often in the +future, and he must learn to meet them as strangers, and to be looked +upon by them as little more than a hired servant.</p> + +<p>But the sight of Hilda's sad young face, so pale and tear-stained, and +the expression of deep grief that Felix wore, tried him sorely. What +would he not have given to be able to take this girl into his arms and +soothe her, and to comfort his son with comfort none but a father can +give? He stood outside the sphere of their sorrows, looking on them with +the eyes of a stranger; and the pain of seeing them so near yet so far +away from him was unutterable. The time might come when Jean Merle could +see them, and talk with them calmly as a friend, ready to serve them to +the utmost of his power; when there might be something of pleasure in +gaining their friendship and confidence. But so long as they were +mourning bitterly for their mother and could not conceal the sharpness +of their grief, the sight of them was a torture to him. It was a relief +to him and to Mr. Clifford when they left Riversborough the next +morning.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIIIa" id="CHAPTER_XXVIIIa"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> + +<h3>AN EMIGRATION SCHEME.</h3> + + +<p>Several months passed away, bringing no visitor to Riversborough, except +Phebe, who came down two or three times to see Mr. Clifford, whose +favorite she was. But Phebe never spoke of the past to Jean Merle. Since +they had determined what to do, it seemed wiser to her not to look back +so as to embitter the present. Jean Merle was gradually gaining a +footing in the town as Mr. Clifford's representative, and was in many +ways filling a post very few could fill. Now and then, some of the elder +townsmen, who had been contemporary with Roland Sefton, remarked upon +the resemblance between Jean Merle and their old comrade; but this was +satisfactorily accounted for by his relationship to Madame Sefton: for +Roland, they said, had always had a good deal of the foreigner about +him, much more than this quiet, melancholy, self-effacing man, who never +pushed himself forward, or courted attention, yet was always ready with +a good sound shrewd opinion if he was asked for it. It had been a lucky +thing for old Clifford that such a man had been found to take care of +him and his affairs in his extreme old age.</p> + +<p>Felix had gone back to his curacy, under Canon Pascal, in the parish +where he had spent his boyhood and where he was safe against any attack +upon his father's memory. But in spite of being able to see Alice every +day, and of enjoying Canon Pascal's constant companionship, he was ill +at ease, and Phebe was dissatisfied. This was exactly the life Felicita +had dreaded for him, an easy, half-occupied life in a small parish, +where there was little active employment for either mind or body. The +thought of it troubled and haunted Phebe. The magnificent physical +strength and active energy of Felix, and the strong bent to heroic +effort and Christian devotion given to him in his earliest years, were +thrown away in this tranquil English village, where there was clearly no +scope for heroism. How was it that Canon Pascal could not see it? His +curacy was a post to be occupied by some feebler man than Felix; a man +whose powers were only equal to the quiet work of carrying on the labors +begun by his rector. Besides, Felix would have recovered from the shock +of his mother's sudden death if his time and faculties had been more +fully occupied. She must give words to her discontent, and urge Canon +Pascal to banish him from a spot where he was leading too dull a life.</p> + +<p>Canon Pascal had been in residence at Westminster for some weeks, and +was about to return to his rectory, when Phebe went down to the Abbey +one day, bent upon putting her decision into action. The bitterness of +the early spring had come again; and strong easterly gales were blowing +steadily day after day, bringing disease and death to those who were +feeble and ailing, yet not more surely than the fogs of the city had +done. It had been a long and gloomy winter, and in this second month of +the year the death rates were high. As Phebe passed through the Abbey on +her way to his home in the cloisters, she saw Canon Pascal standing +still, with his head thrown back and his eyes uplifted to the noble +arches supporting the roof. He did not notice her till her clear, +pleasant voice addressed him.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Phebe!" he exclaimed, a swift smile transforming his grave, marked +face, "my dear, I was just asking myself how I could bear to say +farewell to all this."</p> + +<p>He glanced round him with an expression of unutterable love and pride +and of keen regret. The Abbey had grown dearer to him than any spot on +earth; and as he paced down the long aisle he lingered as if every step +he took was full of pain.</p> + +<p>"Bid farewell to it!" repeated Phebe; "but why?"</p> + +<p>"For a series of whys," he answered; "first and foremost, because the +doctors tell me, and I believe it, that my dear wife's days are numbered +if she stays another year in this climate. All our days are numbered by +God, I know; but man can number them also, if he pleases, and make them +longer or shorter by his obedience or disobedience. Secondly, Phebe, our +sons have gone on before us as pioneers, and they send us piteous +accounts of the spiritual needs of the colonists and the native +populations out yonder. I preach often on the evils of over-population +and its danger to our country, and I prescribe emigration to most of the +young people I come across. Why should not I, even I, take up the +standard and cry 'Follow me'? We should leave England with sad hearts, +it is true, but for her good and for the good of unborn generations, who +shall create a second England under other skies. And last, but not +altogether least, the colonial bishopric is vacant, and has been offered +to me. If I accept it I shall save the life most precious to me, and +find another home in the midst of my children and grand-children."</p> + +<p>"And Felix?" cried Phebe.</p> + +<p>"What could be better for Felix than to come with us?" he asked; "there +he will meet with the work he was born for, the work he is fretting his +soul for. He will be at last a gallant soldier of the Cross, unhampered +by any dread of his father's sin rising up against him. And we could +never part with Alice—her mother and I. You would be the last to say No +to that, Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes!" she answered, with tears standing in her eyes, "Felix must go +with you."</p> + +<p>"And Hilda, too," he went on; "for what would become of Hilda alone +here, with her only brother settled at the antipodes? And here we shall +want Phebe Marlowe's influence with old Mr. Clifford, who might prevent +his ward from quitting England. I am counting also on Phebe herself, as +my pearl of deaconesses, with no vow to bind her, if the happiness and +fuller life of marriage opened before her. Still, to secure all these +benefits I must give up all this."</p> + +<p>He paused for a minute or two, looking back up the narrow side aisle, +and then, as if he could not tear himself away, he retraced his steps +slowly and lingeringly; and Phebe caught the glistening of tears in his +eyes.</p> + +<p>"Never to see it again," he murmured, "or if I see it, not to belong to +it! To have no more right here than any other stranger! It feels like a +home to me, dear Phebe. I have had solemn glimpses of God here, as if it +were indeed the gate of heaven. To the last hour of my life, wherever I +go, my soul will cleave to these walls. But I shall give it up."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, sighing, "but there is no bitterness of repentance to +you in giving it up."</p> + +<p>"How sadly you spoke that," he went on, "as if a woman like you could +know the bitterness of repentance! You have only looked at it through +other men's eyes. Yes, we shall go. Felix and Hilda and you are free to +leave Mr. Clifford, now he is so admirably cared for by this Jean Merle. +I like all that I hear of him, though I never saw him; surely it was a +blessing from God that Madame Sefton's poor kinsman was brought to the +old man. Could we not leave him safely in Merle's charge?"</p> + +<p>"Quite safely," she answered.</p> + +<p>"I have a scheme for a new settlement in my head," he continued, "a +settlement of our own, and we will invite emigrants to it. I can reckon +on a few who will joyfully follow our lead, and it will not seem a +strange land if we carry those whom we love with us. This hour even I +have made up my mind to accept this bishopric. Go on, dear Phebe, and +tell my wife. I must stay here alone a little longer."</p> + +<p>But Phebe did not hasten with these tidings through the cloisters. She +walked to and fro, pondering them and finding in them a solution of many +difficulties. For Felix it would be well, and it was not to be expected +that Alice would leave her invalid mother to remain behind in England as +a curate's wife. Hilda, too, what could be better or happier for her +than to go with those who looked upon her as a daughter, who would take +Alice's place as soon as she was gone into a home of her own? There was +little to keep them in England. She could not refuse to let them go.</p> + +<p>But herself? The strong strain of faithfulness in Phebe's nature knitted +her as closely with the past as with the present; and with some touch of +pathetic clinging to the past which the present cannot possess. She +could not separate herself from it. The little home where she was born, +and the sterile fields surrounding it, with the wide moors encircling +them, were as dear to her as the Abbey was to Canon Pascal. In no other +place did she feel herself so truly at home. If she cut herself adrift +from it and all the subtly woven web of memories belonging to it, she +fancied she might pine away of home-sickness in a foreign land. There +was Mr. Clifford too, who depended so utterly upon her promise to be +near him when he was dying, and to hold his hand in hers as he went +down into the deep chill waters of death. And Jean Merle, whose terrible +secret she shared, and would be the only one to share it when Mr. +Clifford was gone. How was it possible for her to separate herself from +these two? She loved Felix and Hilda with all the might of her unselfish +heart; but Felix had Alice, and by and by Hilda would give herself to +some one who would claim most of her affection. She was not necessary to +either of them. But if she went away she must leave a blank, too dreary +to be thought of, in the clouded lives of Mr. Clifford and poor Merle. +For their sakes she must refuse to leave England.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIXa" id="CHAPTER_XXIXa"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> + +<h3>FAREWELL.</h3> + + +<p>But it was more difficult than Phebe anticipated to resist the urgent +entreaties of Felix and Hilda not to sever the bond that had existed +between them so long. Her devotion to them in the past had made them +feel secure of its continuance, and to quit England, leaving her behind, +seemed impossible. But Mr. Clifford's reiterated supplications that she +would not forsake him in his old age drew her as powerfully the other +way. Scarcely a day passed without a few lines, written by his own +feeble and shaking hand, reaching her, beseeching and demanding of her a +solemn promise to stay in England as long as he lived. Jean Merle said +nothing, even when she went down to visit them, urged by Canon Pascal to +set before Mr. Clifford the strong reasons there were for her to +accompany the party of emigrants; but Phebe knew that Jean Merle's life, +with its unshared memories and secrets, would be still more dreary if +she went away. After she had seen these two she wavered no more.</p> + +<p>It was a larger party of emigrants than any one had foreseen; for it was +no sooner known that Canon Pascal was leaving England as a colonial +Bishop, than many men and women came forward anxious to go out and found +new homes under his auspices. He was a well-known advocate of +emigration, and it was rightly deemed a singular advantage to have him +as a leader as well as their spiritual chief. Canon Pascal threw himself +into the movement with ardor, and the five months elapsing before he set +sail were filled with incessant claims upon his time and thought, while +all about him were drawn into the strong current of his work. Phebe was +occupied from early morning till late at night, and a few hours of deep +sleep, which gave her no time for thinking of her own future, was all +the rest she could command. Even Felix, who had scarcely shaken off the +depression caused by his mother's sudden death, found a fresh +fountain-head of energy and gladness in sharing Canon Pascal's new +career, and in the immediate prospect of marrying Alice.</p> + +<p>For in addition to all the other constant calls upon her, Phebe was +plunged into the preparations needed for this marriage, which was to +take place before they left England. There was no longer any reason to +defer it for lack of means, as Felix had inherited his share of his +mother's settlement. But Phebe drew largely on her own resources to send +out for them the complete furnishing of a home as full of comfort, and +as far as possible, as full of real beauty, as their Essex rectory had +been. She almost stripped her studio of the sketches and the finished +pictures which Felix and Hilda had admired, sighing sometimes, and +smiling sometimes, as they vanished from her sight into the packing +cases, for the times that were gone by, and for the pleasant surprise +that would greet them, in that far-off land, when their eyes fell upon +the old favorites from home.</p> + +<p>Felix and Hilda spent a few days at Riversborough with Mr. Clifford, but +Phebe would not go with them, in spite of their earnest desire; and Jean +Merle, their kinsman, was absent, only coming home the night before they +bade their last farewell to their birth-place. He appeared to them a +very silent and melancholy man, keeping himself quite in the background, +and unwilling to talk much about his own country and his relationship +with their grandmother's family. But they had not time to pay much +attention to him; the engrossing interest of spending the few last hours +amid these familiar places, so often and so fondly to be remembered in +the coming years, made them less regardful of this stranger, who was +watching them with undivided and despairing interest. No word or look +escaped him, as he accompanied them from room to room, and about the +garden walks, unable to keep himself away from this unspeakable torture. +Mr. Clifford wept, as old men weep, when they bade him good-by; but +Felix was astonished by the fixed and mournful expression of inward +anguish in Jean Merle's eyes, as he held his hand in a grasp that would +not let him go.</p> + +<p>"I may never see you again," he said, "but I shall hear of you."</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Felix, "we shall write frequently to Mr. Clifford, and +you will answer our letters for him."</p> + +<p>"God bless you!" said Jean Merle. "God grant that you may be a truer +and a happier man than your father was."</p> + +<p>Felix started. This man, then, knew of his father's crime; probably knew +more of it than he did. But there was no time to question him now; and +what good would it do to hear more than he knew already? Hilda was +standing near to him waiting to say good-by, and Jean Merle, turning to +her, took her into his arms, and pressed her closely to his heart. A +sudden impulse prompted her to put her arm round his neck as she had +done round old Mr. Clifford's, and to lift up her face for his kiss. He +held her in his embrace for a few moments, and then, without another +word spoken to them, he left them and they saw him no more. The marriage +was celebrated a few days after this visit, and not long before the time +fixed for the Bishop and his large band of emigrants to sail. Under +these circumstances the ceremony was a quiet one. The old rectory was in +disorder, littered with packing cases, and upset from cellar to garret. +Even when the wedding was over both Phebe and Hilda were too busy for +sentimental indulgence. The few remaining days were flying swiftly past +them all, and keeping them in constant fear that there would not be +time enough for all that had to be done.</p> + +<p>But the last morning came, when Phebe found herself standing amid those +who were so dear to her on the landing-stage, with but a few minutes +more before they parted from her for years, if not forever. Bishop +Pascal was already gone on board the steamer standing out in the river, +where the greater number of emigrants had assembled. But Felix and Alice +and Hilda lingered about Phebe till the last moment. Yet they said but +little to one another; what could they say which would tell half the +love or half the sorrow they felt? Phebe's heart was full. How gladly +would she have gone out with these dear children, even if she left +behind her her little birth-place on the hills, if it had not been for +Mr. Clifford and Jean Merle!</p> + +<p>"But they need me most," she said again and again to herself. "I stay, +and must stay, for their sakes." As at length they said farewell to one +another, Hilda clinging to her as a child clings to the mother it is +about to leave, Phebe saw at a little distance Jean Merle himself, +looking on. She could not be mistaken, though his sudden appearance +there startled her; and he did not approach them, nor even address her +when they were gone. For when her eyes, blinded with tears, lost sight +of the outward-bound vessel amid the number of other craft passing up +and down the river, and she turned to the spot where she had seen his +gray head and sorrowful face he was no longer there. Alone and sad at +heart, she made her way through the tumult of the landing-stage and +drove back to the desolate home she had shared so long with those who +were now altogether parted from her.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXa" id="CHAPTER_XXXa"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2> + +<h3>QUITE ALONE.</h3> + + +<p>It was early in June, and the days were at the longest. Never before had +Phebe found the daylight too long, but now it shone upon dismantled and +disordered rooms, which reminded her too sharply of the separation and +departure they indicated. The place was no longer a home: everything was +gone which was made beautiful by association; and all that was left was +simply the bare framework of a living habitation, articles that could be +sold and scattered without regret. Her own studio was a scene of litter +and confusion, amid which it would be impossible to work; and it was +useless to set it in order, for at midsummer she would leave the house, +now far too large and costly for her occupation.</p> + +<p>What was she to do with herself? Quite close at hand was the day when +she would be absolutely homeless; but in the absorbing interest with +which she had thrown herself into the affairs of those who were gone she +had formed no plans for her own future. There was her profession, of +course: that would give her employment, and bring in a larger income +then she needed with her simple wants. But how was she to do without a +home—she who most needed to fill a home with all the sweet charities +of life?</p> + +<p>She had never felt before what it was to be altogether without ties of +kinship to any fellow-being. This incompleteness in her lot had been +perfectly filled up by her relationship with the whole family of the +Seftons. She had found in them all that was required for the full +development and exercise of her natural affections. But she had lost +them. Death and the chance changes of life had taken them from her, and +there was not one human creature in the world on whom she possessed the +claim of being of the same blood.</p> + +<p>Phebe could not dwell amid the crowds of London with such a thought +oppressing her. This heart-sickness and loneliness made the busy streets +utterly distasteful to her. To be here, with millions around her, all +strangers to her, was intolerable. There was her own little homestead, +surrounded by familiar scenes, where she would seek rest and quiet +before laying any plans for herself. She put her affairs into the hands +of a house-agent, and set out alone upon her yearly visit to her farm, +which until now Felix and Hilda had always shared.</p> + +<p>She stayed on her way to spend a night at Riversborough—her usual +custom, that she might reach the unprepared home on the moors early in +the day. But she would not prolong her stay; there was a fatigue and +depression about her which she said could only be dispelled by the sweet +fresh air of her native moorlands.</p> + +<p>"Felix and Hilda have been more to me than any words could tell," she +said to Mr. Clifford and Jean Merle, "and now I have lost them I feel as +if more than half my life was gone. I must get away by myself into my +old home, where I began my life, and readjust it as well as I can. I +shall do it best there with no one to distract me. You need not fear my +wishing to be too long alone."</p> + +<p>"We ought to have let you go," answered Mr. Clifford. "Jean Merle said +we ought to have let you go with them. But how could we part with you, +Phebe?"</p> + +<p>"I should not have been happy," she said, sighing, "as long as you need +me most—you two. And I owe all I am to Jean Merle himself."</p> + +<p>The little homely cottage with its thatched roof and small lattice +windows was more welcome to her than any other dwelling could have been. +Now her world had suffered such a change, it was pleasant to come here, +where nothing had been altered since her childhood. Both within and +without the old home was as unchanged as the beautiful outline of the +hills surrounding it and the vast hollow of the sky above. Here she +might live over again the past—the whole past. She was a woman, with a +woman's sad experience of life; but there was much of the girl, even of +the child, left in Phebe Marlowe still; and no spot on earth could have +brought back her youth to her as this inheritance of hers. There was an +unspoiled simplicity about her which neither time nor change could +destroy—the childlikeness of one who had entered into the kingdom of +heaven.</p> + +<p>It was a year since she had been here last, with Hilda in her first +grief for her mother's death; and everywhere she found traces of Jean +Merle's handiwork. The half-shaped blocks of wood, left unfinished for +years in her father's workshop, were completed. The hawk hovering over +its prey, which the dumb old wood-carver had begun as a symbol of the +feeling of vengeance he could not give utterance to when brooding over +Roland Sefton's crime, had been brought to a marvellous perfection by +Jean Merle's practised hand, and it had been placed by him under the +crucifix which old Marlowe had fastened in the window-frame, where the +last rays of daylight fell upon the bowed head hidden by the crown of +thorns. The first night that Phebe sat alone, on the old hearth, her +eyes rested upon these until the daylight faded away, and the darkness +shut them out from her sight. Had Jean Merle known what he did when he +laid this emblem of vengeance beneath this symbol of perfect love and +sacrifice?</p> + +<p>But after a few days, when she had visited every place of yearly +pilgrimage, knitting up the slackened threads of memory, Phebe began to +realize the terrible solitude of this isolated home of hers. To live +again where no step passed by and no voice spoke to her, where not even +the smoke of a household hearth floated up into the sky, was intolerable +to her genial nature, which was only satisfied in helpful and pleasant +human intercourse. The utter silence became irksome to her, as it had +been in her girlhood; but even then she had possessed the companionship +of her dumb father: now there was not only silence, but utter +loneliness.</p> + +<p>The necessity of forming some definite plan for her future life became +every day a more pressing obligation, whilst every day the needful +exertion grew more painful to her. Until now she had met with no +difficulty in deciding what she ought to do: her path of duty had been +clearly traced for her. But there was neither call of duty now nor any +strong inclination to lead her to choose one thing more than another. +All whom she loved had gone from London, and this small solitary home +had grown all too narrow in its occupations to satisfy her nature. Mr. +Clifford himself did not need her constant companionship as he would +have done if Jean Merle had not been living with him. She was perfectly +free to do what she pleased and go where she pleased, but to no human +being could such freedom be more oppressive than to Phebe Marlowe. She +had sauntered out one evening, ankle-deep among the heather, aimless in +her wanderings, and a little dejected in spirits. For the long summer +day had been hot even up here on the hills, and a dull film had hidden +the landscape from her eyes, shutting her in upon herself and her +disquieting thoughts. "We are always happy when we can see far enough," +says Emerson; but Phebe's horizon was all dim and overcast. She could +see no distant and clear sky-line. The sight of Jean Merle's figure +coming towards her through the dull haziness brought a quick throb to +her pulse, and she ran down the rough wagon track to meet him.</p> + +<p>"A letter from Felix," he called out before she reached him. "I came out +with it because you could not have it before post-time to-morrow, and I +am longing to have news of him and of Hilda."</p> + +<p>They walked slowly back to the cottage, side by side, reading the +letter together; for Felix could have nothing to say to Phebe which his +father might not see. There was nothing of importance in it; only a +brief journal dispatched by a homeward-bound vessel which had crossed +the path of their steamer, but every word was read with deep and silent +interest, neither of them speaking till they had read the last line.</p> + +<p>"And now you will have tea with me," said Phebe joyfully.</p> + +<p>He entered the little kitchen, so dark and cool to him after his sultry +walk up the steep, long lanes, and sat watching her absently, yet with a +pleasant consciousness of her presence, as she kindled her fire of dry +furze and wood, and hung a little kettle to it by a chain hooked to a +staple in the chimney, and arranged her curious old china, picked up +long years ago by her father at village sales, upon the quaintly carved +table set in the coolest spot of the dusky room. There was an air of +simple busy gladness in her face and in every quick yet graceful +movement that was inexpressibly charming to him. Maybe both of them +glanced back at the dark past when Roland Sefton had been watching her +with despairing eyes, yet neither of them spoke of it. That life was +dead and buried. The present was altogether different.</p> + +<p>Yet the meal was a silent one, and as soon as it was finished they went +out again on to the hazy moorland.</p> + +<p>"Are you quite rested yet, Phebe?" asked Jean Merle.</p> + +<p>"Quite," she answered, with unconscious emphasis.</p> + +<p>"And you have settled upon some plan for the future?" he said.</p> + +<p>"No," she replied; "I am altogether at a loss. There is no one in all +the world who has a claim upon me, or whom I have a claim upon; no one +to say to me 'Go' or 'Come.' When the world is all before you and it is +an empty world, it is difficult to choose which way you will take in +it."</p> + +<p>She had paused as she spoke; but now they walked on again in silence, +Jean Merle looking down on her sweet yet somewhat sad face with +attentive eyes. How little changed she was from the simple, +faithful-hearted girl he had known long ago! There was the same candid +and thoughtful expression on her face, and the same serene light in her +blue eyes, as when she stood beside him, a little girl, patiently yet +earnestly mastering the first difficulties of reading. There was no one +in the wide world whom he knew as perfectly as he knew her; no one in +the wide world who knew him as perfectly as she did.</p> + +<p>"Tell me, Phebe," he said gravely, "is it possible that you have lived +so long and that no man has found out what a priceless treasure you +might be to him?"</p> + +<p>"No one," she answered, with a little tremor in her voice; "only Simon +Nixey," she added, laughing, as she thought of his perseverance from +year to year. Jean Merle stopped and laid his hand on Phebe's arm.</p> + +<p>"Will you be my wife?" he asked.</p> + +<p>The brief question escaped him before he was aware of it. It was as +utterly new to him as it was to her; yet the moment it was uttered he +felt how much the happiness of his life depended upon it. Without her +all the future would be dreary and lonely for him. With her—Jean Merle +did not dare to think of the gladness that might yet be his.</p> + +<p>"No, no," cried Phebe, looking up into his face furrowed with deep +lines; "it is impossible! You ought not to ask me."</p> + +<p>"Why?" he said.</p> + +<p>She did not move or take away her eyes from his face. A rush of sad +memories and associations was sweeping across her troubled heart. She +saw him as he had been long ago, so far above her that it had seemed an +honor to her to do him the meanest service. She thought of Felicita in +her unapproachable loveliness and stateliness; and of their home, so +full to her of exquisite refinement and luxury. In the true humility of +her nature she had looked up to them as far above her, dwelling on a +height to which she made no claim. And this dethroned king of her early +days was a king yet, though he stood before her as Jean Merle, still +fast bound in the chains his sins had riveted about him.</p> + +<p>"I am utterly unworthy of you," he said; "but let me justify myself if I +can. I had no thought of asking you such a question when I came up +here. But you spoke mournfully of your loneliness; and I, too, am +lonely, with no human being on whom I have any claim. It is so by my own +sin. But you, at least, have friends; and in a year or two, when my last +friend, Mr. Clifford, dies, you will go out to them, to my children, +whom I have forfeited and lost forever. There is no tie to bind me +closely to my kind. I am older than you—poorer; a dishonor to my +father's house! Yet for an instant I fancied you might learn to love me, +and no one but you can ever know me for what I am; only your faithful +heart possesses my secret. Forgive me, Phebe, and forget it if you can."</p> + +<p>"I never can forget it," she answered, with a low sob.</p> + +<p>"Then I have done you a wrong," he went on; "for we were friends, were +we not? And you will never again be at home with me as you have hitherto +been. I was no more worthy of your friendship than of your love, and I +have lost both."</p> + +<p>"No, no," she cried, in a broken voice. "I never thought—it seems +impossible. But, oh! I love you. I have never loved any one like you. +Only it seems impossible that you should wish me to be your wife."</p> + +<p>"Cannot you see what you will be to me," he said passionately. "It will +be like reaching home after a weary exile; like finding a fountain of +living waters after crossing a burning wilderness. I ought not to ask it +of you, Phebe. But what man could doom himself to endless thirst and +exile! If you love me so much that you do not see how unworthy I am of +you, I cannot give you up again. You are all the world to me."</p> + +<p>"But I am only Phebe Marlowe," she said, still doubtfully.</p> + +<p>"And I am only Jean Merle," he replied.</p> + +<p>Phebe walked down the old familiar lanes with Jean Merle, and returned +to the moorlands alone whilst the sun was still above the horizon. But a +soft west wind had risen, and the hazy heat was gone. She could see the +sun sinking low behind Riversborough, and its tall spires glistened in +the level rays, while the fine cloud of smoke hanging over it this +summer evening was tinged with gold. Her future home lay there, under +the shadow of those spires, and beneath the soft, floating veil +ascending from a thousand hearths. The home Roland Sefton had forfeited +and Felicita had forsaken had become hers. There was deep sadness +mingled with the strange, unanticipated happiness of the present hour; +and Phebe did not seek to put it away from her heart.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIa" id="CHAPTER_XXXIa"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2> + +<h3>LAST WORDS.</h3> + + +<p>Nothing could have delighted Mr. Clifford so much as a marriage between +Jean Merle and Phebe Marlowe. The thought of it had more than once +crossed his mind, but he had not dared to cherish it as a hope. When +Jean Merle told him that night how Phebe had consented to become his +wife, the old man's gladness knew no bounds.</p> + +<p>"She is as dear to me as my own daughter," he said, in tremulous +accents; "and now at last I shall have her under the same roof with me. +I shall never be awake in the night again, fearing lest I should miss +her on my death-bed. I should like Phebe to hold my hand in hers as long +as I am conscious of anything in this world. All the remaining years of +my life I shall have you and her with me as my children. God is very +good to me."</p> + +<p>But to Felix and Hilda it was a vexation and a surprise to hear that +their Phebe Marlowe, so exclusively their own, was no longer to belong +only to them. They could not tell, as none of us can tell with regard to +our friends' marriages, what she could see in that man to make her +willing to give herself to him. They never cordially forgave Jean +Merle, though in the course of the following years he lavished upon +them magnificent gifts. For once more he became a wealthy man, and stood +high in the estimation of his fellow-townsmen. Upon his marriage with +Phebe, at Mr. Clifford's request, he exchanged his foreign surname for +the old English name of Marlowe, and was made the manager of the Old +Bank. Some years later, when Mr. Clifford died, all his property, +including his interest in the banking business, was left to John +Marlowe.</p> + +<p>No parents could have been more watchful over the interests of absent +children than he and Phebe were in the welfare of Felix and Hilda. But +they could never quite reconcile themselves to this marriage. They had +quitted England with no intention of dwelling here again, but they felt +that Phebe's shortcoming in her attachment to them made their old +country less attractive to them. She had severed the last link that +bound them to it. Possibly, in the course of years, they might visit +their old home; but it would never seem the same to them. Canon Pascal +alone rejoiced cordially in the marriage, though feeling that there was +some secret and mystery in it, which was to be kept from him as from all +the world.</p> + +<p>Jean Merle, after his long and bitter exile, was at home again; after +crossing a thirsty and burning wilderness, he had found a spring of +living water. Yet whilst he thanked God and felt his love for Phebe +growing and strengthening daily, there were times when in brief +intervals of utter loneliness of spirit the long-buried past arose again +and cried to him with sorrowful voice amid the tranquil happiness of the +present. The children who called Phebe mother looked up into his face +with eyes like those of the little son and daughter whom he had once +forsaken, and their voices at play in the garden sounded like the echo +of those beloved voices that had first stirred his heart to its depths. +The quiet room where Felicita had been wont to shut herself in with her +books and her writings remained empty and desolate amid the joyous +occupancy of the old house, where little feet pattered everywhere except +across that sacred threshold. It was never crossed but by Phebe and +himself. Sometimes they entered it together, but oftener he went there +alone, when his heart was heavy and his trust in God darkened. For there +were times when Jean Merle had to pass through deep waters; when the +sense of forgiveness forsook him and the light of God's countenance was +withdrawn. He had sinned greatly and suffered greatly. He loved as he +might never otherwise have loved the Lord, whose disciple he professed +to be; yet still there were seasons of bitter remembrance for him, and +of vain regrets over the irrevocable past.</p> + +<p>It was no part of Phebe's nature to inquire jealously if her husband +loved her as much as she loved him. She knew that in this as in all +other things "it is more blessed to give than to receive." She felt for +him a perfectly unselfish and faithful tenderness, satisfied that she +made him happier than he could have been in any other way. No one else +in the world knew him as she knew him; Felicita herself could never have +been to him what she was. When she saw his grave face sadder than usual +she had but to sit beside him with her hand in his, bringing to him the +solace of her silent and tranquil sympathy; and by and by the sadness +fled. This true heart of hers, that knew all and loved him in spite of +all, was to him a sure token of the love of God.</p> + + +<p>THE END.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cobwebs and Cables, by Hesba Stretton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBWEBS AND CABLES *** + +***** This file should be named 19802-h.htm or 19802-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/8/0/19802/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Cobwebs and Cables + +Author: Hesba Stretton + +Release Date: November 13, 2006 [EBook #19802] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBWEBS AND CABLES *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +COBWEBS + +AND + +CABLES. + +BY + +HESBA STRETTON, + +AUTHOR OF "THROUGH A NEEDLE'S EYE," "IN PRISON AND OUT," "BEDE'S +CHARITY," ETC. + +NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. + + + + +_AUTHOR'S CARD._ + +_It is my wish that Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company alone should publish +this story in the United States, and I appeal to the generosity and +courtesy of other Publishers, to allow me to gain some benefit from my +work on the American as well as English side of the Atlantic._ + +_HESBA STRETTON._ + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +PART I. + +CHAPTER + +I. ABSCONDED + +II. PHEBE MARLOWE + +III. FELICITA + +IV. UPFOLD FARM + +V. A CONFESSION + +VI. THE OLD BANK + +VII. AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM + +VIII. THE SENIOR PARTNER + +IX. FAST BOUND + +X. LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH + +XI. OLD MARLOWE + +XII. RECKLESS OF LIFE + +XIII. SUSPENSE + +XIV. ON THE ALTAR STEPS + +XV. A SECOND FRAUD + +XVI. PARTING WORDS + +XVII. WAITING FOR THE NEWS + +XVIII. THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN + +XIX. AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER + +XX. A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF + +XXI. PLATO AND PAUL + +XXII. A REJECTED SUITOR + +XXIII. ANOTHER OFFER + +XXIV. AT HOME IN LONDON + +XXV. DEAD TO THE WORLD + + +PART II. + +CHAPTER + +I. AFTER MANY YEARS + +II. CANON PASCAL + +III. FELICITA'S REFUSAL + +IV. TAKING ORDERS + +V. A LONDON CURACY + +VI. OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS + +VII. AN OLD MAN'S PARDON + +VIII. THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG + +IX. THE LOWEST DEEPS + +X. ALICE PASCAL + +XI. COMING TO HIMSELF + +XII. A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE + +XIII. A LONDON GARRET + +XIV. HIS FATHER'S SIN + +XV. HAUNTING MEMORIES + +XVI. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD + +XVII. NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE + +XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT + +XIX. IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE + +XX. AS A HIRED SERVANT + +XXI. PHEBE'S SECRET + +XXII. NEAR THE END + +XXIII. THE MOST MISERABLE + +XXIV. FOR ONE MOMENT + +XXV. THE FINAL RESOLVE + +XXVI. IN LUCERNE + +XXVII. HIS OWN CHILDREN + +XXVIII. AN EMIGRATION SCHEME + +XXIX. FAREWELL + +XXX. QUITE ALONE + +XXXI. LAST WORDS + + + + +COBWEBS AND CABLES + + + + +PART I. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +ABSCONDED. + + +Late as it was, though the handsome office-clock on the chimney-piece +had already struck eleven, Roland Sefton did not move. He had not +stirred hand or foot for a long while now; no more than if he had been +bound fast by many strong cords, which no effort could break or untie. +His confidential clerk had left him two hours ago, and the undisturbed +stillness of night had surrounded him ever since he had listened to his +retreating footsteps. "Poor Acton!" he had said half aloud, and with a +heavy sigh. + +As he sat there, his clasped hands resting on his desk and his face +hidden on them, all his life seemed to unfold itself before him; not in +painful memories of the past only, but in terrified prevision of the +black future. + +How dear his native town was to him! He had always loved it from his +very babyhood. The wide old streets, with ancient houses still standing +here and there, rising or falling in gentle slopes, and called by quaint +old names such as he never heard elsewhere; the fine old churches +crowning the hills, and lifting up delicate tall spires, visible a score +of miles away; the grammar school where he had spent the happiest days +of his boyhood; the rapid river, brown and swirling, which swept past +the town, and came back again as if it could not leave it; the ancient +bridges spanning it, and the sharp-cornered recesses on them where he +had spent many an idle hour, watching the boats row in and out under the +arches; he saw every familiar nook and corner of his native town vividly +and suddenly, as if he caught glimpses of them by the capricious play of +lightning. + +And this pleasant home of his; these walls which inclosed his +birth-place, and the birth-place of his children! He could not imagine +himself finding true rest and a peaceful shelter elsewhere. The spacious +old rooms, with brown wainscoted walls and carved ceilings; the tall and +narrow windows, with deep window-sills, where as a child he had so often +knelt, gazing out on the wide green landscape and the far distant, +almost level line of the horizon. His boy, Felix, had knelt in one of +them a few hours ago, looking out with grave childish eyes on the +sunset. The broad, shallow steps of the oaken staircase, trodden so many +years by the feet of all who were dearest to him; the quiet chambers +above where his mother, his wife, and his children were at this moment +sleeping peacefully. How unutterably and painfully sweet all his home +was to him! + +Very prosperous his life had been; hardly overshadowed by a single +cloud. His father, who had been the third partner in the oldest bank in +Riversborough, had lived until he was old enough to step into his place. +The bank had been established in the last century, and was looked upon +as being as safe as the Bank of England. The second partner was dead; +and the eldest, Mr. Clifford, had left everything in his hands for the +last five years. + +No man in Riversborough had led a more prosperous life than he had. His +wife was from one of the county families; without fortune, indeed, but +with all the advantages of high connections, which lifted him above the +rank of mere business men, and admitted him into society hitherto closed +even to the head partner in the old bank; in spite even of the fact that +he still occupied the fine old house adjoining the bank premises. There +was scarcely a townsman who was held to be his equal; not one who was +considered his superior. Though he was little over thirty yet, he was at +the head of all municipal affairs. He had already held the office of +mayor for one year, and might have been re-elected, if his wife had not +somewhat scorned the homely bourgeois dignity. There was no more popular +man in the whole town than he was. + +But he had been building on the sands, and the storm was rising. He +could hear the moan of the winds growing louder, and the rush of the +on-coming floods drawing nearer. He must make good his escape now, or +never. If he put off flight till to-morrow, he would be crushed with the +falling of his house. + +He lifted himself up heavily, and looked round the room. It was his +private office, at the back of the bank, handsomely furnished as a bank +parlor should be. Over the fire-place hung the portrait of old Clifford, +the senior partner, faithfully painted by a local artist, who had not +attempted to soften the hard, stern face, and the fixed stare of the +cold blue eyes, which seemed fastened pitilessly upon him. He had never +seen the likeness before as he saw it now. Would such a man overlook a +fault, or have any mercy for an offender? Never! He turned away from it, +feeling cold and sick at heart; and with a heavy, and very bitter sigh +he locked the door upon the room where he had spent so large a portion +of his life. The place which had known him would know him no more. + +As noiselessly and warily as if he was a thief breaking into the quiet +house, he stole up the dimly-lighted staircase, and paused for a minute +or two before a door, listening intently. Then he crept in. A low shaded +lamp was burning, giving light enough to guide him to the cot where +Felix was sleeping. It would be his birthday to-morrow, and the child +must not lose his birthday gift, though the relentless floods were +rushing on toward him also. Close by was the cot where his baby +daughter, Hilda, was at rest. He stood between them, and could lay a +hand on each. How soundly the children slept while his heart was +breaking! Dear as they had been to him, he had never realized till now +how priceless beyond all words such little tender creatures could be. He +had called them into existence; and now the greatest good that could +befall them was his death. It was unutterable agony to him. + +His gift was a Bible, the boy's own choice; and he laid it on the pillow +where Felix would find it as soon as his eyes opened. He bent over him, +and kissed him with trembling lips. Hilda stirred a little when his lips +touched her soft, rosy face, and she half opened her eyes, whispering +"Father," and then fell asleep again smiling. He dared not linger +another moment, but passing stealthily away, he paused listening at +another door, his face white with anguish. "I dare not see Felicita," he +murmured to himself, "but I must look on my mother's face once again." + +The door made no sound as he opened it, and his feet fell noiselessly on +the thick carpet; but as he drew near his mother's bed, her eyes opened +with a clear steady gaze as if she had been awaiting his coming. There +was a light burning here as well as in the night-nursery adjoining, for +it was his mother who had charge of the children, and who would be the +first the nurse would call if anything was the matter. She awoke as one +who expects to be called upon at any hour; but the light was too dim to +betray the misery on her son's face. + +"Roland!" she said, in a slightly foreign accent. + +"Were you calling, mother?" he asked. "I was passing by, and I came in +here to see if you wanted anything." + +"I did not call, my son," she answered, "but what have you the matter? +Is Felicita ill? or the babies? Your voice is sad, Roland." + +"No, no," he said, forcing himself to speak in a cheerful voice, +"Felicita is asleep, I hope, and the babies are all right. But I have +been late at bank-work; and I turned in just to have a look at you, +mother, before I go to bed." + +"That's my good son," she said, smiling, and taking his hand between her +own in a fond clasp. + +"Am I a good son?" he asked. + +His mother's face was a fair, sweet face still, the soft brown hair +scarcely touched with white, and with clear, dark gray eyes gazing up +frankly into his own. They were eyes like these, with their truthful +light shining through them, inherited from her, which in himself had won +the unquestioning trust and confidence of those who were brought into +contact with him. There was no warning signal of disloyalty in his face +to set others on their guard. His mother looked up at him tenderly. + +"Always a good son, the best of sons, Roland," she replied, "and a good +husband, and a good father. Only one little fault in my good son: too +spendthrift, too lavish. You are not a fine, rich lord, with large +lands, and much, very much money, my boy. I do my best in the house; but +women can only save pennies, while men fling about pounds." + +"But you love me with all my faults, mother?" he said. + +"As my own soul," she answered. + +There was a profound solemnity in her voice and look, which penetrated +to his very heart. She was not speaking lightly. It was in the same +spirit with which. Paul wrote, after saying, "For I am persuaded that +neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor +things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other +creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in +Christ Jesus our Lord;" "I could wish that myself were separate from +Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh." His mother +had reached that sublime height of love for him. + +He stood silent, looking down on her with dull, aching eyes, as he said +to himself it was perhaps for the last time. It was the last time she +would ever see him as her good son. With her, in her heart and memory, +all his life dwelt; she knew the whole of it, with no break or +interruption. Only this one hidden thread, which had been woven into the +web in secret, and which was about to stand out with such clear and open +disclosure; of this she had no faint suspicion. For a minute or two he +felt as if he must tell her of it; that he must roll off this horrible +weight from himself, and crush her faithful heart with it. But what +could his mother do? Her love could not stay the storm; she had no power +to bid the winds and waves be still. It would be best for all of them if +he could make his escape secretly, and be altogether lost in +impenetrable darkness. + +At that moment a clock in the hall below struck one. + +"Well," he said wearily, "if I'm to get any sleep to-night I must be off +to bed. Good-by, mother." + +"Good-by?" she repeated with a smile. + +"Good-night, of course," he replied, bending over her and kissing her +tenderly. + +"God bless you, my son," she said, putting both her hands upon his head, +and pressing his face close to her own. He could not break away from her +fond embrace; but in a few moments she let him go, bidding him get some +rest before the night was passed. + +Once more he stood in the dimly-lighted passage, listening at his wife's +door, with his fingers involuntarily clasping the handle. But he dared +not go in. If he looked upon Felicita again he could not leave her, even +to escape from ruin and disgrace. An agony of love and of terror took +possession of him. Never to see her again was horrible; but to see her +shrink from him as a base and dishonest man, his name an infamy to her, +would be worse than death. Did she love him enough to forgive a sin +committed chiefly for her sake? In the depths of his own soul the answer +was no. + +He stole down stairs again, and passed out by a side door into the +streets. It was raining heavily, and the wind was moaning through the +deserted thoroughfares, where no sound of footsteps could be heard. +Behind him lay his pleasant home, never so precious as at this moment. +He looked up at the windows, the two faintly lit up, and that other +darkened window of the chamber he had not dared to enter. In a few hours +those women, so unutterably dear to him, would be overwhelmed by the +great sorrow he had prepared for them; those children would become the +inheritors of his sin. He looked back longingly and despairingly, as if +there only was life for him; and then hurrying on swiftly he lost sight +of the old home, and felt as a drowning wretch at sea feels when the +heaving billows hide from him the glimmering light of the beacon, which, +however, can offer no harbor of refuge to him. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +PHEBE MARLOWE. + + +Though the night had been stormy, the sun rose brightly on the +rain-washed streets, and the roofs and walls stood out with a peculiar +clearness, and with a more vivid color than usual, against the deep blue +of the sky. It was May-day, and most hearts were stirred with a pleasant +feeling as of a holiday; not altogether a common day, though the shops +were all open, and business was going on as usual. The old be-thought +themselves of the days when they had gone a-Maying; and the young felt +less disposed to work, and were inclined to wander out in search of +May-flowers in the green meadows, or along the sunny banks of the river, +which surrounded the town. Early, very early considering the ten miles +she had ridden on her rough hill-pony, came a young country girl across +one of the ancient bridges, with a large market-basket on her arm, +brimful of golden May-flowers, set off well by their own glossy leaves, +and by the dark blue of her dress. She checked her pony and lingered for +a few minutes, looking over the parapet at the swift rushing of the +current through the narrow arches. A thin line of alders grew along the +margin of the river, with their pale green leaves half unfolded; and in +the midst of the swirling waters, parting them into two streams, lay a +narrow islet on which tall willow wands were springing, with soft, white +buds on every rod, and glistening in the sunshine. Not far away a lofty +avenue of lime-trees stretched along the banks, casting wavering shadows +on the brown river; while beyond it, on the summit of one of the hills +on which the town was built, there rose the spires of two churches built +close together, with the gilded crosses on their tapering points +glittering more brightly than anything else in the joyous light. For a +little while the girl gazed dreamily at the landscape, her color coming +and going quickly, and then with a deep-drawn sigh of delight she +roused herself and her pony, and passed on into the town. + +The church clocks struck nine as she turned into Whitefriars Road, the +street where the old bank of Riversborough stood. The houses on each +side of the broad and quiet street were handsome, old-fashioned +dwelling-places, not one of which had as yet been turned into a shop. +The most eminent lawyers and doctors lived in it; and there was more +than one frontage which displayed a hatchment, left to grow faded and +discolored long after the year of mourning was ended. Here too was the +judge's residence, set apart for his occupation during the assizes. But +the old bank was the most handsome and most ancient of all those urban +mansions. It had originally stood alone on the brow of the hill +overlooking the river and the Whitefriars Abbey. Toward the street, when +Ronald Sefton's forefathers had realized a fortune by banking, now a +hundred years ago, there had been a new frontage built to it, with the +massive red brick workmanship and tall narrow windows of the eighteenth +century. But on the river side it was still an old Elizabethan mansion, +with gabled roofs standing boldly up against the sky; and low broad +casements, latticed and filled with lozenge-shaped panes; and +half-timber walls, with black beams fashioned into many forms: and with +one story jutting out beyond that below, until the attic window under +the gable seemed to hang in mid-air, without visible support, over the +garden sloping down a steep bank to the river-side. + +Phebe Marlowe, in her coarse dark blue merino dress, and with her +market-basket of golden blossoms on her arm, walked with a quick step +along the quiet street, having left her pony at a stable near the +entrance to the town. There were few persons about; but those whom she +met she looked at with a pleasant, shy, slight smile on her face, as if +she almost claimed acquaintance with them, and was ready, even wishful, +to bid them good-morning on a day so fine and bright. Two or three +responded to this inarticulate greeting, and then her lips parted +gladly, and her voice, clear though low, answered them with a sweet +good-humor that had something at once peculiar and pathetic in it. She +passed under a broad archway at one side of the bank offices, leading to +the house entrance, and to the sloping garden beyond. A private door +into the bank was ajar, and a dark, sombre face was peering out of it +into the semi-darkness. Phebe's feet paused for an instant. + +"Good-morning, Mr. Acton," she said, with a little rustic courtesy. But +he drew back quickly, and she heard him draw the bolt inside the door, +as if he had neither seen nor heard her. Yet the face, with its eager +and scared expression, had been too quickly seen by her, and too vividly +impressed upon her keen perception; and she went on, chilled a little, +as if some cloud had come over the clear brightness of the morning. + +Phebe was so much at home in the house, that when she found the +housemaid on her knees cleaning the hall floor, she passed on +unceremoniously to the dining-room, where she felt sure of finding some +of the family. It was a spacious room, with a low ceiling where black +beams crossed and recrossed each other; with wainscoted walls, and a +carved chimney-piece of almost black oak. A sombre place in gloomy +weather, yet so decorated with old china vases, and great brass salvers, +and silver cups and tankards catching every ray of light, that the whole +room glistened in this bright May-day. In the broad cushioned seat +formed by the sill of the oriel window, which was almost as large as a +room itself, there sat the elder Mrs. Sefton, Roland Sefton's foreign +mother, with his two children standing before her. They had their hands +clasped behind them, and their faces were turned toward her with the +grave earnestness children's faces often wear. She was giving them their +daily Bible lesson, and she held up her small brown hand as a signal to +Phebe to keep silence, and to wait a moment until the lesson was ended. + +"And so," she said, "those who know the will of God, and do not keep it, +will be beaten with many stripes. Remember that, my little Felix." + +"I shall always try to do it," answered the boy solemnly. "I'm nine +years old to-day; and when I'm a man I'm going to be a pastor, like +your father, grandmamma; my great-grandfather, you know, in the Jura. +Tell us how he used to go about the snow mountains seeing his poor +people, and how he met with wolves sometimes, and was never frightened." + +"Ah! my little children," she answered, "you have had a good father, and +a good grandfather, and a good great-grandfather. How very good you +ought to be." + +"We will," cried both the children, clinging round her as she rose from +her chair, until they caught sight of Phebe standing in the doorway. +Then with cries of delight they flew to her, and threw themselves upon +her with almost rough caresses, as if they knew she could well bear it. +She received them with merry laughter, and knelt down that their arms +might be thrown more easily round her neck. + +"See," she said, "I was up so early, while you were all in bed, finding +May-roses for you, with the May-dew on them. And if your father and +mother will let us go, I'll take you up the river to the osier island; +or you shall ride my Ruby, and we'll go off a long, long way into the +country, us three, and have dinner in a new place, where you have never +been. Because it's Felix's birthday." + +She was still kneeling on the floor, with the children about her, when +the door opened, and the same troubled and haggard face, which had +peered out upon her under the archway, looked into the room with +restless and bloodshot eyes. Phebe felt a sudden chill again, and rising +to her feet put the children behind her, as if she feared some danger +for them. + +"Where is Mr. Sefton?" he asked in a deep, hoarse voice; "is he at home, +Madame?" + +Ever since the elder Mr. Sefton had brought his young foreign wife home, +now more than thirty years ago, the people of Riversborough had called +her Madame, giving to her no other title or surname. It had always +seemed to set her apart, and at a distance, as a foreigner, and so quiet +had she been, so homely and domesticated, that she had remained a +stranger, keeping her old habits of life and thought, and often yearning +for the old pastor's home among the Jura Mountains. + +"But yes," she answered, "my son is late this morning; but all the world +is early, I think. It is not much beyond nine o'clock, Mr. Acton. The +bank is not open yet." + +"No, no," he answered hurriedly, while his eyes wandered restlessly +about the room; "he is not ill, Madame?" + +"I hope so not," she replied, with some vague uneasiness stirring in her +heart. + +"Nor dead?" he muttered. + +"Dead!" exclaimed both Madame and Phebe in one breath; "dead!" + +"All men die," he went on, "and it is a pleasant thing to lie down +quietly in one's own grave, where the wicked cease from troubling, and +the weary are at rest. He could rest soundly in the grave." + +"I will go and see," cried Madame, catching Phebe by the arm. + +"Pray God you may find him dead," he answered, with a low, miserable +laugh, ending in a sob. He was mad; neither Madame nor Phebe had a doubt +of it. They put the children before them, and bade them run away to the +nursery, while they followed up the broad old staircase. Madame went +into her son's bedroom; but in a few seconds she returned to Phebe with +an anxious face. + +"He is not there," she said, "nor Felicita. She is in her own +sitting-room, where she likes not to be followed. It is her sacred +place, and I go there never, Phebe." + +"But she knows where Mr. Sefton is," answered Phebe, "and we must ask +her. We cannot leave poor Mr. Acton alone. If nobody else dare disturb +her, I will." + +"She will not be vexed with you," said Madame Sefton. "Knock at this +door, Phebe; knock till she answers. I am miserable about my son." + +Several times Phebe knocked, more loudly each time, until at last a low +voice, sounding far away, bade them go in. Very quietly, as if indeed +they were stepping into some holy place barefooted, they crossed the +threshold. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +FELICITA. + + +The room was a small one, with a dim, many-colored light pervading it; +for the upper part of the mullioned casement was filled with painted +glass, and even the panes of the lower part were of faintly tinted +green. Like all the rest of the old house, the walls were wainscoted, +but here there was no piece of china or silver to sparkle; the only +glitter was that of the gilding on the handsomely bound books arranged +in two bookcases. In this green gloom sat Felicita Sefton, leaning back +in her chair, with her head resting languidly on the cushions, and her +dark eyes turned dimly and dreamily toward the quietly opening door. + +"Phebe Marlowe!" she said, her eyes brightening a little, as the fresh, +sweet face of the young country girl met her gaze. Phebe stepped softly +forward into the dim room, and laid the finest of the golden flowers she +had gathered that morning upon Felicita's lap. It brought a gleam of +spring sunshine into the gloom which caught Felicita's eye, and she +uttered a low cry of delight as she took it up in her small, delicate +hand. Phebe stooped down shyly and kissed the small hand, her face all +aglow with smiles and blushes. + +"Felicita," said Madame, her voice altering a little, "where is my son +this morning?" + +"Roland!" she repeated absently; "Roland? Didn't he say last night he +was going to London?" + +"To London!" exclaimed his mother. + +"Yes," she answered, "he bade me good-by last night; I remember now. He +said he would not disturb me again; he was going by the mail-train. He +was sorry to be away on poor little Felix's birthday. I recollect quite +distinctly now." + +"He said not one word to me," said Madame. "It is strange." + +"Very strange," asserted Felicita languidly, as if she were wandering +away again into the reverie they had broken in upon. + +"Did he say when he would be back?" asked his mother. + +"In a few days, of course," she answered. + +"But he has not told Acton," resumed Madame. + +"Who did you say?" inquired Felicita. + +"The head clerk, the manager when Roland is away," she said. "He has not +said anything to him." + +"Very strange," said Felicita again. It was plainly irksome to her to be +disturbed by questions like these, and she was withdrawing herself into +the remote and unapproachable distance where no one could follow her. +Her finely-chiselled features and colorless skin gave her a singular +resemblance to marble; and they might almost as well have addressed +themselves to a marble image. + +"Come," said Madame, "we must see Acton again." + +They found him in the bank parlor, where Roland was usually to be met +with at this hour. There was an unspoken hope in their hearts that he +would be there, and so deliver them from the undefined trouble and +terror they were suffering. But only Acton was there, seated at Roland's +desk, and turning over the papers in it with a rapid and reckless hand. +His face was hidden behind the great flap of the desk, and though he +glanced over it for an instant as the door opened he concealed himself +again, as if feigning unconsciousness of any one's presence. + +"My son is gone to London," said Madame, keeping at a safe distance from +him, with the door open behind her and Phebe to secure a speedy retreat. +The flap of the desk fell with a loud crash, and Acton flung his arms +above his head with a gesture of despair. + +"I knew it," he exclaimed. "Oh, my dear young master! God grant he may +get away safe. All is lost!" + +"What do you mean?" cried Madame, forgetting one terror in another, and +catching him by the arm; "what is lost?" + +"He is gone!" he answered, "and it was more my fault than his--mine and +Mrs. Sefton's. Whatever wrong he has done it was for her. Remember +that, Madame, and you, Phebe Marlowe. If anything happens, remember it's +my fault more than his, and Mrs. Sefton's fault more than mine." + +"Tell me what you mean," urged Madame breathlessly. + +"You'll know when Mr. Sefton returns, Madame," he answered, with a +sudden return to his usually calm tone and manner, which was as +startling as his former vehemence had been; "he'll explain all when he +comes home. We must open the bank now; it is striking ten." + +He locked the desk and passed out of the comfortably-furnished parlor +into the office beyond, leaving them nothing to do but to return into +the house with their curiosity unsatisfied, and the mother's vague +trouble unsoothed. + +"Phebe, Phebe!" cried Felix, as they slowly re-entered the pleasant +home, "my mother says we may go up the river to the osier island; and, +oh, Phebe, she will go with us her own self!" + +He had run down the broad staircase to meet them, almost breathless with +delight, and with eyes shining with almost serious rapture. He clasped +Phebe's arm, and, leaning toward her, whispered into her ear, + +"She took me in her arms, and said, 'I love you, Felix,' and then she +kissed me as if she meant it, Phebe. It was better than all my birthday +presents put together. My father said to me one day he adored her; and I +adore her. She is my mother, you know--the mother of me, Felix; and I +lie down on the floor and kiss her feet every day, only she does not +know it. When she looks at me her eyes seem to go through me; but, oh, +she does not look at me often." + +"She is so different; not like most people," answered Phebe, with her +arms round the boy. + +Madame had gone on sadly enough up-stairs to see if she could find out +anything about her son; and Phebe and Felix had turned into the terraced +garden where the boat-house was built close under the bank of the river. + +"I should be sorry for my mother to be like other people," said Felix +proudly. "She is like the evening star, my father says, and I always +look out at night to see if it is shining. You know, Phebe, when we row +her up the river, my father and me, we keep quite quiet, only nodding at +one another which way to pull, and she sits silent with eyes that shine +like stars. We would not speak for anything, not one little word, lest +we should disturb her. My father says she is a great genius; not at all +like other people, and worth thousands and thousands of common women. +But I don't think you are a common woman, Phebe," he added, lifting up +his eager face to hers, as if afraid of hurting her feelings, "and my +father does not think so, I know." + +"Your father has known me all my life, and has always been my best +friend," said Phebe, with a pleasant smile. "But I am a working-woman, +Felix, and your mother is a lady and a great genius. It is God who has +ordered it so." + +She would have laughed if she had been less simple-hearted than she was, +at the anxious care with which the boy arranged the boat for his mother. +No cushions were soft enough and no shawls warm enough for the precious +guest. When at length all was ready, and he fetched her himself from +the house, it was not until she was comfortably seated in the low seat, +with a well-padded sloping back, against which she could recline at +ease, and with a soft, warm shawl wrapped round her--not till then did +the slight cloud of care pass away from his face, and the little pucker +of anxiety which knitted his brows grow smooth. The little girl of five, +Hilda, nestled down by her mother, and Felix took his post at the helm. +In unbroken silence they pushed off into the middle of the stream, the +boat rowed easily by Phebe's strong young arms. So silent were they all +that they could hear the rustling of the young leaves on the trees, +under whose shadows they passed, and the joyous singing of the larks in +the meadows on each side of the sunny reaches of water, down which they +floated. It was not until they landed the children on the osier island, +and bade them run about to play, and not then until they were some +distance away, that their merry young voices were heard. + +"Phebe," said Felicita, in her low-toned, softly-modulated voice, always +languid and deliberate, "talk to me. Tell me how you spend your life." + +Phebe was sitting face to face with her, balancing the boat with the +oars against the swift flowing of the river, with smiles coming and +going on her face as rapidly as the shadows and the sunshine chasing +each other over the fields this May morning. + +"You know," she answered simply, "we live a mile away from the nearest +house, and that is only a cottage where an old farm laborer lives with +his wife. It's very lonesome up there on the hills. Days and days go by, +and I never hear a voice speaking, and I feel as if I could not bear the +sound of my own voice when I call the cattle home, or the fowls to come +for their corn. If it wasn't for the living things around me, that know +me as well as they know one another, and love me more, I should feel +sometimes as if I was dead. And I long so to hear somebody speak--to be +near more of my fellow-creatures. Why, when I touch the hand of any one +I love--yours, or Mr. Sefton's, or Madame's--it's almost a pain to me; +it seems to bring me so close to you. I always feel as if I became a +part of father when I touch him. Oh, you do not know what it is to be +alone!" + +"No," said Felicita, sighing; "never have I been alone, and I would give +worlds to be as free as you are. You cannot imagine what it is," she +went on, speaking rapidly and with intense eagerness, "never to belong +to yourself, or to be alone; for it is not being alone to have only four +thin walls separating you from a husband and children and a large busy +household. 'What are you thinking, my darling?' Roland is always asking +me; and the children break in upon me. Body, soul, and spirit, I am held +down a captive; I have been in bondage all my life. I have never even +thought as I should think if I could be free." + +"But I cannot understand that," cried Phebe. "I could never be too near +those I love. I should like to live in a large house, with many people +all smiling and talking around me. And everybody worships you." + +She uttered the last words shyly, partly afraid of bringing a frown on +the lovely face opposite to her, which was quickly losing its vivid +expression and sinking back into statuesque coldness. + +"It is simply weariness to me and vexation of spirit," she answered. "If +I could be quite alone, as you are, with only a father like yours, I +think I could get free; but I have never been left alone from my +babyhood; just as Felix and Hilda are never left alone. Oh, Phebe, you +do not know how happy you are." + +"No," she said cheerfully, "sometimes when I stand at our garden-gate, +and look round me for miles and miles away, and the sweet air blows past +me, and the bees are humming, and the birds calling to one another, and +everything is so peaceful, with father happy over his work not far off, +I think I don't know how happy I am. I try to catch hold of the feeling +and keep it, but it slips away somehow. Only I thank God I am happy." + +"I was never happy enough to thank God," Felicita murmured, lying back +in her seat and shutting her eyes. Presently the children returned, and, +after another silent row, slower and more toilsome, as it was up the +river, they drew near home again, and saw Madame's anxious face watching +for them over the low garden wall. Her heart had been too heavy for her +to join them in their pleasure-taking, and it was no lighter now. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +UPFOLD FARM. + + +Phebe rode slowly homeward in the dusk of the evening, her brain too +busy with the varied events of the day for her to be in any haste to +reach the end. For the last four miles her road lay in long by-lanes, +shady with high hedgerows and trees which grew less frequent and more +stunted as she rose gradually higher up the long spurs of the hills, +whose rounded outlines showed dark against the clear orange tint of the +western sky. She could hear the brown cattle chewing the cud, and the +bleating of some solitary sheep on the open moor, calling to the flock +from which it had strayed during the daytime, with the angry yelping of +a dog in answer to its cry from some distant farm-yard. The air was +fresh and chilly with dew, and the low wind, which only lifted the +branches of the trees a little in the lower land she had left, was +growing keener, and would blow sharply enough across the unsheltered +table-land she was reaching. But still she loitered, letting her rough +pony snatch tufts of fresh grass from the banks, and shamble leisurely +along as he strayed from one side of the road to another. + +Phebe was not so much thinking as pondering in a confused and +unconnected manner over all the circumstances of the day, when suddenly +the tall figure of a man rose from under the black hedgerow, and laid +his arm across the pony's neck, with his face turned up to her. Her +heart throbbed quickly, but not altogether with terror. + +"Mr. Roland!" she cried. + +"You know me in the dark then," he answered. "I have been watching for +you all day, Phebe. You come from home?" + +She knew he meant his home, not hers. + +"Yes, it was Felix's birthday, and we have been down the river," she +said. + +"Is anything known yet?" he asked. + +Though it was so solitary a spot that Phebe had passed no one for the +last three miles, and he had been haunting the hills all day without +seeing a soul, yet he spoke in a whisper, as if fearful of betraying +himself. + +"Only that you are away," she replied; "and they think you are in +London." + +"Is not Mr. Clifford come?" he asked. + +"No, sir, he comes to-morrow," she answered. + +"Thank God!" he exclaimed, in a louder tone. When he spoke again he did +so without looking into her face, which indeed was scarcely visible in +the deepening dusk. + +"Phebe," he said, "we have known each other for many years." + +"All my life, sir," she responded eagerly; "father and me, we are proud +of knowing you." + +Before speaking again he led her pony up the steep lane to a gate which +opened on the moorland. It was not so dark here, from under the +hedgerows and trees, and a little pool beside the gate caught the last +lingering light in the west, and reflected it like a dim and dusty +mirror. They could see one another's faces; his was working with strong +excitement, and hers, earnest and friendly, looked frankly down upon +him. He clasped her hand with the strong, desperate grip of a sinking +man, and her fingers responded with a warm clasp. + +"Can I trust you, Phebe?" he cried. "I have no other chance." + +"I will help you, even to dying for you and yours," she answered. The +girlish fervor of her manner struck him mournfully. Why should he burden +her with his crime? What right had he to demand any sacrifice from her? +Yet he felt she spoke the truth. Phebe Marlowe would rejoice in helping, +even unto death, not only him, but any other fellow-creature who was +sinking under sorrow or sin. + +"Come on home," she said, "it is bitterly cold here; and you can tell me +what to do." + +He placed himself at the pony's head again, and trudged on speechlessly +along the rough road, which was now nothing more than the tracks made by +cart-wheels across the moor, with deep ruts over which he stumbled like +a man who is worn out with fatigue. In a quarter of an hour the low +cottage was reached, surrounded by a little belt of fields and a few +storm-beaten fir-trees. There was a dull glow of red to be seen through +the lattice window, telling Phebe of a smouldering fire, made up for her +by her father before going back to his workshop at the end of the field +behind the house. She stirred up the wood-ashes and threw upon them some +dry, light fagots of gorse, and in a few seconds a dazzling light filled +the little room from end to end. It was a familiar place to Roland +Sefton, and he took no notice of it. But it was a curious interior. +Every niche of the walls was covered with carved oak; no wainscoted hall +in the country could be more richly or more fancifully decorated. The +chimney-piece over the open hearth-stone, a wide chimney-piece, was +deeply carved with curious devices. The doors and window-frames, the +cupboards and the shelves for the crockery, were all of dark oak, +fashioned into leaves and ferns, with birds on their nests, and timid +rabbits, and still more timid wood-mice peeping out of their coverts, +cocks crowing with uplifted crest, and chickens nestling under the +hen-mother's wings, sheaves of corn, and tall, club-headed +bulrushes--all the objects familiar to a country life. The dancing light +played upon them, and shone also upon Roland Sefton's sad and weary +face. Phebe drew her father's carved arm-chair close to the fire. + +"Sit down," she said, "and let me get you something to eat." + +"Yes," he answered, sinking down wearily in the chair, "I am nearly +dying of hunger. Good Heavens! is it possible I can be hungry?" + +He spoke with an indescribable expression of mingled astonishment and +dread. Suddenly there broke upon him the possibility of suffering want +in many forms in the future, and yet he felt ashamed of foreseeing them +in this, the first day of his great calamity. Until this moment he had +been too absorbed in dwelling upon the moral and social consequences of +his crime, to realize how utterly worn out he was; but all his physical +strength appeared to collapse in an instant. + +And now for the first time Phebe beheld the change in him, and stood +gazing at him in mute surprise and sorrow. He had always been careful +of his personal appearance, with a refinement and daintiness which had +grown especially fastidious since his marriage. But now his coat, wet +through during the night, and dried only by the keen air of the hills, +was creased and soiled, and his boots were thickly covered with mud and +clay. His face and hands were unwashed, and his hair hung unbrushed over +his forehead. Phebe's whole heart was stirred at this pitiful change, +and she laid her hand on his shoulder with a timid but affectionate +touch. + +"Mr. Roland," she said, "go up-stairs and put yourself to rights a +little; and give me your clothes and your boots to brush. You'll feel +better when you are more like yourself." + +He smiled faintly as he looked up at her quivering lips and eyes full of +unshed tears. But her homely advice was good, and he was glad to follow +it. Her little room above was lined with richly carved oak panels like +the kitchen below, and a bookcase contained her books, many of which he +had himself given to her. There was an easel standing under the highest +part of the shelving roof, where a sky-light was let into the thatch, +and a half-finished painting rested on it. But he did not give a glance +toward it. There was very little interest to him just now in Phebe's +pursuits, though she owed most of them to him. + +By the time he was ready to go down, supper was waiting for him on the +warm and bright hearth, and he fell upon it almost ravenously. It was +twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. Phebe sat almost out of sight +in the shadow of a large settle, with her knitting in her hand, and her +eyes only seeking his face when any movement seemed to indicate that she +could serve him in some way. But in these brief glances she noticed the +color coming back to his face, and new vigor and resolution changing his +whole aspect. + +"And now," he said, when his hunger was satisfied, "I can talk to you, +Phebe." + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +A CONFESSION. + + +But Roland Sefton sat silent, with his shapely hands resting on his +knees, and his handsome face turned toward the hearth, where the logs +had burned down and emitted only a low and fitful flame. The little room +was scarcely lighted by it, and looked all the darker for the blackness +of the small uncurtained window, through which the ebony face of night +was peering in. This bare, uncovered casement troubled him, and from +time to time he turned his eyes uneasily toward it. But what need could +there be of a curtain, when they were a mile away from any habitation, +and where no road crossed the moor, except the rugged green pathway, +worn into deep ruts by old Marlowe's own wagon? Yet as if touched by +some vague sympathy with him, Phebe rose, and pinned one of her large +rough working-aprons across it. + +"Phebe," he said, as she stepped softly back to her seat, "you and I +have been friends a long time; and your father and I have been friends +all my life. Do you recollect me staying here a whole week when I was a +school-boy?" + +"Yes," she answered, her eyes glistening in the dusky light; "but for +you I should have known nothing, only what work had to be done for +father. You taught me my alphabet that week, and the hymns I have said +every night since then before I go to sleep. You helped me to teach +myself painting; and if I ever paint a picture worth looking at it will +be your doing." + +"No, no; you are a born artist, Phebe Marlowe," he said, "though perhaps +the world may never know it. But being such friends as you say, I will +trust you. Do you think me worthy of trust, true and honest as a man +should be, Phebe?" + +"As true and honest as the day," she cried, with eager emphasis. + +"And a Christian?" he added, in a lower voice. + +"Yes," she answered, "I do not know a Christian if you are not one." + +"That is the sting of it," he groaned; "true, and honest, and a +Christian! And yet, Phebe, if I were taken by the police to-night, or if +I be taken by them to-morrow, I shall be lodged in Riversborough jail, +and tried before a jury of my towns-people at the assizes next month." + +"No, it is impossible!" she cried, stretching out her brown, +hard-working hand, and laying it on his white and shapely one, which had +never known toil. + +"You would not send me to jail," he said, "I know that well enough. But +I deserve it, my poor girl. They would find me guilty and sentence me to +a convict prison. I saw Dartmoor prison on my wedding journey with +Felicita, Heaven help me! She liked the wild, solitary moor, with its +great tors and its desolate stillness, and one day we went near to the +prison. Those grim walls seemed to take possession of me; I felt +oppressed and crushed by them. I could not forget them for days after, +even with Felicita by my side." + +His voice trembled as he spoke, and a quiver ran through his whole +frame, which seemed to thrill through Phebe's; but she only pressed her +pitiful hand more closely on his. + +"I might have escaped last night," he went on, "but I stumbled over a +poor girl in the street, dying. A young girl, no older than you, without +a penny or a friend; a sinner too like myself; and I could not leave her +there alone. Only in finding help for her I lost my chance. The train to +London was gone, and there was no other till ten this morning. I +expected Mr. Clifford to be at the bank to-day; if I had only known he +would not be there I could have got away then. But I came here, why I +hardly know. You could not hide me for long if you would; but there was +no one else to help me." + +"But what have you done, sir?" she asked, with a tremulous, long-drawn +sigh. + +"Done?" he repeated; "ay! there's the question. I wonder if I can be +honest and true now with only Phebe Marlowe listening. I could have told +my mother, perhaps, if it had been of any use; but I would die rather +than tell Felicita. Done, Phebe! I've appropriated securities trusted to +my keeping, pledging some and selling others for my own use. I've stolen +L10,000." + +"And you could be sent to prison for it?" she said, in a low voice, +glancing uneasily round as if she fancied she would be overheard. + +"For I don't know how many years," he answered. + +"It would kill Mrs. Sefton," she said. "Oh! how could you do it?" + +"It was for Felicita I did it," he replied absently; "for my Felicita +only." + +For a few minutes Phebe's brain was busy, but not yet with the most +sorrowful thoughts. There could be no shadow of doubt in her mind that +this dearest friend of hers, sitting beside her in the twilight, was +guilty of the crime he had confessed. But she could not as yet dwell +upon the crime. He was in imminent peril; and his peril threatened the +welfare of nearly all whom she loved. Ruin and infamy for him meant +ruin and infamy for them all. She must save him if possible. + +"Phebe," he said, breaking the dreary silence, "I ought to tell you one +thing more. The money your father left with me--the savings of his +life--six hundred pounds--it is all gone. He intrusted it to me, and +made his will, appointing me your guardian; such confidence he had in +me. I have made both him and you penniless." + +"I think nothing of that," she answered. "What should I ever have been +but for you? A dull, ignorant country girl, living a life little higher +than my sheep and cattle. We are rich enough, my father and me. This +cottage, and the fields about it, are our own. But I must go and tell +father." + +"Must he be told?" asked Roland Sefton anxiously. + +"We've no secrets," she replied; "and there's no fear of him, you know. +He would see if I was in trouble; and I shall be in trouble," she added, +in a sorrowful voice. + +She opened the cottage door, and going out left him alone. It was a +familiar place to him; but hitherto it had been only the haunt of happy +holidays, from the time when he had been a school-boy until his last +autumn's shooting of grouse and woodcock on the wide moors. Old Marlowe +had been one of his earliest friends, and Phebe had been something like +a humble younger sister to him. If any one in the world could be +depended upon to help him, outside his own family, it must be old +Marlowe and his daughter. + +And yet, when she left him, his first impulse was to rise and flee while +yet there was time--before old Marlowe knew his secret. Phebe was a +girl, living as girls do, in a region of sentiment and feeling, hardly +understanding a crime against property. A girl like her had no idea of +what his responsibility and his guilt were, money ranking so low in her +estimate of life. But old Marlowe would look at it quite differently. +His own careful earnings, scraped together by untiring industry and +ceaseless self-denial, were lost--stolen by the man he had trusted +implicitly. For Roland Sefton did not spare himself any reproaches; he +did not attempt to hide or palliate his sin. There were other +securities for small sums, like old Marlowe's, gone like his, and ruin +would overtake half a dozen poor families, though the bulk of the loss +would fall upon his senior partner, who was a hard man, of unbending +sternness and integrity. If old Marlowe proved a man of the same +inflexible stamp, he was lost. + +But he sat still, waiting and listening. Round that lonely cottage, as +he well knew, the wind swept from whatever quarter it was blowing; +sighing softly, or wailing, moaning, or roaring past it, as ceaselessly +as the sound of waves against a fisherman's hut on the sea-coast. It was +crying and sobbing now, rising at intervals into a shriek, as if to warn +him of coming peril. He went to the window and met the black face of the +night, hiding everything from his eye. Neither moon nor star gleamed in +the sky. But even if old Marlowe was merciful he could not stay there, +but must go out, as he had done last night from his own home, lashed +like a dog from every familiar hearth by an unseen hand and a heavy +scourge. + +Phebe had not lingered, though she seemed long away. As she drew near +the little workshop she saw the wagon half-laden with some church +furniture her father had been carving, and with which he and she were to +start at daybreak for a village about twenty miles off. She heard the +light tap of his carving tools as she opened the door, and found him +finishing the wings of a spread-eagle. He had pushed back the paper cap +he wore from his forehead, which was deeply furrowed, and shaded by a +few straggling tufts of gray hair. He took no notice of her entrance +until she touched his arm with her hand; and then he looked at her with +eyes, blue like her own, but growing dim with age, and full of the +pitiful, uncomplaining gaze of one who is deaf and dumb. But his face +brightened and his smile was cheerful, as he began to talk eagerly with +his fingers, throwing in many gestures to aid his slow speech. Phebe, +too, smiled and gesticulated in silent answer, before she told him her +errand. + +"The carving is finished, father," she said. "Could we not start at +once, and be at Upchurch before five to-morrow morning?" + +"Twenty miles; eight hours; easily," he answered; "but why?" + +"To help Mr. Sefton," she said. "He wants to get down to Southampton, +and Upchurch is in the way. Father, it must be done; you would never see +a smile upon my face again if we did not do it." + +The keen, wistful eyes of her father were fastened alternately upon her +troubled face and her moving hands, as slowly and silently she spelt out +on her fingers the sad story she had just listened to. His own face +changed rapidly from astonishment to dismay, and from dismay to a +passionate rage. If Roland Sefton could have seen it he would have made +good his escape. But still Phebe's fingers went on pleading for him; and +the smile, which she said her father would never see again--a pale, wan +smile--met his eyes as he watched her. + +"He has been so good to you and me," she went on, with a sob in her +throat; and unconsciously she spoke out the words aloud and slowly as +she told them off on her fingers; "he learned to talk with you as I do, +and he is the only person almost in the world who can talk to you +without your slate and pencil, father. It was good of him to take that +trouble. And his father was your best friend, wasn't he? How good Madame +used to be when I was a little girl, and you were carving all that +woodwork at the old bank, and she let me stay there with you! All our +happiest days have come through them. And now we can deliver them from +great misery." + +"But my money?" he interposed. + +"Money is nothing between friends," she said eagerly. "Will you make my +life miserable, father? I shall be thinking of them always, night and +day; and they will never see me again if he is sent to jail through our +fault. There never was a kinder man than he is; and I always thought him +a good man till now." + +"A thief; worse than a common thief," said her father. "What will become +of my little daughter when I am dead?" + +Phebe made no answer except by tears. For a few minutes old Marlowe +watched her bowed head and face hidden in her hands, till a gray hue +came upon his withered face, and the angry gleam died away from his +eyes. Hitherto her slightest wish had been a law to him, and to see her +weeping was anguish to him. To have a child who could hear and speak had +been a joy that had redeemed his life from wretchedness, and crowned it +with an inexhaustible delight. If he never saw her smile again, what +would become of him? She was hiding her face from him even now, and +there was no medium of communication between them save by touch. He must +call her attention to what he had to say by making her look at him. +Almost timidly he stretched out his withered and cramped hand to lay it +upon her head. + +"I must do whatever you please," he said, when she lifted up her face +and looked at him with tearful eyes; "if it killed me I must do it. But +it is a hard thing you bid me do, Phebe." + +He turned away to brush the last speck of dust from the eagle's wings, +and lifting it up carefully carried it away to pack in his wagon, Phebe +holding the lantern for him till all was done. Then hand in hand they +walked down the foot-worn path across the field to the house, as they +had done ever since she had been a tottering little child, hardly able +to clasp his one finger with her baby hand. + +Roland Sefton was crouching over the dying embers on the hearth, more in +the utter misery of soul than in bodily chilliness, though he felt cold +and shivering, as if stripped of all that made life desirable to him. +There is no icy chill like that. He did not look round when the door +opened, though Phebe spoke to him; for he could not face old Marlowe, or +force himself to read the silent yet eloquent fingers, which only could +utter words of reproach. The dumb old man stood on the threshold, gazing +at his averted face and downcast head, and an inarticulate cry of +mingled rage and grief broke from his silent lips, such as Phebe herself +had never heard before, and which, years afterward, sounded at times in +Roland Sefton's ears. + +It was nearly ten o'clock before they were on the road, old Marlowe +marching at the head of his horse, and Phebe mounted on her wiry little +pony, while Roland Sefton rode in front of the wagon at times. Their +progress was slow, for the oak furniture was heavy and the roads were +rough, leading across the moor and down steep hills into valleys, with +equally steep hills on the other side. The sky was covered with a thin +mist drifting slowly before the wind, and when the moon shone through +it, about two o'clock in the morning, it was the waning-moon looking sad +and forlorn amid the floating vapor. The houses they passed were few and +far between, showing no light or sign of life. All the land lay around +them dark and desolate under the midnight sky; and the slow creaking of +the wheels and sluggish hoof-beats of the horse dragging the wagon were +the only sounds that broke the stillness. + +In this gloom old Marlowe could hold no conversation either with Phebe +or Roland Sefton, but from time to time they could hear him sob aloud as +he trudged on in his speechless isolation. It was a sad sound, which +pierced them to the heart. From time to time Roland Sefton walked up the +long hills beside Phebe's pony, pouring out his whole heart to her. They +could hardly see each other's faces in the dimness, and words came the +more readily to him. All the burden of his confession was that he had +fallen through seeking Felicita's happiness. For her sake he had longed +for more wealth, and speculated in the hope of gaining it, and tampered +with the securities intrusted to him in the hope of retrieving losses. +It was for her, and her only, he maintained; and now he had brought +infamy and wretchedness and poverty upon her and his innocent children. + +"Would to God I could die to-night!" he exclaimed; "my death would save +them from some portion of their trouble." + +Phebe listened to him almost as heart-broken as himself. In her +singularly solitary life, so far apart from ordinary human society, she +had never been brought into contact with sin, and its profound, +fathomless misery; and now it was the one friend, whom she had loved the +longest and the best, who was walking beside her a guilty man, fleeing +through the night from all he himself cared for, to seek a refuge from +the consequences of his crime in an uncertain exile. In years afterward +it seemed to her as if that night had been rather a terrible dream than +a reality. + +At length the pale dawn broke, and the utter separation caused by the +darkness between them and old Marlowe passed away with it. He stopped +his horse and came to them, turning a gray, despairing face upon Roland +Sefton. + +"It is time to leave you," he said; "over these fields lies the nearest +station, where you can escape from a just punishment. You have made us +beggars to keep up your own grandeur. God will see that you do not go +unpunished." + +"Hush, hush!" cried Phebe aloud, stretching out her hand to Roland +Sefton; "he will forgive you by and by. Tell me: have you no message to +send by me, sir? When shall we hear from you?" + +"If I get away safe," he answered, in a broken voice, "and if nothing is +heard of me before, tell Felicita I will be in the place where I saw her +first, this day six months. Do not tell her till the time is near. It +will be best for her to know nothing of me at present." + +They were standing at the stile over which his road lay. The sun was not +yet risen, but the gray clouds overhead were taking rosy and golden +tints. Here and there in the quiet farmsteads around them the cocks +were beginning to crow lazily; and there were low, drowsy twitterings in +the hedges, where the nests were still new little homes. It was a more +peaceful hour than sunset can ever be with its memories of the day's +toils and troubles. All the world seemed bathed in rest and quietness +except themselves. Their dark journey through the silent night had been +almost a crime. + +"Your father turns his back upon me, as all honest men will do," said +Roland Sefton. + +Old Marlowe had gone back to his horse, and stood there without looking +round. The tears ran down Phebe's face; but she did not touch her +father, and ask him to bid his old friend's son good-by. + +"Some day no man will turn his back upon you, sir," she answered; "I +would die now rather than do it. You will regain your good name some +day." + +"Never!" he exclaimed; "it is past recall. There is no place of +repentance for me, Phebe. I have staked all, and lost all." + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE OLD BANK. + + +About the same hour that Roland Sefton set off under shelter of old +Marlowe's wagon to attempt his escape, Mr. Clifford, the senior partner +in the firm, reached Riversborough by the last train from London. It was +too late for him to intrude on the household of his young partner, and +he spent the night at a hotel. + +The old bank at Riversborough had been flourishing for the last hundred +years. It had the power of issuing its own notes; and until lately these +notes, bearing the familiar names of Clifford and Sefton, had been +preferred by the country people round to those of the Bank of England +itself. For nobody knew who were the managers of the Bank of England; +while one of the Seftons, either father or son, could be seen at any +time for the last fifty years. On ordinary days there were but few +customers to be seen in its handsome office, and a single clerk might +easily have transacted all the business. But on market-days and +fair-days the place was crowded by loud-voiced, red-faced country +gentlemen, and by awkward and burly farmers, from the moment its doors +were opened until they were closed at the last stroke of four sounding +from the church clock near at hand. The strong room of the Old Bank was +filled full with chests containing valuable securities and heirlooms, +belonging to most of the county families in the neighborhood. + +For the last twenty years Mr. Clifford had left the management of the +bank entirely to the elder Sefton, and upon his death to his son, who +was already a partner. He had lived abroad, and had not visited England +for more than ten years. There was a report, somewhat more +circumstantial than a rumor, but the truth of which none but the elder +Sefton had ever known, that Mr. Clifford, offended by his only son, had +let him die of absolute starvation in Paris. Added to this rumor was a +vague story of some crime committed by the younger Clifford, which his +father would not overlook or forgive. That he was a hard man, austere to +utter pitilessness, everybody averred. No transgressor need look to him +for pardon. + +When Roland Sefton had laid his hands upon the private personal +securities belonging to his senior partner, it was with no idea that he +would escape the most rigorous prosecution, should his proceedings ever +come to the light. But it was with the fixed conviction that Mr. +Clifford would never return to England, or certainly not to +Riversborough, where this hard report had been circulated and partly +accepted concerning him. The very bonds he had dealt with, first +borrowing money upon them, and at last selling them, had been bequeathed +to him in Mr. Clifford's will, of which he was himself the executor. He +had, as he persuaded himself, only forestalled the possession of them. +But a letter he had received from Mr. Clifford, informing him that he +was on his way home, with the purpose of thoroughly investigating the +affairs of the bank, had fallen like a thunderbolt upon him, and upon +Acton, through whose agency he had managed to dispose of the securities +without arousing any suspicion. + +Early the next morning Mr. Clifford arrived at the bank, and heard to +his great surprise that his partner had started for London, and had been +away the day before; possibly, Madame Sefton suggested with some +anxiety, in the hope of meeting him there. No doubt he would be back +early, for it was the day of the May fair, when there was always an +unusual stir of business. Mr. Clifford took his place in the vacant bank +parlor, and waited somewhat grimly for the arrival of the head clerk, +Acton. + +There was a not unpleasant excitement among the clerks, as they +whispered to each other on arrival that old Clifford was come and Roland +Sefton was still absent. But this excitement deepened into agitation and +misgiving as the hour for opening the bank drew near and Acton did not +arrive. Such a circumstance had never occurred before, for Acton had +made himself unpopular with those beneath him by expecting devotion +equal to his own to the interests of the firm. When ten o'clock was +close at hand a clerk ran round to Acton's lodgings; but before he could +return a breathless messenger rushed into the bank as the doors were +thrown open, with the tidings that the head clerk had been found by his +landlady lying dead in his bed. + +More quickly than if the town-crier had been sent round the streets with +his bell to announce the news, it was known that Roland Sefton was +missing and the managing clerk had committed suicide. The populace from +all the country round was flocking into the town for the fair, three +fourths of whom did business with the Old Bank. No wonder that a panic +took possession of them. In an hour's time the tranquil street was +thronged with a dense mass of town's-people and country-people, numbers +of whom were fighting their way to the bank as if for dear life. There +was not room within for the crowds who struggled to get to the counters +and present their checks and bank-notes, and demand instant settlement +of their accounts. In vain Mr. Clifford assured them there was no fear +of the firm being unable to meet its liabilities. In cases like these +the panic cannot be allayed by words. + +As long as the funds held out the checks and notes were paid over the +counter; but this could not go on. Mr. Clifford himself was in the dark +as to the state of affairs, and did not know how his credit stood. Soon +after midday the funds were exhausted, and with the utmost difficulty +the bank was cleared and the doors closed. But the crowd did not +disperse; rather it grew denser as the news spread like wildfire that +the Old Bank had stopped! + +It was at the moment that the bank doors were closed that Phebe turned +into Whitefriars Road. She had taken a train from Upchurch, leaving her +father to return home alone with the empty wagon. It was a strange sight +which met her. The usually quiet street was thronged from end to end, +and the babble of many voices made all sounds indistinct. Even on the +outskirts of the crowd there were men, some pale and some red with +anxiety, struggling with elbows and shoulders to make their way through +to the bank, in the vain hope that it would not be too late. A +strongly-built, robust farmer fainted quietly away beside her, like a +delicate woman, when he heard that the doors were shut; and his wife and +son, who were following him, bore him out of the crush as well as they +could. Phebe, pressing gently forward, and gliding in wherever a chance +movement gave her an opportunity, at last reached the archway at the +side of the house, and rapped urgently for admittance. A scared-looking +man-servant, who opened the door with the chain upon it, let her in as +soon as he recognized who she was. + +"It's a fearsome day," he said; "master's away, gone nobody knows where; +and old Acton's poisoned himself. Nobody dare tell Mrs. Sefton; but +Madame knows. She is in the dining-room, Miss Marlowe." + +Phebe found her, as she had done the day before, sitting in the oriel +window; but the usually placid-looking little woman was in a state of +nervous agitation. As soon as she caught sight of Phebe's pitiful face +she ran to her, and clasping her in her arms, burst into a passion of +tears and sobs. + +"My son!" she cried; "what can have become of him, Phebe? Where can he +be gone? If he would only come home, all these people would be +satisfied, and go away. They don't know Mr. Clifford, but they know +Roland; he is so popular. The servants say the bank is broken; what does +that mean, Phebe? And poor Acton! They say he is dead--he did kill +himself by poison. Is it not true, Phebe? Tell me it is not true!" + +But Phebe could say nothing to comfort her; she knew better than any one +else the whole truth of the calamity. But she held the weeping little +woman in her strong young arms, and there was something consoling in her +loving clasp. + +"And where are the children?" she asked, after a while. + +"I sent them to play in the garden," answered Madame; "their own little +plots are far away, out of sight of the dreadful street. What good is it +that they should know all this trouble?" + +"No good at all," replied Phebe. "And where is Mrs. Sefton?" + +"Alas, my Phebe!" she exclaimed, "who dare tell her? Not me; no, no! +She is shut up in her little chamber, and she forgets all the world--her +children even, and Roland himself. It is as if she went away into +another life, far away from ours; and when she comes home again she is +like one in a dream. Will you dare to tell her?" + +"Yes, I will go," she said. + +Yet with very slow and reluctant steps Phebe climbed the staircase, +pausing long at the window midway, which overlooked the wide and sunny +landscape in the distance, and the garden just below. She watched the +children busy at their little plots of ground, utterly unconscious of +the utter ruin that had befallen them. How lovely and how happy they +looked! She could have cried out aloud, a bitter and lamentable cry. But +as yet she must not yield to the flood of her own grief; she must keep +it back until she was at home again, in her solitary home, where nobody +could hear her sobs and cries. Just now she must think for, and comfort, +if comfort were possible, these others, who stood even nearer than she +did to the sin and the sinner. Gathering up all her courage, she +quickened her footsteps and ran hurriedly up the remaining steps. + +But at the drawing-room door, which was partly open, her feet were +arrested. Within, standing behind the rose-colored curtains, stood the +tall, slender figure of Felicita, with her clear and colorless face +catching a delicate flush from the tint of the hangings that concealed +her from the street. She was looking down on the crowd below, with the +perplexity of a foreigner gazing on some unfamiliar scene in a strange +land. There was a half-smile playing about her lips; but her whole +attention was so absorbed by the spectacle beneath her that she did not +see or hear Phebe until she was standing beside her, looking down also +on the excited crowd. + +"Phebe!" she exclaimed, "you here again? Then you can tell me, are the +good people of Riversborough gone mad? or is it possible there is an +election going on, of which I have heard nothing? Nothing less than an +election could rouse them to such a pitch of excitement." + +"Have you heard nothing of what they say?" asked Phebe. + +"There is such a Babel," she answered; "of course I hear my husband's +name. It would be just like him if he got himself elected member for +Riversborough without telling me anything about it till it was over. He +loves surprises; and I--why I hate to be surprised." + +"But he is gone!" said Phebe. + +"Yes, he told me he was going to London," she went on; "but if it is no +election scene, what is it, Phebe? Why are all the people gathered here +in such excitement?" + +"Shall I tell you plainly?" asked Phebe, looking steadily into +Felicita's dark, inscrutable eyes. + +"Tell me the simple truth," she replied, somewhat haughtily; "if any +human being can tell it." + +"Then the bank has stopped payment," answered Phebe. "Poor Mr. Acton has +been found dead in bed this morning; and Mr. Sefton is gone away, nobody +knows where. It is the May fair to-day, and all the people are coming in +from the country. There's been a run on the bank till they are forced to +stop payment. That is what brings the crowd here." + +Felicita dropped the curtain which she had been holding back with her +hand, and stepped back a pace or two from the window. But her face +scarcely changed; she listened calmly and collectedly, as if Phebe was +speaking of some persons she hardly knew. + +"My husband will come back immediately," she said. "Is not Mr. Clifford +there?" + +"Yes," said Phebe. + +"Are you telling me all?" asked Felicita. + +"No," she answered; "Mr. Clifford says he has been robbed. Securities +worth nearly ten thousand pounds are missing. He must have found it out +already." + +"Who does he suspect?" she asked again imperiously; "he does not dare +suspect my husband?" + +Phebe replied only by a mute gesture. She had never had any secret to +conceal before, and she did not see that she had betrayed herself by the +words she had uttered. The deep gloom on her bright young face struck +Felicita for the first time. + +"Do you think it was Roland?" she asked. + +Again the same dumb, hopeless gesture answered the question. Phebe could +not bring her lips to shape a word of accusation against him. It was +agony to her to feel her idol disgraced and cast down from his high +pedestal; yet she had not learned any way of concealing or +misrepresenting the truth. + +"You know he did it?" said Felicita. + +"Yes, I know it," she whispered. + +For a minute or two Felicita stood, with her white hands resting on +Phebe's shoulders, gazing into her mournful face with keen, questioning +eyes. Then, with a rapid flush of crimson, betraying a strong and +painful heart-throb, which suffused her face for an instant and left it +paler than before, she pressed her lips on the girl's sunburnt forehead. + +"Tell nobody else," she murmured; "keep the secret for his sake and +mine." + +Before Phebe could reply she turned away, and, with a steady, +unfaltering step, went back to her study and locked herself in. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM. + + +Felicita's study was so quiet a room, quite remote from the street, that +it was almost a wonder the noise of the crowd had reached her. But this +morning there had been a pleasant tumult of excitement in her own brain, +which had prevented her from falling into an absorbed reverie, such as +she usually indulged in, and rendered her peculiarly susceptible to +outward influences. All her senses had been awake to-day. + +On her desk lay the two volumes of a new book, handsomely got up, with +pages yet uncut as it had come from the publishers. A dozen times she +had looked at the title-page, as if unable to convince herself of the +reality, and read her own name--Felicita Riversdale Sefton. It was the +first time her name as an author had been published, though for the last +three years she had from time to time written anonymously for magazines. +This was her own book; thought out, written, revised, and completed in +her chosen solitude and secrecy. No one knew of it; possibly Roland +suspected something, but he had not ventured to make any inquiries, and +she had no reason to believe that he even suspected its existence. It +was simply altogether her own; no other mind had any part or share in +it. + +There was something like rapture in her delight. The book was a good +book, she was sure of it. She had not succeeded in making it as perfect +as her ideal, but she had not signally failed. It did in a fair degree +represent her inmost thoughts and fancies. Yet she could not feel quite +sure that the two volumes were real, and the letter from the publisher, +a friendly and pleasant letter enough, seemed necessary to vouch for +them. She read and re-read it. The little room seemed too small and +close for her. She opened the window to let in the white daylight, +undisguised by the faint green tint of the glass, and she leaned out to +breathe the fresh sweet air of the spring morning. Life was very +pleasurable to her to-day. + +There were golden gleams too upon the future. She would no longer be the +unknown wife of a country banker, moving in a narrow sphere, which was +altogether painful to her in its provincial philistinism. It was a +sphere to which she had descended in girlish ignorance. Her uncle, Lord +Riversdale, had been willing to let his portionless niece marry this +prosperous young banker, who was madly in love with her, and a little +gentle pressure had been brought to bear on the girl of eighteen, who +had been placed by her father's death in a position of dependence. Since +then a smouldering fire of ambition and of dissatisfaction with her lot +had been lurking unsuspected under her cold and self-absorbed manner. + +But her thoughts turned with more tenderness than usual toward her +husband. She had aroused in him also a restless spirit of ambition, +though in him it was for her sake, not his own. He wished to restore her +if possible to the position she had sacrificed for him; and Felicita +knew it. Her heart beating faster with her success was softened toward +him; and tears suffused her dark eyes for an instant as she thought of +his astonishment and exultation. + +The children were at play in the garden below her, and their merry +voices greeted her ear pleasantly. The one human being who really dwelt +in her inmost heart was her boy Felix, her first-born child. Hilda was +an unnecessary supplement to the page of her maternal love. But for +Felix she dreamed day-dreams of extravagant aspiration; no lot on earth +seemed too high or too good for him. He was a handsome boy, the very +image of her father, the late Lord Riversdale, and now as she gazed down +on him, her eyes slightly dewed with tears, he looked up to her window. +She kissed her hand to him, and the boy waved his little cap toward her +with almost passionate gesticulations of delight. Felix would be a great +man some day; this book of hers was a stone in the foundation of his +fame as well as of her own. + +It was upon this mood of exultation, a rare mood for Felicita, that the +cry and roar from the street had broken. With a half-smile at herself, +the thought flashed across her mind that it was like a shout of applause +and admiration, such as might greet Felix some day when he had proved +himself a leader of men. But it aroused her dormant curiosity, and she +had condescended to be drawn by it to the window of the drawing-room +overlooking Whitefriars Road, in order to ascertain its cause. The crowd +filling the street was deeply in earnest, and the aim of those who were +fighting their way through it was plainly the bank offices in the floor +below her. The sole idea that occurred to her, for she was utterly +ignorant of her husband's business, was that some unexpected crisis in +the borough had arisen, and its people were coming to Roland Sefton as +their leading townsman. When Phebe found her she was quietly studying +the crowd and its various features, that she might describe a throng +from memory, whenever a need should arise for it. + +Felicita regained her luxurious little study, and sat down before her +desk, on which the new volumes lay, with more outward calm than her +face and movements had manifested before she left it. The transient glow +of triumph had died away from her face, and the happy tears from her +eyes. She closed the casement to shut out the bright, clear sunlight, +and the merry voices of her children, before she sat down to think. + +For a little while she had been burning incense to herself; but the +treacherous fire was gone out, and the sweet, bewildering, intoxicating +vapors were scattered to the winds. The recollection of her short-lived +folly made her shiver as if a cold breath had passed over her. + +Not for a moment did she doubt Roland's guilt. There was such a +certainty of it lying behind Phebe's sorrowful eyes as she whispered "I +know it," that Felicita had not cared to ask how she knew it. She did +not trouble herself with details. The one fact was there: her husband +had absconded. A dreamy panorama of their past life flitted across her +brain--his passionate love for her, which had never cooled, though it +had failed to meet with a response from her; his insatiable desire to +make her life more full of pomp and luxury and display than that of her +cousins at Riversdale; his constant thraldom to her, which had +ministered only to her pride and coldness. His queen he had called her. +It was all over now. His extraordinary absence was against any hope that +he could clear himself. Her husband had brought fatal and indelible +disgrace upon his name, the name he had given to her and their children. + +Her name! This morning, and for many days to come, it would be +advertised as the author of the new book, which was to have been one of +her stepping-stones to fame. She had grasped at fame, and her hand had +closed upon infamy. There was no fear now that she would remain among +the crowd of the unknown. As the wife of a fraudulent banker she would +be only too well and too widely talked of. + +Why had she let her own full name be published? She had yielded, though +with some reluctance, to the business-like policy of her publisher, who +had sought to catch the public eye by it; for her father, Lord +Riversdale, was hardly yet forgotten as an author. A vague sentiment of +loyalty to her husband had caused her to add her married name. She hated +to see the two blazoned together on the title-page. + +Sick at heart, she sat for hours brooding over what would happen if +Roland was arrested. The assizes held twice a year at Riversborough had +been to her, as to many people of her position, an occasion of +pleasurable excitement. The judges' lodgings were in the next house to +the Old Bank, and for the few days the judges were Roland Sefton's +neighbors there had been a friendly interchange of civilities. An assize +ball was still held, though it was falling into some neglect and +disrepute. Whenever any cause of special local interest took place she +had commanded the best seat in the court, and had obsequious attention +paid to her. She had learned well the aspect of the place, and the mode +of procedure. But hitherto her recollections of a court of justice were +all agreeable, and her impressions those of a superior being looking +down from above on the miseries and crimes of another race. + +How different was the vision that branded itself on her brain this +morning! She saw her husband standing at the dock, instead of some +coarse, ignorant, brutish criminal; the stern gravity of the judge; the +flippant curiosity of the barristers not connected with the case, and +the cruel eagerness of his fellow-townsmen to get good places to hear +and see him. It would make a holiday for all who could get within the +walls. + +She could have written almost word for word the report of the trial as +it would appear in the two papers published in Riversborough. She could +foretell how lavish would be the use of the words "felon" and "convict;" +and she would be that felon and convict's wife. + +Oh, this intolerable burden of disgrace! To be borne through the long, +long years of life; and not by herself alone, but by her children. They +had come into a miserable heritage. What became of the families of +notorious criminals? She could believe that the poor did not suffer from +so cruel a notoriety, being quickly lost in the oblivious waters of +poverty and distress, amid refuges and workhouses. But what would +become of her? She must go away into endless exile, with her two little +children, and live where there was no chance of being recognized. This +was what her husband's sin had done for her. + +"God help me! God deliver me!" she moaned with white lips. But she did +not pray for him. In the first moments of anguish the spirit flies to +that which lies at the very core. While Roland's mother and Phebe were +weeping together and praying for him, Felicita was crying for help and +deliverance for herself. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE SENIOR PARTNER. + + +Long as the daylight lasts in May it was after nightfall when Felicita +left her study and went down to the drawing-room, more elegantly and +expensively furnished for her than the drawing-room at Riversdale had +been. Its extravagant display seemed to strike upon her suddenly as she +entered it. Phebe was gone home, and Madame had retired to her own room, +having given up the expectation of seeing Felicita that day. Mr. +Clifford, the servant told her, was still in the bank, with his lawyer, +for whom he had telegraphed to London. Felicita sent him a message that +if he was not too busy she wished to see him for a few minutes. + +Mr. Clifford almost immediately appeared, and Felicita saw him for the +first time. She had always heard him called old; but he was a strong, +erect, stern-looking man of sixty, with keen, cold eyes that could not +be avoided. Felicita did not seek to avoid them. She looked as steadily +at him as he did at her. There were traces of tears on her face, but +there was no tremor or weakness about her. They exchanged a few civil +words as calmly as if they were ordinary acquaintances. + +"Tell me briefly what has happened," she said to him, when he had taken +a seat near to her. + +"Briefly," he repeated. "Well! I find myself robbed of securities worth +nearly L8000; private securities, bond and scrip, left in custody only, +not belonging to the firm. No one but Acton or Roland could have access +to them. Acton has eluded me; but if Roland is found he must take the +consequences." + +"And what are those?" asked Felicita. + +"I shall prosecute him as I would prosecute a common thief or burglar," +answered Mr. Clifford. "His crime is more dishonorable and cowardly." + +"Is it not cruel to say this to me?" she asked, yet in a tranquil tone +which startled him. + +"Cruel!" he repeated again; "I have not been in the habit of choosing +words. You asked me a question, and I gave you the answer that was in my +mind. I never forgive. Those who pass over crimes make themselves +partakers in those crimes. Roland has robbed not only me, but half a +dozen poor persons, to whom such a loss is ruin. Would it be right to +let such a man escape justice?" + +"You think he has gone away on purpose?" she said. + +"He has absconded," answered Mr. Clifford, "and the matter is already in +the hands of the police. A description of him has been telegraphed to +every police station in the kingdom. If he is not out of it he can +barely escape now." + +Felicita's pale face could not grow paler, but she shivered perceptibly. + +"I am telling you bluntly," he said, "because I believe it is best to +know the worst at once. It is terrible to have it falling drop by drop. +You have courage and strength; I see it. Take an old man's word for it, +it is better to know all in its naked ugliness, than have it brought to +light bit by bit. There is not the shadow of a doubt of Roland's crime. +You do not believe him innocent yourself?" + +"No," she replied in a low, yet steady voice; "no. I must tell the +truth. I cannot comfort myself with the belief that he is innocent." + +Mr. Clifford's keen eyes were fastened upon Felicita with admiration. +Here was a woman, young and pallid with grief and dread, who neither +tried to move him by prayers and floods of tears, nor shrank from +acknowledging a truth, however painful. He had never seen her before, +though the costly set of jewels she was wearing had been his own gift to +her on her wedding. He recognized them with pleasure, and looked more +attentively at her beautiful but gloomy face. When he spoke again it was +in a manner less harsh and abrupt than it had been before. + +"I am not going to ask you any questions about Roland," he said; "you +have a right, the best right in the world, to screen him, and aid him in +escaping from the just consequences of his folly and crime." + +"You might ask me," she interrupted, "and I should tell you the simple +truth. I do so now, when I say I know nothing about him. He told me he +was going to London. But is it not possible that poor Acton alone was +guilty?" + +Mr. Clifford shook his head in reply. For a few minutes he paced up and +down the floor, and then placed himself at the back of Felicita, with +his hand upon her chair, as if to support him. In a glass opposite she +could see the reflection of his face, gray and agitated, with closed +eyes and quivering lips--a face that looked ten years older than that +which she had seen when he entered the room. She felt the chair shaken +by his trembling hand. + +"I will tell you," he said in a voice which he strove to render steady. +"I did not spare my own son when he had defrauded Roland's father. +Though Sefton would not prosecute him, I left him to reap the harvest of +his deed to the full; and it was worse than the penalty the law would +have exacted. He perished, disgraced and forsaken, of starvation in +Paris, the city of pleasures and of crimes. They told me that my son was +little more than a living skeleton when he was found, so slowly had the +end come. If I did not spare him, can I relent toward Roland? The +justice I demand is, in comparison, mercy for him." + +As he finished speaking he opened his eyes, and saw those of Felicita +fastened on the reflection of his face in the mirror. He turned away, +and in a minute or two resumed his seat, and spoke again in his ordinary +abrupt tone. + +"What will you do?" he asked. + +"I cannot tell yet," she answered; "I must wait till suspense is over. +If Roland comes back, or is brought back," she faltered, "then I must +decide what to do. I shall keep to myself till then. Is there anything I +can do?" + +"Could you go to your uncle, Lord Riversdale?" suggested Mr. Clifford. + +"No, no," she cried; "I will not ask any help from him. He arranged my +marriage for me, and he will feel this disgrace keenly. I will keep out +of their way; they shall not be compelled to forbid me their society." + +"But to-morrow you had better go away for the day," he answered; "there +will be people coming and going, who will disturb you. There will be a +rigorous search made. There is a detective now with my lawyer, who is +looking through the papers in the bank. The police have taken possession +of Acton's lodgings." + +"I have nowhere to go," she replied, "and I cannot show my face out of +doors. Madame and the children shall go to Phebe Marlowe, but I must +bear it as well as I can." + +"Well," he said after a brief pause, "I will make it as easy as I can +for you. You are thinking me a hard man? Yes, I have grown hard. I was +soft enough once. But if I forgave any sinner now I should do my boy, +who is dead, an awful injustice. I would not pass over his sin, and I +dare not pass over any other. I know I shall pursue Roland until his +death or mine; my son's fate cries out for it. But I'm not a hard man +toward innocent sufferers, like you and his poor mother. Try to think of +me as your friend; nay, even Roland's friend, for what would a few +years' penal servitude be compared with my boy's death? Shake hands +with me before I go." + +The small, delicate hand she offered him was icy cold, though her face +was still calm and her eyes clear and dry. He was himself more moved and +agitated than she appeared to be. The mention of his son always shook +him to the very centre of his soul; yet he had not been able to resist +uttering the words that had passed his lips during this painful +interview with Roland's young wife. Unshed tears were burning under his +eyelids. But if it had not been for that death-like hand he might have +imagined her almost unmoved. + +Felicita was down-stairs before Madame the next morning, and had ordered +the carriage to be ready to take her and the children to Upfold Farm +directly after breakfast. It was so rare an incident for their mother to +be present at the breakfast-table that Felix and Hilda felt as if it +were a holiday. Madame was pale and sad, and for the first time Felicita +thought of her as being a sufferer by Roland's crime. Her husband's +mother had been little more to her than a superior housekeeper, who had +been faithfully attached to her and her children. The homely, gentle, +domestic foreigner, from a humble Swiss home, had looked up to her young +aristocratic daughter-in-law as a being from a higher sphere. But now +the downcast, sorrowful face of the elder woman touched Felicita's +sympathy. + +"Mother!" she said, as soon as the children had run away to get ready +for their drive. She had never before called Madame "mother," and a +startled look, almost of delight, crossed Madame's sad face. + +"My daughter!" she cried, running to Felicita's side, and throwing her +arms timidly about her, "he is sure to come back soon--to-day, I think. +Oh, yes, he will be here when we return! You do well to stay to meet +him; and I should be glad to be here, but for the children. Yes, the +little ones must be out of the way. They must not see their father's +house searched; they must never know how he is suspect. Acton did say it +was all his fault; his fault and--" + +But here Madame paused for an instant, for had not Acton said it was +Felicita's fault more than any one's? + +"Phebe heard him," she went on hastily; "and if it is not his fault, why +did he kill himself? Oh, it is an ill-fortune that my son went to London +that day! It would all be right if he were here; but he is sure to come +to-day and explain it all; and the bank will be opened again. So be of +good comfort, my daughter; for God is present with us, and with my son +also." + +It was a sorrowful day at the Upfold Farm in spite of the children's +unconscious mirthfulness. Old Marlowe locked himself into his workshop, +and would see none of them, taking his meals there in sullen anger. +Phebe's heart was almost broken with listening to Madame's earnest +asseverations of her son's perfect innocence, and her eager hopes to +find him when she reached home. It was nearly impossible to her to keep +the oppressive secret, which seemed crushing her into deception and +misery, and her own muteness appeared to herself more condemnatory than +any words could be. But Madame did not notice her silence, and her grief +was only natural. Phebe's tears fell like balm on Madame's aching +heart. Felicita had not wept; but this young girl, and her abandonment +to passionate bursts of tears, who needed consoling herself, was a +consolation to the poor mother. They knelt together in Phebe's little +bedroom, while the children were playing on the wide uplands around +them, and they prayed silently, if heavy sobs and sighs could be called +silence; but they prayed together, and for her son; and Madame returned +home comforted and hopeful. + +It had been a day of fierce trial to Felicita. She had not formed any +idea of how searching would be the investigation of the places where any +of her husband's papers might be found. Her own study was not exempt +from the prying eyes of the detectives. This room, sacred to her, which +Roland himself never entered without permission was ransacked, and +forever desecrated in her eyes. This official meddling with her books +and her papers could never be forgotten. The pleasant place was made an +abomination to her. + +The bank was reopened the next morning at the accustomed hour, for a +very short investigation by Mr. Clifford and the experienced advisers +summoned from London to assist him proved that the revenues of the firm +were almost as good as ever. The panic had been caused by the vague +rumor afloat of some mysterious complicity in crime between the absent +partner and the clerk who had committed suicide. It was, therefore, +considered necessary for the prosperous re-establishment of the bank to +put forth a cautiously worded circular, in which Mr. Clifford's return +was made the reason for the absence on a long journey of Roland Sefton, +whose disappearance had to be accounted for. By the time he was arrested +and brought to trial the confidence of the bank's customers in its +stability would in some measure be regained. + +There was thus a good deal of conjecture and of contradictory opinion +abroad in Riversborough concerning Roland Sefton, which continued to be +the town's-talk for some weeks. Even Madame began to believe in a +half-bewildered manner that her son had gone on a journey of business +connected with the bank, though she could not account for his total +silence. Sometimes she wondered if he and Felicita could have had some +fatal quarrel, which had driven him away from home in a paroxysm of +passionate disappointment and bitterness. Felicita's coldness and +indifference might have done it. With this thought, and the hope of his +return some day, she turned for relief to the discharge of her household +duties, and to the companionship of the children, who knew nothing +except that their father was gone away on a journey, and might come back +any day. + +Neither Madame nor the children knew that whenever they left the house +they were followed by a detective, and every movement was closely +watched. But Felicita was conscious of it by some delicate sensitiveness +of her imaginative temperament. She refused to quit the house except in +the evening, when she rambled about the garden, and felt the fresh air +from the river breathing against her often aching temples. Even then she +fancied an eye upon her--an unsleeping, unblinking eye; the unwearying +vigilance of justice on the watch for a criminal. Night and day she felt +herself living under its stony gaze. + +It was a positive pain to her when reviews of her book appeared in +various papers, and were forwarded to her with congratulatory letters +from her publishers. She was living far enough from London to be easily +persuaded, without much vanity, that her name was upon everybody's lips +there. She read the reviews, but with a sick heart, and the words were +forgotten as soon as she put them away; but the Riversborough papers, +which had been very guarded in their statements about the death of Acton +and the events at the Old Bank, took up the book with what appeared to +her fulsome and offensive enthusiasm. It had never occurred to her that +local criticism was certain to follow the appearance of a local writer; +and she shrank from it with morbid and exaggerated disgust. Even if all +had been well, if Roland had been beside her, their notices would have +been well-nigh intolerable to her. She could not have endured being +stared at and pointed out in the streets of her own little town. But now +Fame had come to her with broken wings and a cracked trumpet, and she +shuddered at the sound of her own name harshly proclaimed through it. + +It soon became evident that Roland Sefton had succeeded in getting away +out of the country. The police were at fault; and as no one in his own +home knew how to communicate with him, no clew had been discovered by +close surveillance of their movements. Such vigilance could be kept up +only for a few months at longest, and as the summer drew toward the end +it ceased. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +FAST BOUND. + + +Roland Sefton had met with but few difficulties in getting clear away +out of England, and there was little chance of his being identified, +from description merely, by any of the foreign police, or by any English +detective on the Continent who was not as familiar with his personal +appearance as the Riversborough force were. In his boyhood he had spent +many months, years even, in his mother's native village with her father, +M. Roland Merle, the pastor of a parish among the Jura Mountains. It was +as easy for him to assume the character of a Swiss mountaineer as to +sustain that of a prosperous English banker. The dress, the patois, the +habits of the peasant were all familiar to him, and his disguise in them +was as complete as disguise ever can be. The keen eye either of love or +hate can pierce through all disguises. + +Switzerland was all fatherland to him, as much so as his native country, +and the county in which Riversborough was situated. There was no +ignorance in him of any little town, or the least known of the Alps, +which might betray the stranger. He would never need to attract notice +by asking a question. He had become a member of an Alpine club as soon +as his boyish thews and sinews were strong enough for stiff and perilous +climbing. He had crossed the most difficult passes and scaled some of +the worst peaks. And there had been within him that passionate love of +the country common to the Swiss which an English Alpine climber can +never feel. His mother's land had filled him with an ardent flame, +smouldering at times amid the absorbing interests of his somewhat +prominent place in English life, but every now and then breaking out +into an irrepressible longing for the sight of its white mountains and +swift, strong streams. It was at once the safest and the most dangerous +of refuges. He would be certainly sought for there; but there he could +most effectually conceal himself. He flew thither with his burden of +sin and shame. + +Roland adopted at once the dress of a decent artisan of the Jura--such a +man as he had known in his boyhood as a watchmaker of Locle or the +Doubs. For a few days he stayed in Geneva, lodging in such a street as a +Locle artisan would have chosen; but he could not feel secure there, in +spite of his own certainty that his transformation was complete. A +restless dread haunted him. He knew well that there are in every one +little personal traits, tricks of gesture, and certain tones of voice +always ready to betray us. It was yet too early in the year for many +travellers to be journeying to Switzerland; but already a few straggling +pioneers of the summer flight were appearing in the larger towns, and +what would be his fate if any one of them recognized him? He quitted +Geneva, and wandered away into the mountain villages. + +It was May-time, and the snow-line was still lingering low down on the +steep slopes, though the flowers were springing into life up to its +very margin, seeming to drive it higher and higher every day. The High +Alps were still fast locked in midwinter, and with untrodden wastes and +plains of snow lying all around them. The deserted mountain farms and +great solitary hotels, so thronged last summer, were empty. But in the +valleys and the little villages lying on the warm southern slopes, or +sheltered by precipitous rocks from the biting winds, there was +everywhere a joyous stir of awakening from the deep sleep of winter. The +frozen streams were thawed and ran bubbling and gurgling along their +channels, turning water-wheels and filling all the quiet places with +their merry noise. The air itself was full of sweet exhilaration. In the +forests there was the scent of stirring sap and of the up-springing +wild-flowers, and the rosy blossoms of the tender young larch-trees +shone like jewels in the bright sunshine. The mountain-peaks overhead, +gleaming through the mists and clouds, were of dazzling whiteness, for +none of the frozen snow had yet fallen from their sharp, lance-like +summits. + +Journeying on foot from one village to another, Roland roamed about +aimlessly, yet as one hunted, seeking for a safe asylum. He bore his +troubled conscience and aching heart from one busy spot to another, +homesick and self-exiled. Oh, what a fool he had been! Life had been +full to the brim for him with gladness and prosperity, and in trying to +make its cup run over he had dashed it away from his lips forever. + +His money was not yet spent, for a very little went a long way among +these simple mountain villages, and in his manner of travelling. He had +not yet been forced to try to earn a living, and he felt no anxiety for +the future. In his boyhood he had learned wood-carving, both in +Switzerland and from old Marlowe, and he had acquired considerable skill +in the art. Some of the panels in his home at Riversborough were the +workmanship of his own hands. It was a craft to turn to in extremity; +but he did not think of it yet. + +Labor of any kind would have made the interminable hours pass more +quickly. The carving of a piece of wood might have kept him from +torturing his own heart perpetually; but he did not turn to this slight +solace. There were times when he sat for hours, for a whole age, as it +seemed to him, in some lonely spot, hidden behind a great rock or half +lost in a forest, thinking. And yet it was not thought, but a vague, +mournful longing and remembrance, the past and the absent blended in +dim, shadowy reverie, of which nothing was clear but the sharp anguish +of having forfeited them. There was a Garden of Eden still upon earth, +and he had been dwelling in it. But he had banished himself from it by +his own folly and sin, and when he turned his eyes toward it he could +see only the "flaming brand, and the gate with dreadful faces thronged +and fiery arms." But even Adam had his Eve with him, "to drop some +natural tears, and wipe them soon." He was utterly alone. + +If his thoughts, so dazed and bewildered usually, became clear for a +little while, it was always Felicita whose image stood out most +distinctly before him. He had loved her passionately; surely never had +any man loved a woman with the same intensity--so he said to himself. +Even now the very crime he had committed seemed as nothing to him, +because he had been guilty of it for her. His love for her covered its +heinousness from his eyes. His conscience had become the blind and dumb +slave of his passion. So blind and dumb had it been that it had scarcely +stirred or murmured until his sin was found out, and it was scarcely +aroused to life even yet. + +In a certain sense he had been religious, having been most sedulously +trained in religion from his earliest consciousness. He had accepted the +ordinary teachings of our nineteenth-century Christianity. His place in +church, beside his mother or his wife, had seldom been empty, and +several times in the year he had knelt with them at the Lord's table, +and taken the Lord's Supper, feeling himself distinctly a more religious +man than usual on such occasions. No man had ever heard him utter a +profane word, nor had he transgressed any of the outward rules of a +religious life. It is true he had never made a vehement and +extraordinary profession of piety, such as some men do; but there was +not a person in Riversborough who would not have spoken of him as a +good churchman and a Christian. While he had been gradually +appropriating Mr. Clifford's money and the hard-earned savings of poorer +men confided to him, he had felt no qualm of conscience in giving +liberally to many a religious and philanthropic object, contributing +such sums as figure well in a subscription list; though it was generally +his wife's name that figured there. He had never taken up a subscription +list without glancing first for that beloved name, Mrs. Roland Sefton. + +In those days he had never doubted that he was a Christian. So far as he +knew, so far as words could teach him, he was living a Christian life. +Did he not believe in God, the Father Almighty? Yes, as fully as those +who lived about him. Had he not followed Christ? As closely as the mass +of people who call themselves Christians. Nay, more than most of them. +Not as much as his mother perhaps, in her simple, devout faith. But then +religion is always a different thing with women than with men, a fairer +and more delicate thing, wearing a finer bloom and gloss, which does not +wear well in a work-a-day world such as he did battle in. But if he had +not lived a Christian life, what man in Riversborough had done so, +except a few fanatics? + +But his religion had been powerless to keep him from falling into subtle +temptations, and into a crime so heinous in the sight of his fellow-men +that it was only to be expiated by the loss of character, the loss of +liberty, and the loss of every honorable man's esteem. The web had been +closely and cunningly woven, and now he was fast bound in it, with no +way of escape. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH. + + +The weeks passed by in Riversborough, and brought no satisfactory +conclusion to the guarded investigations of the police. A close search +made among Acton's private papers produced no discovery. His will was +among them, leaving all he had to leave, which was not much, to Felix, +the son of his friend and employer, Roland Sefton. There was no +memorandum or letter which could throw any light upon the transactions, +or give any clew to what had been done with Mr. Clifford's securities. + +Nor was the watch kept over the movements of the family more successful. +The police were certain that no letter was posted by any member of the +household, which could be intended for the missing culprit. Even Phebe +Marlowe's correspondence was subject to their vigilance. But not a trace +could be discovered. He was gone; whether he had fled to America, or +concealed himself nearer home on the Continent, no one could make a +guess. + +Mr. Clifford remained in Riversborough, and resumed his position as head +of the firm. He had returned with the intention of doing so, having +heard abroad of the extravagant manner in which his junior partner was +living. The bank, though seriously crippled in its credit and resources, +was in no danger of insolvency, and there seemed no reason why it should +not regain its former prosperity, if only confidence could be restored. +He had reserved to himself the power of taking in another partner, if he +should deem it advisable; and an eligible one presenting himself, in the +person of a Manchester man of known wealth, the deeds of partnership +were drawn up, and the Old Bank was once more set up on a firm basis. + +During the time that elapsed while these arrangements were being made, +Felicita was visibly suffering, and failing in health. So sensitive had +she grown to the dread of seeing any one not in the immediate circle of +her household, that it became impossible to her to leave her home. The +clear colorlessness of her face had taken on a transparency and delicacy +which did not lessen its beauty, but added to it an unearthly grace. She +no longer spent hours alone in her desecrated room; it had grown +intolerable to her; but she sat speechless, and almost motionless, in +the oriel window overlooking the garden and the river; and Felix, a +child of dreamy and sensitive temperament, would sit hour after hour at +her feet, pressing his cheek against her knee, or with his uplifted eyes +gazing into her face. + +"Mother," he said one day, when Roland had been gone more than a month, +"how long will my father be away on his journey? Doesn't he ever write +to you, and send messages to me? Grandmamma says she does not know how +soon he will be back. Do you know, mother?" + +Felicita looked down on him with her beautiful dark eyes, which seemed +larger and sadder than of old, sending a strange thrill through the +boy's heart, and for a minute or two she seemed uncertain what to say. + +"I cannot tell you, Felix," she answered; "there are many things in life +which children cannot understand. If I told you what was true about your +father, your little brain would turn it into an untruth. You could not +understand it if I told you." + +"But I shall understand it some day," he said, lifting his head up +proudly; "will you tell me when I am old enough, mother?" + +How could she promise him to do that? This proud young head, tossed back +with the expectant triumph of some day knowing all that his father and +mother knew, must be bowed down with grief and shame then, as hers was +now. It was a sad knowledge he must inherit. How would she ever be able +to tell him that the father who had given him life, and whose name he +bore, was a criminal; a convict if he was arrested and brought to +judgment; an outlaw and an exile if he made good his escape? Roland had +never been as dear to her as Felix was. She was one of those women who +love more deeply and tenderly as mothers than as wives. To see that +bright, fond face of his clouded with disgrace would be a ceaseless +torment to her. There would be no suffering to compare with it. + +"But you will tell me all about it some day, mother," urged the boy. + +"If I ever tell you," she answered, "it will be when you are a man, and +can understand the whole truth. You will never hear me tell a falsehood, +Felix." + +"I know that, mother," he replied, "but oh! I miss my father! He used to +come to my bedside at nights, and kiss me, and say 'God bless you.' I +tried always to keep awake till he came; but I was asleep the last time +of all, and missed him. Sometimes I feel frightened, as if he would +never come again. But grandmamma says he is gone on a long journey, and +will come home some day, only she doesn't know when. Phebe cries when I +ask her. Would it be too much trouble for you to come in at night +sometimes, like my father did?" he asked timidly. + +"But I am not like your father," she answered. "I could not say 'God +bless you' in the same way. You must ask God yourself for His +blessing." + +For Felicita's soul had been thrust down into the depths of darkness. +Her early training had been simply and solely for this world: how to +make life here graceful and enjoyable. She could look back upon none but +the vaguest aspirations after something higher in her girlhood. It had +been almost like a new revelation to her to see her mother-in-law's +simple and devout piety, and to witness her husband's cheerful and manly +profession of religion. This was the point in his character which had +attracted her most, and had been most likely to bind her to him. Not his +passionate love to herself, but his unselfishness toward others, his +apparently happy religion, his energetic interest in all good and +charitable schemes--these had reconciled her more than anything else to +the step she had taken, the downward step, in marrying him. + +This unconscious influence of Roland's life and character had been +working secretly and slowly upon her nature for several years. They +were very young when they were married, and her first feeling of +resentment toward her own family for pressing on the marriage had at the +outset somewhat embittered her against her young husband. But this had +gradually worn away, and Felicita had never been so near loving him +heartily and deeply as during the last year or two, when it was evident +that his attachment to her was as loyal and as tender as ever. He had +almost won her, when he staked all and lost all. + +For now, she asked herself, what was the worth of all this religion, +which presented so fair a face to her? She had a delicate sense of honor +and truthfulness, which never permitted her to swerve into any byways of +expediency or convenience. What use was Roland's religion without +truthfulness and honor? She said to herself that there was no excuse for +him even feeling tempted to deal with another man's property. It ought +to have been as impossible to him as it was impossible to her to steal +goods from a tradesman's counter. Was it possible to serve God--and +Roland professed to serve Him--yet cheat his fellow-men? The service of +God itself must then be a vanity--a mere bubble, like all the other +bubbles of life. + +It had never been her habit to speak out her thoughts, even to her +husband. Speech seemed an inefficient and blundering medium of +communication, and she found it easier to write than to talk. There was +a natural taciturnity about her which sealed her lips, even when her +children were prattling to her. Only in writing could she give +expression to the multitude of her thoughts within her; and her letters +were charming, and of exceeding interest. But in this great crisis in +her life she could not write. She would sit for hours vainly striving to +arouse her languid brain. It seemed to her that she had lost this gift +also in the utter ruin that had overtaken her. + +Felicita's white, silent, benumbed grief, accepting the conviction of +her husband's guilt with no feminine contradicting or loud lamenting, +touched Mr. Clifford with more pity than he felt for Madame, who bore +her son's mysterious absence with a more simple and natural sorrow. +There was something irritating to him in the fact that Roland's mother +ignored the accusation he made against him. But when Roland had been +away three months, and the police authorities had given up all +expectation of discovering anything by watching his home and family, Mr. +Clifford felt that it was time something should be arranged which would +deliver Felicita from her voluntary imprisonment. + +"Why do you not go away?" he asked her; "you cannot continue to live +mewed up here all your days. If Roland should be found, it would be +better for you not to be in Riversborough. And I for one have given up +the expectation that he will be found; the only chance is that he may +return and give himself up. Go to some place where you are not known. +There is Scarborough; take Madame and the children there for a few +months, and then settle in London for the winter. Nobody will know you +in London." + +"But how can we leave this house?" she said, with a gleam of light in +her sad eyes. + +"Let me come in just as it is," he answered. "I will pay you a good rent +for it, and you can take a part of the furniture to London, to make +your new dwelling there more like home. It would be a great convenience +to me, and it would be the best thing for you, depend upon it. If Roland +returns he never will live here again." + +"No, he could never do that," she said, sighing deeply. "Mr. Clifford, +sometimes I think he must be dead." + +"I have thought so too," he replied gravely; "and if it were so, it +would be the salvation of you and your children. There would be no +public trial and conviction, and though suspicion might always rest upon +his memory, he would not be remembered for long. Justice would be +defrauded, yet on the whole I should rejoice for your sake to hear that +he was dead." + +Felicita's lips almost echoed the words. Her heart did so, though it +smote her as she recollected his passionate love for her. But Mr. +Clifford's speech sank deeply into her mind, and she brooded over it +incessantly. Roland's death meant honor and fair fame for herself and +her children; his life was perpetual shame and contempt to them. + +It was soon settled that they must quit Riversborough; but though +Felicita welcomed the change, and was convinced it would be the best +thing to do, Madame grieved sorely over leaving the only home which had +been hers, except the little manse in the Jura, where her girlhood had +passed swiftly and happily away. She had brought with her the homely, +thrifty ways in which she had been trained, and every spot in her +husband's dwelling had been taken under her own care and supervision. +Her affections had rooted themselves to the place, and she had never +dreamed of dying anywhere else than among the familiar scenes which had +surrounded her for more than thirty years. The change too could not be +made without her consent, for her marriage settlement was secured upon +the house, and her husband had left to her the right of accepting or +refusing a tenant. To leave the familiar, picturesque old mansion, and +to carry away with her only a few of the household treasures, went far +to break her heart. + +"It is where my husband intended for me to live and die," she moaned to +Phebe Marlowe; "and, oh, if I go away I can never fancy I see him +sitting in his own chair as he used to do, at the head of the table, or +by the fire. I have not altogether lost him, though he's gone, as long +as I can think of how he used to come in and go out of this room, always +with a smile for me. But if I go where he never was, how can I think I +see him there? And my son will be angry if we go; he will come back, and +clear up all this mystery, and he will think we went away because we +thought he had done evil. Ought we not to come home again after we have +been to Scarborough?" + +"I think Mrs. Sefton will die if she stays here," said Phebe. "It is +necessary for her to make this change; and you'd rather go with her and +the children than live here alone without them." + +"Oh, yes, yes!" answered Madame; "I cannot leave my little Felix and +Hilda, or Felicita: she is my son's dear wife. But he will come home +some day, and we can return then; you hope so, don't you, Phebe?" + +"If God pleases!" said Phebe, sighing. + +"In truth, if God pleases!" repeated Madame. + +When the last hour came in which Phebe could see Roland's wife, she +sought for her in her study, where she was choosing the books to be sent +after her. In the very words in which Roland had sent his message he +delivered it to Felicita. The cold, sad, marble-like face did not +change, though her heart gave a throb of disappointment and anguish as +the dread hope that he was no longer alive died out of it. + +"I will meet him there," she said. But she asked Phebe no questions, and +did not tell her where she was to meet her husband. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +OLD MARLOWE. + + +Life had put on for Phebe a very changed aspect. The lonely farmstead on +the uplands had been till now a very happy and tranquil home. She had +had no sorrow since her mother died when she was eight years of age, too +young to grieve very sorely. On the other hand, she was not so young as +to require a woman's care, and old Marlowe had made her absolute +mistress of the little home. His wife, a prudent, timid woman, had +always repressed his artistic tendencies, preferring the certainty of +daily bread to the vague chances of gaining renown and fortune. Old +Marlowe, so marred and imperfect in his physical powers, had submitted +to her shrewd, ignorant authority, and earned his living and hers by +working on his little farm and going out occasionally as a carpenter. +But when she was gone, and his little girl's eyes only were watching him +at his work, and the child's soul delighted in all the beautiful forms +his busy hands could fashion, he gave up his out-door toil, and, with +all the pent-up ardor of the lost years, he threw himself absorbingly +into the pleasant occupation of the present. Though he mourned +faithfully for his wife, the woman who had given to him Phebe, he felt +happier and freer without her. + +Phebe's girlhood also had been both free and happy. All the seasons had +been sweet to her: dear to her was "the summer, clothing the general +earth with greenness," and the winter, when "the redbreast sits and +sings be-twixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of the mossy +apple-tree." She had listened to "the eave-drops falling in the trances +of the blast," and seen them "hang in silent icicles, quietly shining to +the quiet moon." There had been no change in nature unnoticed or +unbeloved by her. The unbroken silence reigning around her, heightened +by the mute speech between herself and her father, which needed eyes +only, not lips, had grown so familiar as to be almost dear to her, in +spite of her strong delight in fellowship with others. The artistic +temperament she had inherited from her father, which very early took +vivid pleasure in expressing itself in color as well as in form, had +furnished her with an occupation of which she could never tire. As long +as there was light in the sky, long after the sun had gone down, in the +lingering twilight, loath to forsake the uplands, she was at her canvas +catching the soft gray tones, and dim-colored tints, and clearer masses +of foliage, which only the evening could show. + +To supply her need of general companionship there had been so full and +satisfying a sense of friendship between herself and the household at +the Old Bank at Riversborough that one day spent with them gave her +thought for a month. Every word uttered by Roland and Felicita was +treasured up in her memory and turned over in her mind for days after. +Madame's simple and cheerful nature made her almost like a mother to the +simple and cheerful country girl; and Felix and Hilda had been objects +of the deepest interest to her from the days of their birth. But it was +Roland, who had known her best and longest, to whom she owed the +direction and cultivation of her tastes and intellect, who had been +almost like a god to her in her childhood; it was he who dominated over +her simple heart the most. He was to Phebe so perfect that she had never +imagined that there could be a fault in him. + +There is one token to us that we are meant for a higher and happier life +than this, in the fact that sorrow and sin always come upon us as a +surprise. Happy days do not astonish us, and the goodness of our beloved +ones awakens no amazement. But if a sorrow comes we cry aloud to let our +neighbors know something untoward has befallen us; and if one we love +has sinned, we feel as if the heavens themselves were darkened. + +It was so with Phebe Marlowe. All her earthly luminaries, the greater +lights and the lesser lights, were under an eclipse, and a strange +darkness had fallen upon her. For the first time in her life she found +herself brooding over the sin of one who had been her guide, her +dearest friend, her hero. From the time when as a child she had learned +to look up to him as the paragon of all perfection, until now, as a girl +on the verge of womanhood, she had offered up to him a very pure and +maidenly worship. There was no one else whom she could love as much; for +her dumb and deaf father she loved in quite a different manner--with +more of pity and compassion than of admiration. Roland too had sometimes +talked with her, especially while she was a child, about God and Christ; +and she had regarded him as a spiritual director. Now her guide was lost +in the dense darkness. There was no sure example for her to follow. + +She had told her father he would never see her smile again if Roland +Sefton was taken to jail. There had been, of course, an implied promise +in this, but the promise was broken. Old Marlowe looked in vain for the +sweet and merry smiles that had been used to play upon her face. She was +too young and too unversed in human nature to know how jealously her +father would watch her, with inward curses on him who had wrought the +change. When he saw her stand for an hour or more, listlessly gazing +with troubled, absent eyes across the wide-spreading moor, with its +broad sweep of deep-purpled bloom, and golden gorse, and rich green +fern, yet taking no notice, nor hastening to fix the gorgeous hues upon +her canvas while the summer lasted; and when he watched her in the long +dusk of the autumn evenings sit motionless in the chimney corner +opposite to him, her fingers lying idly on her lap instead of busily +prattling some merry nonsense to him, and with a sad preoccupation in +her girlish face; then he felt that he had received his own death-blow, +and had no more to live for. + +The loss of his hard-earned money had taken a deeper hold upon him than +a girl so young as Phebe could imagine. For what is money to a young +nature but the merest dross, compared with the love and faith it has +lavished upon some fellow-mortal? While she was mourning over the +shipwreck of all her best affections, old Marlowe was brooding over his +six hundred pounds. They represented so much to him, so many years of +toil and austere self-denial. He had risen early, and late taken rest, +and eaten the bread of carefulness. His grief was not all ignoble, for +it was for his girl he grieved most; his wonderful child, so much more +gifted than the children of other men, whom nature had treated more +kindly than himself, men who could hear and speak, but whose daughters +were only commonplace creatures. The money was hers, not his; and it was +too late now for him to make up the heavy loss. The blow which had +deprived him of the fruits of his labor seemed to have incapacitated him +for further work. + +Moreover, Phebe was away oftener than usual: gone to the house of the +spoiler. Nor did she come home, as she had been wont to do, with radiant +eyes, and a soft, sweet smile coming and going, and many a pleasant +piece of news to tell off on her nimble fingers. She returned with +tear-stained eyelids and a downcast air, and was often altogether silent +as to the result of the day's absence. + +He strove, notwithstanding a haunting dread of failure, to resume his +old occupation. Doggedly every morning he put on his brown paper cap, +and went off to his crowded little workshop, but with unequal footsteps, +quite unlike his former firm tread. But it would not do. He stood for +hours before his half-shaped blocks of oak, with birds and leaves and +heads partly traced upon them; but he found himself powerless to +complete his own designs. Between him and them stood the image of Phebe, +a poverty-stricken, work-worn woman, toiling with her hands, in all +weathers, upon their three or four barren fields, which were now the +only property left to him. It had been pleasant to him to see her milk +the cows, and help him to fetch in the sheep from the moors; but until +now he had been able to pay for the rougher work on the farmstead. His +neighbor, Samuel Nixey, had let his laborers do it for him, since he had +kept his own hands and time for his artistic pursuit. But he could +afford this no longer, and the thought of the next winter's work which +lay before him and Phebe harassed him terribly. + +"Father," she said to him one evening, after she had been at +Riversborough, "they are all going away--Mrs. Sefton, and Madame, and +the children. They are going Scarborough, and after that to London, +never to come back. I shall not see them again." + +"Thank God!" thought the dumb old man, and his eyes gleamed brightly +from under their thick gray eyebrows. But he did not utter the words, so +much less easy was it for his fingers to betray his thoughts than it +would have been for his lips. And Phebe did not guess them. + +"Is there any news of him?" he asked. + +"Not a word," she answered. "Mr. Clifford has almost given it up. He is +an unforgiving man, an awful man." + +"No, no; he is a just man," said old Marlowe; "he wants nothing but his +own again, like me, and that a scoundrel should not get off scot free. I +want my money back; it's not money merely, but my years, and my brain, +and my love for thee, and my power to work: that's what he has robbed me +of. Let me have my money back, and I'll forgive him." + +"Poor father!" said Phebe aloud, with a little sob. How easy it seemed +to her to forgive a wrong that could be definitely stated at six hundred +pounds! All her inward grief was that Roland had fallen--he himself. If +by a whole sacrifice of herself she could have reinstated him in the +place he had forfeited, she would not have hesitated for an instant. But +no sacrifice she could make would restore him. + +"Does Mrs. Sefton know what he has done?" inquired her father. + +She nodded only in reply. + +"Does she believe him innocent?" he asked. + +"No," answered Phebe. + +"And Madame, his mother?" he pursued. + +"No, no, no! she cannot believe him guilty," she replied; "she thinks he +could free himself, if he would only come home. She is far happier than +Mrs. Sefton or me. I would lay down my life to have him true and honest +and good again, as he used to be. I feel as if I was in a miserable +dream." + +They were sitting together outside their cottage-door, with the level +rays of the setting sun shining across the uplands upon them, and the +fresh air of the evening breathing upon their faces. It was an hour they +both loved, but neither of them felt its beauty and tranquillity now. + +"You love him next to me?" asked old Marlowe. + +"Next to you, father," she repeated. + +But the subtle jealousy in the father's heart whispered that his +daughter loved these grand friends of hers more than himself. What could +he be to her, deaf mute that he was? What could he do for her? All he +had done had been swept away by the wrong-doing of this fine gentleman, +for whom she was willing to lay down her life. He looked at her with +wistful eyes, longing to hold closer, swifter communication with her +than could be held by their slow finger-speech. How could he ever make +her know all the love and pride pent up in his voiceless heart? Phebe, +in her girlish, blind preoccupation, saw nothing of his eager, wistful +gaze, did not even notice the nervous trembling of his stammering +fingers; and the old man felt thrown back upon himself, in more utter +loneliness of spirit than his life had ever experienced before. Yet he +was not so old a man, for he was little over sixty, but his hard life +of incessant toil and his isolation from his fellow-creatures had aged +him. This bitter calamity added many years to his actual age, and he +began to realize that his right hand was forgetting its cunning, his eye +for beauty was growing dim, and his craft failing him. The long, light +summer days kept him for a while from utter hopelessness. But as the +autumn winds began to moan and mutter round the house he told himself +that his work was done, and that soon Phebe would be a friendless and +penniless orphan. + +"I ought not to have let Roland Sefton go," he thought to himself; "if +I'd done my duty he would have been paying for his sin now, and maybe +there would have been some redress for us that lost by him. None of his +people will come to poverty like my Phebe. I could have held up my head +if I had not helped him to escape from punishment." + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +RECKLESS OF LIFE. + + +If old Marlowe, or Mr. Clifford himself, could have followed Roland +Sefton during his homeless wanderings, their rigorous sense of justice +would have been satisfied that he was not escaping punishment, though he +might elude the arbitrary penalty of the law. + +As the summer advanced, and the throng of yearly tourists poured into +the playground of Europe from every country, but especially from +England, he was driven away from all the towns and villages where he +might by chance be recognized by some fellow-countryman. Up into the +mountain pastures he retreated, where he rambled from one chalet to +another, sleeping on beds of fodder, with its keen night air piercing +through the apertures of the roof and walls, yet bringing with it those +intolerable stenches which exhale from the manure and mire lying +ankle-deep round each picturesque little hut. The yelping of the +watch-dogs; the snoring of the tired herdsmen lying within arm's length +of him; the shrill tinkling of cow-bells, musical enough by day and in +the distance, but driving sleep away too harshly; the sickness and +depression produced by unwholesome food, and the utter compulsory +abandonment of all his fastidious and dainty personal habits, made his +mere bodily life intolerable to him. He had borne something like these +discomforts and privations for a day or two at a time, when engaged in +Alpine climbing, but that he should be forced to live a life compared +with which that of an Irish bog-trotter was decent and civilized, was a +daily torment to him. + +It is true that during the long hours of daylight he wandered among the +most sublime scenery. Sometimes he scaled solitary peaks and looked down +upon far-stretching landscapes below him, with broad dead rivers of +glaciers winding between the high and terrible masses of snow-clad +rocks, and creeping down into peaceful valleys, where little living +streams of silvery gray wandered among chalets looking no larger than +the rocks strewn around them, with a tiny church in their midst lifting +up its spire of glittering metal with a kind of childish confidence and +exultation. Here and there in deep sunken hollows lay small tarns, black +as night, and guilty looking, with precipices overhanging them fringed +with pointed pine-trees, which sought in vain to mirror themselves in +those pitch-dark waters. And above them all, gazing down in silent +greatness, rose the snow-mountains, very cold, whiter than any other +whiteness on earth, pure and stainless, and apparently as unapproachable +in their far-off loveliness as the deep blue of the pure sky behind +them. + +But there was something unutterably awful to Roland Sefton in this +sublimity. A bad man, whose ear has never heard the voice of Nature, and +whose eye is blind to her ineffable beauty, may dwell in such places and +not be crushed by them. The dull herdsmen, thinking only of their cattle +and of the milking to be done twice a day, might live their own stupid, +commonplace lives there. The chance visitor who spent a few hours in +scaling difficult cliffs would perhaps catch a brief and fleeting sense +of their awfulness, only too quickly dissipated by the unwonted toil and +peril of his situation. But Roland Sefton felt himself exiled to their +ice-bound solitudes, cut off from all companionship, and attended only +by an accusing conscience. + +Morning after morning, when his short and feverish night was ended, he +went out in the early dawn while all the valleys below were still +slumbering in darkness, self-driven into the wilderness of rock and snow +rising above the wretched chalets. With coarse food sufficient for the +wants of the day he strayed wherever his aimless footsteps led him. It +was seldom that he stayed more than a night or two in the same +herdsman's hut. When he was well out of the track of tourists he +ventured down into the lower villages now and then, seeking a few days +of comparative comfort. But some rumor, or the arrival of some chance +traveller more enterprising and investigating than the mass, always +drove him away again. There was no peace for him, either in the high +Alps or the most secluded valleys. + +How could there be peace while memory and conscience were gnawing at his +heart? In a dreary round his thoughts went back to the first beginnings +of the road that had led him hither; with that vague feeling which all +of us have when retracing the irrevocable past, as if by some mighty +effort of our will we could place ourselves at the starting-point again +and run our race--oh, how differently! + +Roland could almost fix the date when he had first wished that Mr. +Clifford's bonds, bequeathed to him, were already his own. He +recollected the very day when old Marlowe had asked him to invest his +money for him in some safe manner for Phebe's benefit, and how he had +persuaded himself that nothing could be safer than to use it for his own +purposes, and to pay a higher interest than the old man could get +elsewhere. What he had done for him had been still easier to do for +other clients--ignorant men and women who knew nothing of business, and +left it all to him, gratefully pleased with the good interest he paid +them. The web had been woven with almost invisible threads at the first, +but the finest thread among them was a heavy cable now. + +But the one thought that haunted him, never leaving him for an instant +in these terrible solitudes, was the thought of Felicita. His mother he +could forget sometimes, or remember her with a dewy tenderness at his +heart, as if he could feel her pitiful love clinging to him still; and +his children he dreamed of at times in a day-dream, as playing merrily +without him, in the blissful ignorance of childhood. But Felicita, who +did not love him as his mother did, and could not remain in ignorance of +his crime! Was she not something like these pure, distant snowy +pinnacles, inapproachable and repellent, with icy-cold breath which +petrified all lips that drew too near to them? And he had set a stain +upon that purity as white as the driven snow. The name he had given to +her was tarnished, and would be publicly dishonored if he failed in +evading the penalty he merited. His death alone could save her from +notorious and intolerable disgrace. + +But though he was reckless of his life, he could not bring himself to be +guilty of suicide. Death was wooing him in many forms, day by day, to +seek refuge with him. When his feet slipped among the yawning crevasses +of the glaciers, the smallest wilful negligence would have buried him in +their blue depths. The common impulse to cast himself down the +precipices along whose margin he crept had only to be yielded to, and +all his earthly woe would be over. Even to give way to the weary +drowsiness that overtook him at times as the sun went down, and the +night fell upon him far away from shelter, might have soothed him into +the slumber from which there is no awaking. But he dared not. He was +willing enough to die, if dying had been all. But he believed in the +punishment of sin here, or hereafter; in the dealing out of a righteous +judgment to every man, whether he be good or evil. + +As the autumn passed by, and the mountain chalets were shut up, the +cattle and the herdsmen descending to the lower pastures, Roland Sefton +was compelled to descend too. There was little chance of encountering +any one who knew him at this late season; yet there were still +stragglers lingering among the Alps. But when he saw himself again in a +looking-glass, his face burned and blistered with the sun, and now +almost past recognition, and his ragged hair and beard serving him +better than any disguise, he was no longer afraid of being detected. He +began to wonder in mingled hope and dread whether Felicita would come +out to seek him. The message he had sent to her by Phebe could be +interpreted by her alone. Would she avail herself of it to find him out? +Or would she shrink from the toil and pain and danger of quitting +England? A few weeks more would answer the question. + +Sometimes he was overwhelmed with terror lest she should be watched, and +her movements tracked, and that behind her would come the pursuers he +had so successfully evaded. At other times an unutterable heart-sickness +possessed him to see her once more, to hear her voice, to press his +lips, if he dared, to her pale cheeks; to discover whether she would +suffer him to hold her in his arms for one moment only. He longed to +hear from her lips what had happened at home since he fled from it six +months ago; what she had done, and was going to do, supposing that he +were not arrested and brought to justice. Would she forgive him? would +she listen to his pleas and explanations? He feared that she would hate +him for the shame he had brought upon her. Yet there was a possibility +that she might pity him, with a pity so much akin to love as that with +which the angels look down upon sinful human beings. + +Every day brought the solution of his doubts nearer. The rains of autumn +had begun, and fell in torrents, driving him to any shelter he could +find, to brood there hour after hour upon these hopes and fears. The fog +and thick clouds hid the mountains, and all the valleys lay forlorn and +cold under clinging veils of mist, through which the few brown leaves +left upon the trees hung limp and dying on the bare branches. The +villagers were settling down to their winter life; and though along the +frequented routes a few travellers were still passing to and fro, the +less known were deserted. It was safe now to go down to Engelberg, +where, if ever again except as a prisoner in the hands of justice, he +would see Felicita. + +Impatient to anticipate the day on which he might again see her, he +reached Engelberg a week before the appointed time. The green meadows +and the forests of the little valley were hidden in mist and rain, and +the towering dome of the Titlis was folded from sight in dense clouds, +with only a cold gleam now and then as its snowy summit glanced through +them for a minute. The innumerable waterfalls were swollen, and fell +with a restless roar through the black depths of the forests. The +daylight was short, for the sun rose late behind the encircling +mountains, and hastened to sink again below them. But the place where he +had first met Felicita was dear to him, though dark and gloomy with the +cloudy days. He hastened to the church where his eyes had fallen upon +the young, silent, absorbed girl so many years ago; and here, where the +sun was shining fitfully for a brief half hour, he paced up and down the +aisles, wondering what the coming interview would bring. Day after day +he lingered there, with the loud chanting of the monks ringing in his +ears, until the evening came when he said to himself, "To-morrow I shall +see her once more." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +SUSPENSE. + + +Roland Sefton did not sleep that night. As the time drew near for +Felicita to act upon his message to her, he grew more desponding of her +response to it; yet he could not give up the feeble hope still +flickering in his heart. If she did not come he would be a hopeless +outcast indeed; yet if she came, what succor could she bring to him? He +had not once cherished the idea that Mr. Clifford would forbear to +prosecute him; yet he knew well that if he could be propitiated, the +other men and women who had claims upon him would be easily satisfied +and appeased. But how many things might have happened during the long +six months, which had seemed almost an eternity to him. It was not +impossible that Mr. Clifford might be dead. If so, and if a path was +thus open to him to re-enter life, how different should his career be in +the future! How warily would he walk; with what earnest penitence and +thorough uprightness would he order all his ways! He would be what he +had only seemed to be hitherto: a man following Christ, as his +forefathers had done. + +He was staying at a quiet inn in the village, and as soon as daybreak +came he started down the road along which Felicita must come, and waited +at the entrance of the valley, four miles from the little village. The +road was bad, for the heavy rains had washed much of it away, and it had +been roughly repaired by fir-trees laid along the broken edges; but it +was not impassable, and a one-horse carriage could run along it safely. +The rain had passed away, and the sun was shining. The high mountains +and the great rocks were clear from base to summit. If she came to-day +there was a splendid scene prepared for her eyes. Hour after hour passed +by, the short autumnal day faded into the dusk, and the dusk slowly +deepened into the blackness of night. Still he waited, late on into the +night, till the monastery bells chimed for the last time; but there was +no sign of her coming. + +The next day passed as that had done. Felicita, then, had deserted him! +He felt so sure of Phebe that he never doubted that she had not received +his message. He had left only one thread of communication between +himself and home--a slender thread--and Felicita had broken it. There +was now no hope for him, no chance of learning what had befallen all his +dear ones, unless he ran the risk of discovery, and ventured back to +England. + +But for Felicita and his children, he said to himself, it would be +better to go back, and pay the utmost penalty he owed to the broken laws +of his country. No hardships could be greater than those he had already +endured; no separation from companionship could be more complete. The +hard labor he would be doomed to perform would be a relief. His +conscience might smite him less sharply and less ceaselessly if he was +suffering the due punishment for his sin, in the society of his +fellow-criminals. Dartmoor Prison would be better for him than his +miserable and degrading freedom. + +Still, as long as he could elude publicity and preserve his name from +notoriety, the burden would not fall upon Felicita and his children. His +mother would not shrink from bearing her share of any burden of his. But +he must keep out of the dock, lest their father and husband should be +branded as a convict. + +A dreary round his thoughts ran. But ever in the centre of the circling +thoughts lay the conviction that he had lost his wife and children +forever. Whether he dragged out a wretched life in concealment, or was +discovered, or gave himself up to justice, Felicita was lost to him. +There were some women--Phebe Marlowe was one--who could have lived +through the shame of his conviction and the dreary term of his +imprisonment, praying to God for her husband, and pitying him with a +kind of heavenly grace, and at the end of the time met him at the prison +door, and gone out with him, tenderly and faithfully, to begin a new +life in another country. But Felicita was not one of these women. He +could never think of her as pardoning a transgression like his, though +committed for her sake. Even now she would not stoop so low as to seek a +meeting with one who deserved a penal punishment. + +Night had set in, and he was trudging along the road, still heavy with +recent rains, though the sky above was hung with glittering stars, and +the crystal snow on Titlis shone against the deep blue depths, casting a +wan light over the valley. Suddenly upon the stillness there came the +sound of several voices, and a shrill yodel, pitched in a key that rang +through the village, to call attention to the approaching party. It was +in advance of him, nearer to Engelberg; yet though he had been watching +the route from Stans all day, and was satisfied that Felicita could not +have entered the valley unseen by himself, the hope flashed through him +that she was before him, belated by the state of the roads. He hurried +on, seeing before him a small group of men carrying lanterns. But in +their midst they bore a rude litter, made of a gate taken hastily off +the hinges. They passed out of sight behind a house as he caught sight +of the litter, and for a minute or two he could not follow them, from +the mere shock of dread lest the litter held her. Then he hurried on, +and reached the hotel door as the procession marched into the hall and +laid their burden cautiously down. + +"An accident?" said the landlord. + +"Yes," answered one of the peasants; "we found him under Pfaffenwand. He +must have been coming from Engstlensee Alp; how much farther the good +God alone knows. The paths are slippery this wet weather, and he had no +guide, or there was no guide to be seen." + +"That must be searched into," said the landlord; "is he dead?" + +"No, no," replied two or three together. + +"He has spoken twice," continued the peasant who had answered before, +"and groaned much. But none of us knew what he said. He is dying, poor +fellow!" + +"English?" asked the landlord, looking down on the scarred face and +eager eyes of the stranger, who lay silent on the litter, glancing round +uneasily at the faces about him. + +"Some of us would have known French, or German, or Italian," was the +reply, "but not one of us knows English." + +"Nor I," said the landlord; "and our English speaker went away last +week, over the St. Gothard to Italy for the winter. Send round, Marie," +he went on, speaking to his wife, "and find out any one in Engelberg who +knows English. See! The poor fellow is trying to say something now." + +"I can speak English," said Roland, pushing his way in amid the crowd +and kneeling down beside the litter, on which a rough bed of fir +pine-branches had been made. The unknown face beneath his eyes was drawn +with pain, and the gaze that met his was one of earnest entreaty. + +"I am dying," he murmured; "don't let them torture me. Only let me be +laid on a bed to die in peace." + +"I will take care of you," said Roland in his pleasant and soothing +voice, speaking as tenderly as if he had been saying "God bless you!" to +Felix in his little cot; "trust yourself to me. They shall do for you +only what I think best." + +The stranger closed his eyes with an expression of relief, and Roland, +taking up one corner of the litter, helped to carry it gently into the +nearest bedroom. He was gifted with something of a woman's softness of +touch, and with a woman's delicate sympathy with pain; and presently, +though not without some moans and cries, the injured man was resting +peacefully on a bed: not unconscious, but looking keenly from face to +face on the people surrounding him. + +"Are you English?" he asked, looking at Roland's blistered face and his +worn peasant's dress. + +"Yes," he answered. + +"Is there any surgeon here?" he inquired. + +"No English surgeon," replied Roland. "I do not know if there is one +even at Lucerne, and none could come to you for many hours. But there +must be some one at the monastery close by, if not in the village--" + +"No, no!" he interrupted, "I shall not live many hours; but promise +me--I am quite helpless as you see--promise me that you will not let any +village doctor pull me about." + +"They are sometimes very skilful," urged Roland, "and you do not know +that you must really die." + +"I knew it as I was slipping," he answered; "at the first moment I knew +it, though I clutched at the very stones to keep me from falling. Why! I +was dead when they found me; only the pain of being pulled about brought +me back to life. I'm not afraid to die if they will let me die in +peace." + +"I will promise not to leave you," replied Roland; "and if you must die, +it shall be in peace." + +That he must die, and was actually dying, was affirmed by all about him. +One of the brothers from the monastery, skilled in surgery, came in +unrecognized as a doctor by the stranger, and shook his head hopelessly +when he saw him, telling Roland to let him do whatever he pleased so +long as he lived, and to learn all he could from him during the hours of +the coming night. There was no hope, he said; and if he had not been +found by the peasants he would have been dead now. Roland must ask if +he was a good Catholic or a heretic. When the monk heard that he was a +heretic and needed none of the consolations of the Church, he bade him +farewell kindly, and went his way. + +Roland Sefton sat beside the dying man all the night, while he lingered +from hour to hour: free from pain at times, at others restless and +racked with agony. He wandered a little in delirium, and when his brain +was clear he had not much to say. + +"Have you no message to send to your friends?" inquired Roland, in one +of these lucid intervals. + +"I have no friends," he answered, "and no money. It makes death easier." + +"There must be some one who would care to hear of you," said Roland. + +"They'll see it in the papers," he replied. "No, I come from India, and +was going to England. I have no near relations, and there is no one to +care much. 'Poor Austin,' they'll say; 'he wasn't a bad fellow.' That's +all. You've been kinder to me than anybody I know. There's about fifty +pounds in my pocket-book. Bury me decently and take the rest." + +He dozed a little, or was unconscious for a few minutes. His sunburnt +face, lying on the white pillow, still looked full of health and the +promise of life, except when it was contracted with pain. There was no +weakness in his voice or dimness in his eye. It seemed impossible to +believe that this strong young man was dying. + +"I lost my valise when I fell," he said, opening his eyes again and +speaking in a tranquil tone; "but there was nothing of value in it. My +money and my papers are in my pocket-book. Let me see you take +possession of it." + +He watched Roland search for the book in the torn coat on the chair +beside him, and his eyes followed its transfer to his breast-pocket +under his blue blouse. + +"You are an English gentleman, though you look a Swiss peasant," he +said; "you are poor, perhaps, and my money will be of use to you. It is +the only return I can make to you. I should like you to write down that +I give it to you, and let me sign the paper." + +"Presently," said Roland; "you must not exert yourself. I shall find +your name and address here?" + +"I have no address; of course I have a name," he answered; "but never +mind that now. Tell me, what do you think of Christ? Does He indeed save +sinners?" + +"Yes," said Roland reluctantly; "He says, 'I came to seek and to save +that which was lost.' Those are His own words." + +"Kneel down quickly," murmured the dying man. "Say 'Our Father!' so that +I can hear every word. My mother used to teach it to me." + +"And she is dead?" said Roland. + +"Years ago," he gasped. + +Roland knelt down. How familiar, with what a touch of bygone days, the +attitude came to him; how homely the words sounded! He had uttered them +innumerable times; never quite without a feeling of their sacredness and +sweetness. But he had not dared to take them into his lips of late. His +voice faltered, though he strove to keep it steady and distinct, to +reach the dying ears that listened to him. The prayer brought to him the +picture of his children kneeling, morning and evening, with the +self-same petitions. They had said them only a few hours ago, and would +say them again a few hours hence. Even the dying man felt there was +something more than mere emotion for him expressed in the tremulous +tones of Roland Sefton's voice. He held out his hand to him when he had +finished, and grasped his warmly. + +"God bless you!" he said. But he was weary, and his strength was failing +him. He slumbered again fitfully, and his mind wandered. Now and then +during the rest of the night he looked up with a faint smile, and his +lips moved inarticulately. He thought he had spoken, but no sound +disturbed the unbroken silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +ON THE ALTAR STEPS. + + +It was as the bells of the Abbey rang for matins that the stranger died. +For a few minutes Roland remained beside him, and then he called in the +women to attend to the dead, and went out into the fresh morning air. It +was the third day that the mountains had been clear from fog and cloud, +and they stood out against the sky in perfect whiteness. The snow-line +had come lower down upon the slopes, and the beautiful crystals of frost +hung on the tapering boughs of the pine-trees in the forests about +Engelberg. Here and there a few villagers were going toward the church, +and almost unconsciously Roland followed slowly in their track. + +The short service was over and the congregation was dispersing when he +crossed the well-worn door-sill. But a few women, especially the late +comers, were still scattered about praying mechanically, with their eyes +wandering around them. The High Altar was deserted, but candles burning +on it made a light in the dim place, and he listlessly sauntered up the +centre aisle. A woman was kneeling on the steps leading up to it, and as +the echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet church she rose and +looked round. It was Felicita! At that moment he was not thinking of +her; yet there was no doubt or surprise in the first moment of +recognition. The uncontrollable rapture of seeing her again arrested his +steps, and he stood looking at her, with a few paces between them. It +was plain that she did not know him. + +How could she know him, he thought bitterly, in the rough blue blouse +and coarse clothing and heavy hobnail boots of a Swiss peasant? His hair +was shaggy and uncut, and the skin of his face was so peeled and +blistered and scorched that his disguise was sufficient to conceal him +even from his wife. Yet as he stood there with downcast head, as a +devout peasant might have done before the altar, he saw Felicita make a +slight but imperious sign to him to advance. She did not take a step +toward him, but leaning against the altar rails she waited till he was +near to her, within hearing. There Roland paused. + +"Felicita," he said, not daring to draw closer to her. + +"I am here," she answered, not looking toward him; her large, dark, +mournful eyes lifted up to the cross above the altar, before which a +lamp was burning, whose light was reflected in her unshed tears. + +Neither of them spoke again for a while. It seemed as if there could be +nothing said, so great was the anguish of them both. The man who had +just died had passed away tranquilly, but they were drinking of a cup +more bitter than death. Yet the few persons lingering over their morning +devotions before the shrines in the side aisles saw nothing but a +stranger looking at the painting over the altar, and a peasant kneeling +on the lowest step deep in prayer. + +"I come from watching a fellow-man die," he said at last; "would to God +it had been myself!" + +"Yes!" sighed Felicita, "that would have been best for us all." + +"You wish me dead!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. + +"For the children's sake," she murmured, still looking away from him; +"yes! and for the sake of our name, your father's name, and mine. I +thought to bring honor to it, and you have brought flagrant dishonor to +it." + +"That can never be wiped away," he added. + +"Never!" she repeated. + +As if exhausted by these passionate words, they fell again into silence. +The murmur of whispered prayers was about them, and the faint scent of +incense floated under the arched roof. A gleam of morning light, growing +stronger, though the sun was still far below the eastern mountains, +glittered through a painted window, and threw a glow of color upon them. +Roland saw her standing in its many-tinted brightness, but her wan and +sorrowful face was not turned to look at him. He had not caught a +glance from her yet. How vividly he remembered the first moment his eyes +had ever beheld her, standing as she did now on these very altar steps, +with uplifted eyes and a sweet seriousness on her young face! It was +only a poor village church, but it was the most sacred spot in the whole +world to him; for there he had met Felicita and received her image into +his inmost heart. His ambition as well as his love had centred in her, +the penniless daughter of the late Lord Riversford, an orphan, and +dependent upon her father's brother and successor. But to Roland his +wife Felicita was immeasurably dearer than the girl Felicita Riversford +had been. All the happy days since he had won her, all the satisfied +desires, all his successes were centred in her and represented by her. +All his crime too. + +"I have loved you," he cried, "better than the whole world." + +There was no answer by word or look to his passionate words. + +"I have loved you," he said, more sadly, "better than God." + +"But you have brought me to shame!" she answered; "if I am tracked +here--and who can tell that I am not?--and if you are taken and tried +and convicted, I shall be the wife of the fraudulent banker and +condemned felon, Roland Sefton. And Felix and Hilda will be his +children." + +"It is true," he groaned; "I could not escape conviction." + +He buried his face in his hands, and rested them on the altar-rails. Now +his bowed-down head was immediately beneath her eyes, and she looked +down upon it with a mournful gaze; it could not have been more mournful +if she had been contemplating his dead face lying at rest in his coffin. +How was all this shame and misery for him and her to end? + +"Felicita," he said, lifting up his head, and meeting the sorrowful +farewell expression in her face, "if I could die it would be best for +the children and you." + +"Yes," she answered, in the sweet, too dearly loved voice he had +listened to in happy days. + +"I dare not open that door of escape for myself," he went on, "and God +does not send death to me. But I see a way, a possible way. I only see +it this moment; but whether it be for good or evil I cannot tell." + +"Will it save us?" she asked eagerly. + +"All of us," he replied. "This stranger, whose corpse I have just +left--nobody knows him, and he has no friends to trouble about +him--shall I give to him my name, and bury him as myself? Then I shall +be dead to all the world, Felicita; dead even to you; but you will be +saved. I too shall be safe in the grave, for death covers all sins. Even +old Clifford will be satisfied by my death." + +"Could it be done?" she asked breathlessly. + +"Yes," he said; "if you consent it shall be done. For my own sake I +would rather go back to England and deliver myself up to the law I have +broken. But you shall decide, my darling. If I return you will be known +as the wife of the convict Sefton. Say: shall I be henceforth dead +forever to you and my mother and the children? Shall it be a living +death for me, and deliverance and safety and honor for you all? You must +choose between my infamy or my death." + +"It must be," she answered, slowly yet without hesitation, looking away +from him to the cross above the altar, "your death." + +A shudder ran through her slight frame as she spoke, and thrilled +through him as he listened. It seemed to them both as if they stood +beside an open grave, on either side one, and parted thus. He stretched +out his hand to her, and laid it on her dress, as if appealing for +mercy; but she did not turn to him, or look upon him, or open her white +lips to utter another word. Then there came more stir and noise in the +church, footsteps sounded upon the pavement, and an inquisitive face +peeped out of the vestry near the altar where they stood. It was no +longer prudent to remain as they were, subject to curiosity and +scrutiny. Roland rose from his knees, and without glancing again toward +her, he spoke in a low voice of unutterable grief and supplication. + +"Let me see you and speak to you once more," he said. + +"Once more," she repeated. + +"This evening," he continued, "at your hotel." + +"Yes," she answered. "I am travelling under Phebe Marlowe's name. Ask +for Mrs. Marlowe." + +She turned away and walked slowly and feebly down the aisle; and he +watched her, as he had watched the light tread of the young girl eleven +years ago, passing through alternate sunshine and shadow. There was no +sunshine now. Was it possible that so long a time had passed since then? +Could it be true that for ten years she had been his wife, and that the +tie between them was forever dissolved? From this day he was to be dead +to her and to all the world. He was about to pass voluntarily into a +condition of death amid life, as utterly bereft of all that had once +been his as if the grave had closed over him. Roland Sefton was to exist +no more. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +A SECOND FRAUD. + + +Roland Sefton went back to the room in which the corpse of the stranger +was now lying. The women were gone, and he turned down the sheet to look +at the face of the man who was about to bear his name and the disgrace +of his crime into the safe asylum of the grave. It was perfectly calm, +with no trace of the night's suffering upon it; there was even a faint +vestige of a smile about the mouth, as of one who sleeps well, and has +pleasant dreams. He was apparently about Roland's own age, and a +description given by strangers would not be such as would lead to any +suspicion that there could have been a mistake as to identity. Roland +looked long upon it before covering it up again, and then he sat down +beside the bed and opened the pocket-book. + +There were notes in it worth fifty pounds, but not many papers. There +was a memorandum made here and there of the places he had visited, and +the last entry was dated the day before at Engstlenalp. Roland knew +every step of the road, and for a while he seemed to himself to be this +traveller, starting from the little inn, not yet vacated by its peasant +landlord, but soon to be left to icy solitude, and taking the narrow +path along the Engstlensee, toiling up the Joch pass under the mighty +Wendenstoecke and the snowy Titlis, clear of clouds from base to summit +yesterday. The traveller must have had a guide with him, some peasant or +herdsman probably, as far as the Truebsee Alp; for even in summer the +route was difficult to find. The guide had put him on to the path for +Engelberg, and left him to make his way along the precipitous slopes of +the Pfaffenwand. All this would be discovered when an official inquiry +was made into the accident. In the mean time it was necessary to invest +this stranger with his own identity. + +There were two or three well-worn letters in the pocket-book, but they +contained nothing of importance. It seemed true, what the dying man had +said, that there was no link of kinship or friendship binding him +specially to his fellow-men. Roland opened his own pocket-book, and +looked over a letter or two which he had carried about with him, one of +them a childish note from Felix, preferring some simple request. His +passport was there also, and his mother's portrait and those of the +children, over which his eyes brooded with a hungry sorrow in his heart. +He looked at them for the last time. But Felicita's portrait he could +not bring himself to give up. She would be dead to him, and he to her. +In England she would live among her friends as his widow, pitied, and +comforted, and beloved. But what would the coming years bring to him? +All that would remain to him of the past would be a fading photograph +only. + +So long he lingered over this mournful conflict that he was at last +aroused from it by the entrance of the landlord, and the mayor and other +officials, who had come to look at the body of the dead. Roland's +pocket-book lay open on the bed, and he was still gazing at the +portraits of his children. He raised his sunburnt face as they came in, +and rose to meet them. + +"This traveller," he said, "gave to me his pocket-book as I watched +beside him last night. It is here, containing his passport, a few +letters, and fifty pounds in notes, which he told me to keep, but which +I wish to give to the commune." + +"They must be taken charge of," said the mayor; "but we will look over +them first. Did he tell you who he was?" + +"The passport discloses that," answered Roland; "he desired only a +decent funeral." + +"Ah!" said the mayor, taking out the passport, "an English traveller; +name Roland Sefton; and these letters, and these portraits--they will be +enough for identification." + +"He said he had no friends or family in England," pursued Roland, "and +there is no address among his letters. He told me he came from India." + +"Then there need be no delay about the interment," remarked the mayor, +"if he had no family in England, and was just come from India. Bah! we +could not keep him till any friends came from India. It is enough. We +must make an inquiry; but the corpse cannot be kept above ground. The +interment may take place as soon as you please, Monsieur." + +"I suppose you will wish for some trifle as payment?" said the landlord, +addressing Roland. + +"No," he answered, "I only watched by him through the night; and I am +but a passing traveller like himself." + +"You will assist at the funeral?" he asked. + +"If it can be to-morrow," replied Roland; "if not I must go on to +Lucerne. But I shall come back to Engelberg. If it be necessary for me +to stay, and the commune will pay my expenses, I will stay." + +"Not necessary at all," said the mayor; "the accident is too simple, and +he has no friends. Why should the commune lose by him?" + +"There are the fifty pounds," suggested Roland. + +"And there are the expenses!" said the mayor. "No, no. It is not +necessary for you to stay; not at all. If you are coming back again to +Engelberg it will be all right. You say you are coming back?" + +"I am sure to come back to Engelberg," he answered, with gloomy +emphasis. + +For already Roland began to feel that he, himself, was dead, and a new +life, utterly different from the old, was beginning for him. And this +new life, beginning here, would often draw him back to its birth-place. +There would be an attraction for him here, even in the humble grave +where men thought they had buried Roland Sefton. It would be the only +link with his former life, and it would draw him to it irresistibly. + +"And what is your name and employment, my good fellow?" asked the mayor. + +"Jean Merle," he answered promptly. "I am a wood-carver." + +The deed he had only thought of an hour ago was accomplished, and there +could be no undoing it. This passport and these papers would be +forwarded to the embassy at Berne, where doubtless his name was already +known as a fugitive criminal. He could not reclaim them, for with them +he took up again the burden of his sin. He had condemned himself to a +penalty and sacrifice the most complete that man could think of, or put +into execution. Roland Sefton was dead, and his wife and children were +set free from the degradation he had brought upon them. + +He spent the remaining hours of the day in wandering about the forests +in the Alpine valley. The autumn fogs and the dense rain-clouds were +gathering again. But it was nothing to him that the snowy crests of the +surrounding mountains were once more shrouded from view, or that the +torrents and waterfalls which he could not see were thundering and +roaring along their rocky channels with a vast effluence of waters. He +saw and heard no more than the dead man who bore his name. He was +insensible to hunger or fatigue. Except for Felicita's presence in the +village behind him he would have felt himself in another world; in a +beamless and lifeless abyss, where there was no creature like unto +himself; only eternal gloom and solitude. + +It was quite dark before he passed again through the village on his way +to Felicita's hotel. The common light of lamps, and the every-day life +of ordinary men and women busy over their evening meal, astonished him, +as if he had come from another state of existence. He lingered awhile, +looking on as at some extraordinary spectacle. Then he went on to the +hotel standing a little out of and above the village. + +The place, so crowded in the summer, was quiet enough now. A bright +light, however, streamed through the window of the salon, which was +uncurtained. He stopped and looked in at Felicita, who was sitting alone +by the log fire, with her white forehead resting on her small hand, +which partly hid her face. How often had he seen her sitting thus by the +fireside at home! But though he stood without in the dark and cold for +many minutes, she did not stir; neither hand nor foot moved. At last he +grew terrified at this utter immobility, and stepping through the hall +he told the landlady that the English lady had business with him. He +opened the door, and then Felicita looked up. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +PARTING WORDS. + + +Roland advanced a few paces into the gaudy salon, with its mirrors +reflecting his and Felicita's figures over and over again, and stood +still, at a little distance from her, with his rough cap in his hand. He +looked like one of the herdsmen with whom he had been living during the +summer. There was no one else in the large room, but the night was +peering in through half a dozen great uncurtained windows, which might +hold many spectators watching them, as he had watched her a minute ago. +She scarcely moved, but the deadly pallor of her face and the dark +shining of her tearless eyes fixed upon him made him tremble as if he +had been a woman weaker than herself. + +"It is done," he said. + +"Yes," she answered, "I have been to see him." + +There was an accent in her voice, of terror and repugnance, as of one +who had witnessed some horrifying sight and was compelled to bear a +reluctant testimony to it. Roland himself felt a shock of antipathy at +the thought of his wife seeing this unknown corpse bearing his name. He +seemed to see her standing beside the dead, and looking down with those +beloved eyes upon the strange face, which would dwell for evermore in +her memory as well as his. Why had she subjected herself to this +needless pang? + +"You wished it?" he said. "You consented to my plan?" + +"Yes," she answered in the same monotonous tone of reluctant testimony. + +"And it was best so, Felicita," he said tenderly; "we have done the dead +man no wrong. Remember he was alone, and had no friends to grieve over +his strange absence. If it had been otherwise there would have been a +terrible sin in our act. But it has set you free; it saves you and my +mother and the children. As long as I lived you would have been in +peril; but now there is a clear, safe course laid open for you. You will +go home to England, where in a few months it will be forgotten that your +husband was suspected of crime. Only old Clifford, and Marlowe, and two +or three others will remember it. When you have the means, repay those +poor people the money I owe them. And take comfort, Felicita. It would +have done them no good if I had been taken and convicted; that would not +have restored their money. My name then will be clear of all but +suspicion, and you will make it a name for our children to inherit." + +"And you?" she breathed with lips that scarcely moved. + +"I?" he said. "Why, I shall be dead! A man's life is not simply the +breath he draws: it is his country, his honor, his home. You are my +life, Felicita: you and my mother and Felix and Hilda; the old home +where my forefathers dwelt; my townsmen's esteem and good-will; the work +I could do, and hoped to do. Losing those I lost my life. I began to +die when I first went wrong. The way seemed right in my own eyes, but +the end of it was death. I told old Marlowe his money was as safe as in +the Bank of England, when I was keeping it in my own hands; but I +believed it then. That was the first step; this is the last. Henceforth +I am dead." + +"But how will you live?" she asked. + +"Never fear; Jean Merle will earn his living," he answered. "Let us +think of your future, my darling. Nay, let me call you darling once +more. My death provides for you, for your marriage-settlement will come +into force. You will have to live differently, my Felicita; all the +splendor and the luxury I would have surrounded you with must be lost. +But there will be enough, and my mother will manage your household well +for you. Be kind to my poor mother, and comfort her. And do not let my +children grow up with hard thoughts of their father. It will be a +painful task to you." + +"Yes," she said. "Oh, Roland, we ought not to have done this thing!" + +"Yet you chose," he replied. + +"Yes; and I should choose it again, though I hate the falsehood," she +exclaimed vehemently. "I cannot endure shame. But all our future life +will be founded on a lie." + +"Let the blame be mine, not yours," he said; "it was my plan, and there +is no going back from it now. But tell me about home. How are my +children and my mother? They are still at home?" + +"No," she answered; "the police watched it day and night, till it grew +hateful to me. I shall never enter it again. We went away to the +sea-side three months ago, and there our mother and the children are +still. But when I get back we shall remove to London." + +"To London!" he repeated. "Will you never go home to Riversborough?" + +"Never again!" she replied. "I could not live there now; it is a hateful +spot to me. Your mother grieves bitterly over leaving it; but even she +sees that we can never live there again." + +"I shall not even know how to think of you all!" he cried. "You will be +living in some strange house, which I can never picture to myself. And +the old home will be empty." + +"Mr. Clifford is living in it," she said. + +He threw up his hands with a gesture of grief and vexation. Whenever his +thoughts flew to the old home, the only home he had ever known, it would +be only to remember that the man he most dreaded, he who was his most +implacable enemy, was dwelling in it. And when would he cease to think +of his own birth-place and the birth-place of his children, the home +where Felicita had lived? It would be impossible to blot the vivid +memory of it from his brain. + +"I shall never see it again," he said; "but I should have felt less +banished from you if I could have thought of you as still at home. We +are about to part forever, Felicita--as fully as if I lay dead down +yonder, as men will think I do." + +"Yes," she answered, with a mournful stillness. + +"Even if we wished to hold any intercourse with each other," he +continued, gazing wistfully at her, "it would be dangerous to us both. +It is best for us both to be dead to one another." + +"It is best," she assented; "only if you were ever in great straits, if +you could not earn your living, you might contrive to let me know." + +"There is no fear of that," he answered bitterly. "Felicita, you never +loved me as I love you." + +"No," she said, with the same inexpressible sadness, yet calmness, in +her voice and face; "how could I? I was a child when you married me; we +were both children. There is such a difference between us. I suppose I +should never love any one very much--not as you mean. It is not in my +nature. I can live alone, Roland. All of you, even the children, seem +very far away from me. But I grieve for you in my inmost soul. If I +could undo what you have done I would gladly lay down my life. If I +could only undo what we did this morning! The shadow of it is growing +darker and darker upon me. And yet it seemed so wise; it seems so still. +We shall be safe again, all of us, and we have done that dead man no +wrong." + +"None," he said. + +"But when I think of you," she went on, "how you, still living, will +long to know what is befalling us, how the children are growing up, and +how your mother is, and how I live, yet never be able to satisfy this +longing; how you will have to give us up, and never dare to make a sign; +how you will drag on your life from year to year, a poor man among poor, +ignorant, stupid men; how I may die, and you not know it, or you may +die, and I not know it; I wonder how we could have done what we did this +morning." + +"Oh, hush, hush, Felicita!" he exclaimed; "I have said all this to +myself all this day, until I feel that my punishment is harder than I +can bear. Tell me, shall we undo it? Shall I go to the mayor and deliver +myself up as the man whose name I have given to the dead? It can be done +still; it is not too late. You shall decide again." + +"No; I cannot accept disgrace," she answered passionately; "it is an +evil thing to do, but it must be done. We must take the consequences. +You and I are dead to one another for evermore; but your death is more +terrible than mine. I shall grieve over you more than if you were really +dead. Why does not God send death to those that desire it? Good-by now +forever, Roland. I return to England to act this lie, and you must +never, never seek me out as your wife. Promise me that. I would +repudiate you if I lay on my death-bed." + +"I will never seek you out and bring you to shame," he said; "I promise +it faithfully, by my love for you. As I hope ever to obtain pardon, I +promise it." + +"Then leave me," she cried; "I can bear this no longer. Good-by, +Roland." + +They were still some paces apart, he with his shaggy mountain cap in his +hand standing respectfully at a distance, and she, sitting by the low, +open hearth with her white, quiet face turned toward him. All the +village might have witnessed their interview through the uncurtained +windows. Slowly, almost mechanically, Felicita left her seat and +advanced toward him with an outstretched hand. It was cold as ice as he +seized it eagerly in his own; the hand of the dead man could not have +been colder or more lifeless. He held it fast in a hard, unconscious +grip. + +"Good-by, my wife," he said; "God bless and keep you!" + +"Is there any God?" she sobbed. + +But there was a sound at the door, the handle was being turned, and they +fell apart guiltily. A maid entered to tell Madame her chamber was +prepared, and without another word Felicita walked quickly from the +salon, leaving him alone. + +He caught a glimpse of her again the next morning as she came +down-stairs and entered the little carriage which was to take her down +to Stansstad in time to catch the boat to Lucerne. She was starting +early, before it was fairly dawn, and he saw her only by the dim light +of lamps, which burned but feebly in the chilly damp of the autumn +atmosphere. For a little distance he followed the sound of the carriage +wheels, but he arrested his own footsteps. For what good was it to +pursue one whom he must never find again? She was gone from him forever. +He was a young man yet, and she still younger. But for his folly and +crime a long and prosperous life might have stretched before them, each +year knitting their hearts and souls more closely together; and he had +forfeited all. He turned back up the valley broken-hearted. + +Later in the day he stood beside the grave of the man who was bearing +away his name from disgrace. The funeral had been hurried on, and the +stranger was buried in a neglected part of the churchyard, being +friendless and a heretic. It was quickly done, and when the few persons +who had taken part in it were dispersed, Roland Sefton lingered alone +beside the desolate grave. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +WAITING FOR THE NEWS. + + +Felicita hurried homeward night and day without stopping, as if she had +been pursued by a deadly enemy. Madame and the children were not at +Scarborough, but at a quiet little fishing village on the eastern coast; +for Felicita had found Scarborough too gay in the month of August, and +her cousins, the Riversfords, having appeared there, she retreated to +the quietest spot that could be found. To this village she returned, +after being absent little more than a week. + +Madame knew nothing of her journey; but the mere fact that Felicita was +going away alone had aroused in her the hope that it was connected in +some way with Roland. In some vague manner this idea had been +communicated to Felix, and both were expecting to see the long-lost +father and son come back with her. Roland's prolonged and mysterious +absence had been a sore trial to his mother, though her placid and +trustful nature had borne it patiently. Surely, she thought, the trial +was coming to an end. + +Felicita reached their lodgings utterly exhausted and worn out. She was +a delicate woman, in no way inured to fatigue, and though she had been +insensible to the overstrain of the unbroken journey as she was whirled +along railways and passed from station to station, a sense of complete +prostration seized upon her as soon as she found herself at home. Day +after day she lay in bed, in a darkened room, unwilling to lift her +voice above a whisper, waiting in a kind of torpid dread for the +intelligence that she knew must soon come. + +She had been at home several days, and still there was no news. Was it +possible, she asked herself, that this unknown traveller, and his +calamitous fate, should pass on into perfect oblivion and leave matters +as they were before? For a cloud would hang over her and her children +as long as Roland was the object of pursuit. While he was a fugitive +criminal, of interest to the police officers of all countries, there was +no security for their future. The lie to which she had given a guilty +consent was horrible to her, but her morbid dread of shame was more +horrible. She had done evil that good might come; but if the good +failed, the evil would still remain as a dark stain upon her soul, +visible to herself, if to none else. + +"I will get up to-day," she said at last, to Madame's great delight. She +never ventured to exert any authority over her beautiful and clever +daughter-in-law--not even the authority of a mildly expressed wish. She +was willing to be to Felicita anything that Felicita pleased--her +servant and drudge, her fond mother, or her quiet, attentive companion. +Since her return from her mysterious journey she had been very tender to +her, as tenderly and gently demonstrative as Felicita would ever permit +her to be. + +"Have you seen any newspapers lately?" asked Felicita. + +"I never read the papers, my love," answered Madame. + +"I should like to see to-day's _Times_," said Felicita. + +But it was impossible to get it in this village without ordering it +beforehand, and Felicita gave up her wish with the listless indifference +of an invalid. When the late sun of the November day had risen from +behind a heavy bank of clouds she ventured down to the quiet shore. +There were no visitors left beside themselves, so there were no curious +eyes to scan her white, sad face. For a short time Felix and Hilda +played about her; but by and by Madame, thinking she was weary and +worried, allured them away to a point where they were still in sight, +though out of hearing. The low, cold sun shed its languid and watery +rays upon the rocks and creeping tide, and, unnoticed, almost unseen, +Felicita could sit there in stillness, gazing out over the chilly and +mournful sea. There was something so unutterably sad about Felicita's +condition that it awed the simple, cheerful nature of Madame. It was +more than illness and exhaustion. The white, unsmiling face, the +drooping head, the languor of the thin, long hands, the fathomless +sorrow lurking behind her dark eyes--all spoke of a heart-sickness such +as Madame had never seen or dreamed of. The children did not cheer their +mother. When she saw that, Madame felt that there was nothing to be done +but to leave her in the cold solitude she loved. + +But as Felicita sat alone on the shore, looking listlessly at the +fleeting sails which were passing to and fro upon the sea, she saw afar +off the figure of a girl coming swiftly toward her from the village, and +before many moments had passed she recognized Phebe Marlowe's face. A +great throb of mingled relief and dread made her heart beat violently. +Nothing could have brought Phebe away, so far from home, except the news +of Roland's death. + +The rosy color on Phebe's face was gone, and the brightness of her blue +eyes was faded; but there was the same out-looking of a strong, simple, +unselfish soul shining through them. As she drew near to Felicita she +stretched out her arms with the instinctive gesture of one who was come +to comfort and support, and Felicita, with a strange, impulsive feeling +that she brought consolation and help, threw herself into them. + +"I know it all," said Phebe in a low voice. "Oh, what you must have +suffered! He was going to Engelberg to meet you, and you never saw him +alive! Oh, why did not God let you meet each other once again? But God +loved him. I can never think that God had not forgiven him, for he was +grieved because of his sin when I saw him the night he got away. And in +all things else he was so good! Oh, how good he was!" + +Phebe's tears were falling fast, and her words were choked with sobs. +But Felicita's face was hidden against her neck, and she could not see +if she was weeping. + +"Everybody is talking of him in Riversborough," she went on, "and now +they all say how good he always was, and how unlikely it is that he was +guilty. They will forget it soon. Those who remember him will think +kindly of him, and be grieved for him. But oh, I would give worlds for +him to have lived and made amends! If he could only have proved that he +had repented! If he could only have outlived it all, and made everybody +know that he was really a good man, one whom God had delivered out of +sin!" + +"It was impossible!" murmured Felicita. + +"No, not impossible!" she cried earnestly; "it was not an unpardonable +sin. Even if he had gone to prison, as he would, he might have faced the +world when he came out again; and if he'd done all the good he could in +it, it might have been hard to convince them he was good, but it would +never be impossible. If God forgives us, sooner or later our +fellow-creatures will forgive us, if we live a true life. I would have +stood by him in the face of the world, and you would, and Madame and the +children. He would not have been left alone, and it would have ended in +every one else coming round to us. Oh, why should he die when you were +just going to see each other again!" + +Felicita had sunk down again into the chair which had been carried for +her to the shore, and Phebe sat down on the sands at her feet. She +looked up tearfully into Felicita's wan and shrunken face. + +"Did any one ever win back their good name?" asked Felicita with +quivering lips. + +"Among us they do sometimes," she answered. "I knew a working-man who +had been in jail five years, and he became a Christian while he was +there, and he came back home to his own village. He was one of the best +men I ever knew, and when he died there was such a funeral as had never +been seen in the parish church. Why should it not be so? If God is +faithful and just to forgive us our sins, why shouldn't we forgive? If +we are faithful and just, we shall." + +"It could never be," said Felicita; "it cannot be the same as if Roland +had not been guilty. No one can blot out the past; it is eternal." + +"Yes," she replied, covering Felicita's hand with kisses and tears; "but +oh, we love him more now than ever. He is gone into the land of thick +darkness, and I cannot follow him in my thoughts. It is like a gulf +between us and him. Even if he had been farthest away from us in the +world--anywhere--we could imagine what he was doing; but we cannot see +him or call across the gulf to him. It is all unknown. Only God knows!" + +"God!" echoed Felicita; "if there is a God, let Him help me, for I am +the most wretched woman on His earth to-day." + +"God cannot keep from helping us all," answered Phebe. "He cannot rest +while we are wretched. I understand it better than I used to do. I +cannot rest myself while the poorest creature about me is in pain that I +can help. It is impossible that He should not care. That would be an +awful thing to think; that would make His love and pity less than ours. +This I know, that God loves every creature He has made. And oh, He must +have loved him, though he was suffered to fall over that dreadful +precipice, and die before you saw him. It happened before you reached +Engelberg?" + +"Yes," said Felicita, shivering. + +"The papers were sent on to Mr. Clifford," continued Phebe, "and he sent +for me to come with him, and see you before the news got into the +papers. It will be in to-morrow. But I knew more than he did, and I came +on here to speak to you. Shall you tell him you went there to meet +him?" + +"Oh, no, no!" cried Felicita; "it must never be known, dear Phebe." + +"And his mother and the children--they, know nothing?" she said. + +"Not a word, and it is you who must tell them, Phebe," she answered. +"How could I bear to tell them that he is dead? Never let them speak +about it to me; never let his name be mentioned." + +"How can I comfort you?" cried Phebe. + +"I can never be comforted," she replied despairingly; "but it is like +death to hear his name." + +The voices of the children coming nearer reached their ears. They had +seen from their distant playground another figure sitting close beside +Felicita, and their curiosity had led them to approach. Now they +recognized Phebe, and a glad shout rang through the air. She bent down +hurriedly to kiss Felicita's cold hand once again, and then she rose to +meet them, and prevent them from seeing their mother's deep grief. + +"I will go and tell them, poor little things!" she said, "and Madame. +Oh, what can I do to help you all? Mr. Clifford is at your lodgings, +waiting to see you as soon as you can meet him." + +She did not stay for an answer, but ran to meet Felix and Hilda; while +slowly, and with much guilty shrinking from the coming interview, +Felicita went back to the village, where Mr. Clifford was awaiting her. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN. + + +Roland Sefton's pocket-book, containing his passport and the papers and +photographs, had reached Mr. Clifford the day before, with an official +intimation of his death from the consulate at Berne. The identification +was complete, and the inquiry into the fatal accident had resulted in +blame to no one, as the traveller had declined the services of a +trustworthy guide from Meirengen to Engelberg. This was precisely what +Roland would have done, the whole country being as familiar to him as to +any native. No doubt crossed Mr. Clifford's mind that his old friend's +son had met his untimely end while a fugitive from his country, from +dread chiefly of his own implacable sense of justice. + +Roland was dead, but justice was not satisfied. Mr. Clifford knew +perfectly well that the news of his tragic fate would create an +immediate and complete reaction in his favor among his fellow-townsmen. +Hitherto he had been only vaguely accused of crime, which his absence +chiefly had tended to fasten upon him; but as there had been no +opportunity of bringing him to public trial, it would soon be believed +that there was no evidence against him. Many persons thought already +that the junior partner was away either on pleasure or business, because +the senior had taken his place. Only a few, himself and the three or +four obscure people who actually suffered from his defalcations, would +recollect them. By and by Roland Sefton would be remembered as the kind, +benevolent, even Christian man, whose life, so soon cut short, had been +full of promise for his native town. + +Mr. Clifford himself felt a pang of regret and sorrow when he heard the +news. Years ago he had loved the frank, warm-hearted boy, his friend's +only child, with a very true affection. He had an only boy, too, older +than Roland by a few years, and these two were to succeed their fathers +in the long-established firm. Then came the bitter disappointment in his +own son. But since he had suffered his son to die in his sins, reaping +the full harvest of his transgressions, he had felt that any forgiveness +shown to other offenders would be a cruel injustice to him. Yet as +Roland's passport and the children's photographs lay before him on his +office desk--the same desk at which Roland was sitting but a few months +ago, a man in the full vigor of life, with an apparently prosperous and +happy future lying before him--Mr. Clifford for a moment or two yielded +to the vain wish that Roland had thrown himself on his mercy. Yet his +conscience told him that he would have refused to show him mercy, and +his regret was mingled with a tinge of remorse. + +His first care was to prevent the intelligence reaching Felicita by +means of the newspapers, and he sent immediately for Phebe Marlowe to +accompany him to the sea-side, in order to break the news to her. +Phebe's excessive grief astonished him, though she had so much natural +control over herself, in her sympathy for others, as to relieve him of +all anxiety on her account, and to keep Felicita's secret journey from +being suspected. But to Phebe, Roland's death was fraught with more +tragic circumstances than any one else could conceive. He was hastening +to meet his wife, possibly with some scheme for their future, which +might have hope and deliverance in it, when this calamity hurried him +away into the awful, unknown world, on whose threshold we are ever +standing. But for her ardent sympathy for Felicita, Phebe would have +been herself overwhelmed. It was the thought of her, with this terrible +and secret addition to her sorrow, which bore her through the long +journey and helped her to meet Felicita with something like calmness. + +From the bay-window of the lodging-house Mr. Clifford watched Felicita +coming slowly and feebly toward the house. So fragile she looked, so +unutterably sorrow-stricken, that a rush of compassion and pity opened +the floodgates of his heart, and suffused his stern eyes with tears. +Doubtless Phebe had told her all. Yet she was coming alone to meet him, +her husband's enemy and persecutor, as if he was a friend. He would be a +friend such as she had never known before. There would be no vain +weeping, no womanish wailing in her; her grief was too deep for that. +And he would respect it; he would spare her all the pain he could. At +this moment, if Roland could have risen from the dead, he would have +clasped him in his arms, and wept upon his neck, as the father welcomed +his prodigal son. + +Felicita did not speak when she entered the room, but looked at him with +a steadfastness in her dark sad eyes which again dimmed his with tears. +Almost fondly he pressed her hands in his, and led her to a chair, and +placed another near enough for him to speak to her in a low and quiet +voice, altogether unlike the awful tones he used in the bank, which made +the clerks quail before him. His hand trembled as he took the little +photographs out of their envelope, so worn and stained, and laid them +before her. She looked at them with tearless eyes, and let them fall +upon her lap as things of little interest. + +"Phebe has told you?" he said pitifully. + +"Yes," she whispered. + +"You did not know before?" he said. + +She shook her head mutely. A long, intricate path of falsehood stretched +before her, from which she could not turn aside, a maze in which she was +already entangled and lost; but her lips were reluctant to utter the +first words of untruth. + +"These were found on him," he continued, pointing to the children's +portraits. "I am afraid we cannot doubt the facts. The description is +like him, and his papers and passport place the identity beyond a +question. But I have dispatched a trusty messenger to Switzerland to +make further inquiries, and ascertain every particular." + +"Will he see him?" asked Felicita with a start of terror. + +"No, my poor girl," said the old banker; "it happened ten days ago, and +he was buried, so they say, almost immediately. But I wish to have a +memorial stone put over his grave, that if any of us, I or you, or the +children, should wish to visit it at some future time, it should not be +past finding." + +He spoke tenderly and sorrowfully, as if he imagined himself standing +beside the grave of his old friend's son, recalling the past and +grieving over it. His own boy was buried in some unknown common _fosse_ +in Paris. Felicita looked up at him with her strange, steady, searching +gaze. + +"You have forgiven him?" she said. + +"Yes," he answered; "men always forgive the dead." + +"Oh, Roland! Roland!" she cried, wringing her hands for an instant. +Then, resuming her composure, she gazed quietly into his pitiful face +again. + +"It is kind of you to think of his grave," she said; "but I shall never +go there, nor shall the children go, if I can help it." + +"Hush!" he answered imperatively. "You, then, have not forgiven him? Yet +I forgive him, who have lost most." + +"You!" she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of passion. "You have lost +a few thousand pounds; but what have I lost? My faith and trust in +goodness; my husband's love and care. I have lost him, the father of my +children, my home--nay, even myself. I am no longer what I thought I +was. That is what Roland robs me of; and you say it is more for you to +forgive than for me!" + +He had never seen her thus moved and vehement, and he shrank a little +from it, as most men shrink from any unusual exhibition of emotion. +Though she had not wept, he was afraid now of a scene, and hastened to +speak of another subject. + +"Well, well," he said soothingly, "that is all true, no doubt. Poor +Roland! But I am your husband's executor and the children's guardian, +conjointly with yourself. It will be proved immediately, and I shall +take charge of your affairs." + +"I thought," she answered, in a hesitating manner, "that there was +nothing left, that we were ruined and had nothing. Why did Roland take +your bonds if he had money? Why did he defraud other people? There +cannot be any money coming to me and the children, and why should the +will be proved?" + +"My dear girl," he said, "you know nothing about affairs. Your uncle, +Lord Riversford, would never have allowed Roland to marry you without a +settlement, and a good one too. His death was the best thing for you. It +saves you from poverty and dependence, as well as from disgrace. I +hardly know yet how matters stand, but you will have little less than a +thousand a year. You need not trouble yourself about these matters; +leave them to me and Lord Riversford. He called upon me yesterday, as +soon as he heard the sad news, and we arranged everything." + +Felicita did not hear his words distinctly, though her brain caught +their meaning vaguely. She was picturing herself free from poverty, +surrounded with most of her accustomed luxuries, and shielded from every +hardship, while Roland was homeless and penniless, cast upon his own +resources to earn his daily bread and a shelter for every night, with +nothing but a poor handicraft to support him. She had not expected this +contrast in their lot. Poverty had seemed to lie before her also. But +now how often would his image start up before her as she had seen him +last, gaunt and haggard, with rough hair and blistered skin serving him +as a mask, clad in coarse clothing, already worn and ragged, not at rest +in the grave, as every one but herself believed him, but dragging out a +miserable and sordid existence year by year, with no hopes for the +future, and no happy memories of the past! + +"Mr. Clifford," she said, when the sound of his voice humming in her +ears had ceased, "I shall not take one farthing of any money settled +upon me by my husband. I have no right to it. Let it go to pay the sums +he appropriated. I will maintain myself and my children." + +"You cannot do it," he replied; "you do not know what you are talking +about. The money is settled upon your children; all that belongs to you +is the yearly income from it." + +"That, at least, I will never touch," she said earnestly; "it shall be +set aside to repay those just claims. When all those are paid I will +take it, but not before. Yours is the largest, and I will take means to +find out the others. With my mother's two hundred a year and what I earn +myself, we shall keep the children. Lord Riversford has no control over +me. I am a woman, and I will act for myself." + +"You cannot do it," he repeated; "you have no notion of what you are +undertaking to do. Mrs. Sefton, my dear young lady, I am come, with Lord +Riversford's sanction, to ask you to return to your home again, to +Madame's old home--your children's birth-place. I think, and Lord +Riversford thinks, you should come back, and bring up Felix to take his +grandfather's and father's place." + +"His father's place!" interrupted Felicita. "No, my son shall never +enter into business. I would rather see him a common soldier or sailor, +or day-laborer, earning his bread by any honest toil. He shall have no +traffic in money, such as his father had; he shall have no such +temptations. Whatever my son is, he shall never be a banker." + +"Good heavens, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Clifford. Felicita's stony quietude +was gone, and in its place was such a passionate energy as he had never +witnessed before in any woman. + +"It was money that tempted Roland to defraud you and dishonor himself," +she said; "it drove poor Acton to commit suicide, and it hardened your +heart against your friend's son. Felix shall be free from it. He shall +earn his bread and his place in the world in some other way, and till he +can do that I will earn it for him. Every shilling I spend from +henceforth shall be clean, the fruit of my own hands, not Roland's--not +his, whether he be alive or dead." + +Before Mr. Clifford could answer, the door was flung open, and Felix, +breathless with rapid running, rushed into the room and flung himself +into his mother's arms. No words could come at first; but he drew long +and terrible sobs. The boy's upturned face was pale, and his eyes, +tearless as her own had been, were fastened in an agony upon hers. She +could not soothe or comfort him, for she knew his grief was wasted on a +falsehood; but she looked down on her son's face with a feeling of +terror. + +"Oh, my father! my beloved father!" he sobbed at last. "Is he dead, +mother? You never told me anything that wasn't true. He can't be dead, +though Phebe says so. Is it true, mother?" + +Felicita bent her head till it rested on the boy's uplifted face. His +sobs shook her, and the close clasp of his arms was painful; but she +neither spoke nor moved. She heard Phebe coming in, and knew that +Roland's mother was there, and Hilda came to clasp her little arms about +her as Felix was doing. But her heart had gone back to the moment when +Roland had knelt beside her in the quiet little church, and she had said +to him deliberately, "I choose your death." He was dead to her. + +"Is it true, mother?" wailed Felix. "Oh, tell me it isn't true!" + +"It is true," she answered. But the long, tense strain had been too much +for her strength, and she sank fainting on the ground. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER. + + +It was all in vain that Mr. Clifford tried to turn Felicita from her +resolution. Phebe cordially upheld her, and gave her courage to persist +against all arguments. Both of them cared little for poverty--Phebe +because she knew it, Felicita because she did not know it. Felicita had +never known a time when money had to be considered; it had come to her +pretty much in the same way as the air she breathed and the food she +ate, without any care or prevision of her own. Phebe, on the other hand, +knew that she could earn her own living at any time by the work of her +strong young arms, and her wants were so few that they could easily be +supplied. + +It was decided before Phebe went home again, and decided in the face of +Mr. Clifford's opposition, that a small house should be taken in London, +and partly furnished from the old house at Riversborough, where Felicita +would be in closer and easier communication with the publishers. Mr. +Clifford laughed to himself at the idea that she could gain a +maintenance by literature, as all the literary people he had ever met or +heard of bewailed their poverty. But there was Madame's little income of +two hundred a year: that formed a basis, not altogether an insecure or +despicable one. It would pay more than the rent, with the rates and +taxes. + +The yearly income from Felicita's marriage settlement, which no +representations could persuade her to touch, was to go to the gradual +repayment of Roland's debts, the poorest men being paid first, and Mr. +Clifford, who reluctantly consented to the scheme, to receive his the +last. Though Madame had never believed in her son's guilt, her just and +simple soul was satisfied and set at rest by this arrangement. She had +not been able to blame him, but it had been a heavy burden to her to +think of others suffering loss through him. It was then almost with +cheerfulness that she set herself to keep house for her daughter-in-law +and her grand-children under such widely different circumstances. + +Before Christmas a house was found for them in Cheyne Walk. The Chelsea +Embankment was not then thought of, and the streets leading to it, like +those now lying behind it, were mean and crowded. It was a narrow house, +with rooms so small that when the massive furniture from their old house +was set up in it there was no space for moving about freely. Madame had +known only two houses--the old straggling, picturesque country manse in +the Jura, with its walnut-trees shading the windows, and tossing up +their branches now and then to give glimpses of snow-mountains on the +horizon, and her husband's pleasant and luxurious house at +Riversborough, with every comfort that could be devised gathered into +it. There was the river certainly flowing past this new habitation, and +bearing on its full and rapid tide a constantly shifting panorama of +boats, of which the children never tired, and from Felicita's window +there was a fair reach of the river in view, while from the dormer +windows of the attic above, where Felix slept, there was a still wider +prospect. But in the close back room, which Madame allotted to herself +and Hilda, there was only a view of back streets and slums, with sights +and sounds which filled her with dismay and disgust. + +But Madame made the best of the woeful change. The deep, quiet love she +had given to her son she transferred to Felicita, who, she well knew, +had been his idol. She believed that the sorrows of these last few +months had not sprung out of the ground, but had for some reason come +down from God, the God of her fathers, in whom she put her trust. Her +son had been called away by Him; but three were left, her daughter and +her grand-children, and she could do nothing better in life than devote +herself to them. + +But to Felicita her new life was like walking barefoot on a path of +thorns. Until now she had been so sheltered and guarded, kept from the +wind blowing too roughly upon her, that every hour brought a sharp +pin-prick to her. To have no carriage at her command, no maid to wait +upon, her--not even a skilful servant to discharge ordinary household +duties well and quickly--to live in a little room where she felt as if +she could hardly breathe, to hear every sound through the walls, to have +the smell of cooking pervade the house--these and numberless similar +discomforts made her initiation into her new sphere a series of +surprises and disappointments. + +But she must bestir herself if even this small amount of comfort and +well-being were to be kept up. Madame's income would not maintain their +household even on its present humble footing. Felicita's first book had +done well; it had been fairly reviewed by some papers, and flatteringly +reviewed by other critics who had known the late Lord Riversford. On the +whole it had been a good success, and her name was no longer quite +unknown. Her publishers were willing to take another book as soon as it +could be ready: they did more, they condescended to ask for it. But the +L50 they had paid for the first, though it had seemed a sufficient sum +to her when regarded from the stand-point of a woman surrounded by every +luxury, and able to spend the whole of it on some trinket, looked small +enough--too small--as the result of many weeks of labor, by which she +and her children were to be fed. If her work was worth no more than +that, she must write at least six such books in the year, and every +year! Felicita's heart sank at the thought! + +There seemed to be only one resource, since one of her publishers had +offered an advance of L10 only, saying they were doing very well for +her, and running a risk themselves. She must take her manuscript and +offer it as so much merchandise from house to house, selling it to the +best bidder. This was against all her instincts as an author, and if she +had remained a wealthy woman she would not have borne it. She was too +true and original an artist not to feel how sacred a thing earnest and +truthful work like hers was. She loved it, and did it conscientiously. +She would not let it go out of her hands disgraced with blunders. Her +thoughts were like children to her, not to be sent out into the world +ragged and uncouth, exposed to just ridicule and to shame. + +Felicita and Madame set out on their search after a liberal publisher on +a gloomy day in January. For the first time in her life Felicita found +herself in an omnibus, with her feet buried in damp straw, and strange +fellow-passengers crushing against her. In no part of London do the +omnibuses bear comparison with the well-appointed carriages rich people +are accustomed to; and this one, besides other discomforts, was crowded +till there was barely room to move hand or foot. + +"It is very cheap," said Madame cheerfully after she had paid the fare +when they were set down in Trafalgar Square "and not so very +inconvenient." + +A fog filled the air and shrouded all the surrounding buildings in dull +obscurity; while the fountains, rising and falling with an odd and +ghostly movement as of gigantic living creatures, were seen dimly white +in the midst of the gray gloom. The ceaseless stream of hurrying +passers-by lost itself in darkness only a few paces from them. The +chimes of unseen belfries and the roll of carriages visible only for a +few seconds fell upon their ears. Felicita, in the secret excitement of +her mood, felt herself in some impossible world, some phantasmagoria of +a dream, which must presently disperse, and she would find herself at +home again, in her quiet, dainty study at Riversborough, where most of +the manuscript, which she held so closely in her hand, had been written. +But the dream was dispelled when she found herself entering the +publishing-house she had fixed upon as her first scene of venture. It +was a quiet place, with two or three clerks busily engaged in some +private conversation, too interesting to be abruptly terminated by the +entrance of two ladies dressed in mourning, one of whom carried a roll +of manuscript. If Felicita had been wise the manuscript would not have +been there to betray her. It made it exceedingly difficult for her to +obtain admission to the publisher, in his private room beyond; and it +was only when she turned away to go, with a sudden outflashing of +aristocratic haughtiness, that the clerk reluctantly offered to take her +card and a message to his employer. + +In a few moments Felicita was entering the dark den where the fate of +her book was in the balance. Unfortunately for her she presented too +close a resemblance to the well-known type of a distressed author. Her +deep mourning, the thick veil almost concealing her face; a straw +clinging to the hem of her dress and telling too plainly of +omnibus-riding; her somewhat sad and agitated voice; Madame's widow's +cap, and unpretending demeanor--all were against her chances of +attention. The publisher, who had risen from his desk, did not invite +them to be seated. He glanced at Felicita's card, which bore the simple +inscription, "Mrs. Sefton." + +"You know my name?" she asked, faltering a little before his keen-eyed, +shrewd, business-like observation. He shook his head slightly. + +"I am the writer of a book called 'Haughmond Towers,'" she added, +"published by Messrs. Price and Gould. It came out last May." + +"I never heard of it," he answered solemnly. Felicita felt as if he had +struck her. This was an unaccountable thing; he was a publisher, and she +an author; yet he had never heard of her book. It was impossible that +she had understood him, and she spoke again eagerly. + +"It was noticed in all the reviews," she said, "and my publishers +assured me it was quite a success. I could send you the reviews of it." + +"Pray do not trouble yourself," he answered; "I do not doubt it in the +least. But there are hundreds of books published every season, and it is +impossible for one head, even a publisher's, to retain all the titles +and the names of the authors." + +"But I hope mine was not like hundreds of others," remarked Felicita. + +"Every author hopes so," he said; "and besides the mass that is printed, +somehow, at some one's expense, there are hundreds of manuscripts +submitted to us. Pardon me, but may I ask if you write for amusement or +for remuneration." + +"For my living," she replied, with a sorrowful inflection of her voice +which alarmed the publisher. How often had he faced a widowed mother +and her daughter, in mourning so deep as to suggest the recentness of +their loss. There was a slight movement of his hand, unperceived by +either of them, and a brisk rap was heard on the door behind them. + +"In a moment," he said, looking over their heads. "I am afraid," he went +on, "if I asked you to leave your manuscript on approbation, it might be +months before our readers could look at it. We have scores, if not +hundreds, waiting." + +"Could you recommend any publisher to me?" asked Felicita. + +"Why not go again to Price and Gould?" he inquired. + +"I must get more money than they pay me," she answered ingenuously. + +The publisher shrugged his shoulders. If her manuscript had contained +Milton's "Paradise Lost" or Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield," such an +admission would have swamped it. There is no fate swift enough for an +unknown author who asks for more money than that which a publisher's +sense of justice awards to him. + +"I am sorry I can do nothing for you," he said, "but my time is very +precious. Good-morning--No thanks, I beg. It would be a pleasure, I am +sure, if I could do anything." + +Felicita's heart sank very low as she turned into the dismal street and +trod the muddy pavement. A few illusions shrivelled up that wintry +morning under that murky sky. The name she was so fearful of staining; +the name she had fondly imagined as noised from mouth to mouth; the name +for which she had demanded so great a sacrifice, and had sacrificed so +much herself, was not known in those circles where she might most have +expected to find it a passport to attention and esteem. It had travelled +very little indeed beyond the narrow sphere of Riversborough. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF. + + +The winter fogs which made London so gloomy did not leave the country +sky clear and bright. All the land lay under a shroud of mist and vapor; +and even on the uplands round old Marlowe's little farmstead the heavens +were gray and cold, and the wide prospect shut out by a curtain of dim +clouds. + +The rude natural tracks leading over the moor to the farm became almost +impassable. The thatched roof was sodden with damp, and the deep eaves +shed off the water with the sound of a perpetual dropping. Behind the +house the dark, storm-beaten, distorted firs, and the solitary yew-tree +blown all to one side, grew black with the damp. The isolation of the +little dwelling-place was as complete as if a flood had covered the face +of the earth, leaving its two inmates the sole survivors of the human +race. + +Several months had passed since old Marlowe had executed his last piece +of finished work. The blow that Rowland Sefton's dishonesty had +inflicted upon him had paralyzed his heart--that most miserable of all +kinds of paralysis. He could still go about, handle his tools, set his +thin old fingers to work; but as soon as he had put a few marks upon his +block of oak his heart died with him, and he threw down his useless +tools with a sob as bitter as ever broke from an old man's lips. + +There was no relief for him, as for other men, in speech easily, perhaps +hastily uttered, in companionship with his fellows. Any solace of this +kind was too difficult and too deliberate for him to seek it in writing +his lamentations on a slate or spelling them off on his fingers, but his +grief and anger struck inward more deeply. + +Phebe saw his sorrow, and would have cheered him if she could; but she, +too, was sorely stricken, and she was young. She tried to set him an +example of diligent work, and placed her easel beside his carving, +painting as long as the gray and fleeting daylight permitted. Now and +then she attempted to sing some of her old merry songs, knowing that his +watchful eyes would see the movement of her lips; but though her lips +moved, her face was sad and her heart heavy. Sometimes, too, she forgot +all about her, and fell into an absorbed reverie, brooding over the +past, until a sob or half-articulate cry from her father aroused her. +These outcries of his troubled her more than any other change in him. He +had been altogether mute in the former tranquil and placid days, +satisfied to talk with her in silent signs; but there was something in +his mind to express now which quiet and dumb signs could not convey. At +intervals, both by day and night, her affection for him was tortured by +these hoarse and stifled cries of grief mingled with rage. + +There was a certain sense of the duties of citizenship in old Marlowe's +mind which very few women, certainly not a girl as young as Phebe, could +have shared. Many years ago the elder Sefton had perceived that the +companionless man was groping vaguely after many a dim thought, +political and social, which few men of his class would have been +troubled with. He had given to him several books, which old Marlowe had +pondered over. Now he felt that, quite apart from his own personal +ground of resentment, he had done wrong to the laws of his country by +aiding an offender of them to escape and elude the just penalty. He felt +almost a contempt for Roland Sefton that he had not remained to bear the +consequences of his crime. + +The news of Roland's death brought something like satisfaction to his +mind; there was a chill, dejected sense of justice having been done. He +had not prospered in his crime. Though he had eluded man's judgment, yet +vengeance had not suffered him to live. There was no relenting toward +him, as there was in Mr. Clifford's mind. Something like the old heathen +conception of a divine righteousness in this arbitrary punishment of the +evil-doer gave him a transient content. He did not object therefore to +Phebe's hasty visit to Mrs. Sefton at the sea-side, in order to break +the news to her. The inward satisfaction he felt sustained him, and he +even set about a piece of work long since begun, a hawk swooping down +upon his prey. + +The evening on which Phebe reached home again he was more like his +former self. He asked her many questions about the sea, which he had +never seen, and told her what he had been doing while she was away. An +old, well-thumbed translation of Plato's Dialogues was lying on the +carved dresser behind him, in which he had been reading every night. +Instead of the Bible, he said. + +"It was him, Mr. Roland, that gave it to me," he continued; "and listen +to what I read last night: 'Those who have committed crimes, great yet +not unpardonable, they are plunged into Tartarus, where they go who +betray their friends for money, the pains of which they undergo for a +year. But at the end of the year they come forth again to a lake, over +which the souls of the dead are taken to be judged. And then they lift +up their voices, and call upon the souls of them they have wronged to +have pity upon them, and to forgive them, and let them come out of their +prison. And if they prevail they come forth, and cease from their +troubles; but if not they are carried back again into Tartarus, until +they obtain mercy of them whom they have wronged.' But it seems as if +they have to wait until them they have wronged are dead themselves." + +The brown, crooked fingers ceased spelling out the solemn words, and +Phebe lifted up her eyes from them to her father's face. She noticed for +the first time how sunken and sallow it was, and how dimly and wearily +his eyes looked out from under their shaggy eyebrows. She buried her +face in her hands, and broke down into a passion of tears. The vivid +picture her father's quotation brought before her mind filled it with +horror and grief that passed all words. + +The wind was wailing round the house with a ceaseless moan of pain, in +which she could almost distinguish the tones of a human voice lamenting +its lost and wretched fate. The cry rose and fell, and passed on, and +came back again, muttering and calling, but never dying away +altogether. It sounded to her like the cry of a belated wanderer calling +for help. She rose hastily and opened the cottage door, as if she could +hear Roland Sefton's voice through the darkness and the distance. But he +was dead, and had been in his grave for many days already. Was she to +hear that lost, forlorn cry ringing in her ears forever? Oh, if she +could but have known something of him between that night, when he walked +beside her through the dark deserted roads, pouring out his whole +sorrowful soul to her, and the hour when in the darkness again he had +strayed from his path, and been swallowed up of death! Was it true that +he had gone down into that great gulf of secrecy and silence, without a +word of comfort spoken, or a ray of light shed upon its profound +mystery? + +The cold wind blew in through the open door, and she shut it again, +going back to her low chair on the hearth. Through her blinding tears +she saw her father's brown hands stretched out to her, and the withered +fingers speaking eagerly. + +"I shall be there before long," he said; "he will not have to wait very +long for me. And if you bid me I will forgive him at once. I cannot bear +to see your tears. Tell me: must I forgive him? I will do anything, if +you will look up at me again and smile." + +It was a strange smile that gleamed through Phebe's tears, but she had +never heard an appeal like this from her dumb father without responding +to it. + +"Must I forgive him?" he asked. + +"'If ye forgive men their trespasses,'" she answered, "'your heavenly +Father will also forgive yours; but if ye forgive not men their +trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive yours.' It was our +Lord Jesus Christ who said that, not your old Socrates, father." + +"It is a hard saying," he replied. + +"I don't think so," she said; "it was what Jesus Christ was doing every +day he lived." + +From that time old Marlowe did not mention Roland Sefton again, or his +sin against him. + +As the dark stormy days passed on he sometimes put a touch or two to the +outstretched wings of his swooping hawk, but it did not get on fast. +With a pathetic clinging to Phebe he seldom let her stay long out of his +sight, but followed her about like a child, or sat on the hearth +watching her as she went about her house-work. Only by those unconscious +sobs and outcries, inaudible to himself, did he betray the grief that +was gnawing at his heart. Very often did Phebe put aside her work, and +standing before him ask such questions as the following on her swiftly +moving fingers. + +"Don't you believe in God, our Father in heaven, the Father Almighty, +who made us?" + +"Yes," he would reply by a nod. + +"And in Jesus Christ, His Son, our Lord, who lived, and died for us, and +rose again?" + +"Yes, yes," was the silent, emphatic answer. + +"And yet you grieve and fret over the loss of money!" she would say, +with a wistful smile on her young face. + +"You are a child; you know nothing," he replied. + +For without a sigh the old man was going forward consciously to meet +death. Every morning when the dawn awoke him he felt weaker as he rose +from his bed; every day his sight was dimmer and his hand less steady; +every night the steep flight of stairs seemed steeper, and he ascended +them feebly by his hands as well as feet. He could not bring himself to +write upon his slate or to spell out upon his fingers the dread words, +"I am dying;" and Phebe was not old or experienced enough to read the +signs of an approaching death. That her father should be taken away from +her never crossed her thoughts. + +It was the vague, mournful prospect of soon leaving her alone in the +wide world that made his loss loom more largely and persistently before +the dumb old man's mind. Certainly he believed all that Phebe said to +him. God loved her, cared for her, ordered her life; yet he, her father, +could not reconcile himself to the idea of her being left penniless and +friendless in the cold and cruel world. He could have left her more +peacefully in God's hands if she had those six hundred pounds of his +earnings to inherit. + +The sad winter wore slowly away. Now and then the table-land around them +put on its white familiar livery of snow, and old Marlowe's dim eyes +gazed at it through his lattice window, recollecting the winters of long +years ago, when neither snow nor storm came amiss to him. But the slight +sprinkling soon melted away, and the dun-colored fog and cloudy curtain +shut them in again, cutting them off from the rest of the world as if +their little dwelling was the ark stranded on the hill's summit amid a +waste of water. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +PLATO AND PAUL. + + +Phebe's nearest neighbor, except the farm-laborer who did an occasional +day's labor for her father, was Mrs. Nixey, the tenant of a farmhouse, +which lay at the head of a valley running up into the range of hills. +Mrs. Nixey had given as much supervision to Phebe's motherless childhood +as her father had permitted, in his jealous determination to be +everything to his little daughter. Of late years, ever since old Marlowe +in the triumph of making an investment had communicated that important +fact to her on his slate, she had indulged in a day-dream of her own, +which had filled her head for hours while sitting beside her kitchen +fire busily knitting long worsted stockings for her son Simon. + +Simon was thirty years of age, and it was high time she found a wife +for him. Who could be better than Phebe, who had grown up under her own +eyes, a good, strong, industrious girl, with six hundred pounds and +Upfold Farm for her fortune? As she brooded over this idea, a second +thought grew out of it. How convenient it would be if she herself +married the dumb old father, and retired to the little farmstead, +changing places with Phebe, her daughter-in-law. She would still be near +enough to come down to her son's house at harvest-time and pig-killing, +and when the milk was abundant and cheese and butter to make. And the +little house on the hills was built with walls a yard thick, and well +lined with good oak wainscoting; she could keep it warm for herself and +the old man. The scheme had as much interest and charm for her as if she +had been a peeress looking out for an eligible alliance for her son. + +But it had always proved difficult to take the first steps toward so +delicate a negotiation. She was not a ready writer; and even if she had +been, Mrs. Nixey felt that it would be almost impossible to write her +day-dream in bold and plain words upon old Marlowe's slate. If Marlowe +was deaf, Phebe was singularly blind and dull. Simon Nixey had played +with her when she was a child, but it had been always as a big, grown-up +boy, doing man's work; and it was only of late that she had realized +that he was not almost an old man. For the last year or two he had +lingered at the church door to walk home with her and her father, but +she had thought little of it. He was their nearest neighbor, and made +himself useful in giving her father hints about his little farm, besides +sparing his laborer to do them an occasional day's work. It seemed +perfectly natural that he should walk home with them across the moors +from their distant parish church. + +But as soon as the roads were passable Mrs. Nixey made her way up to the +solitary farmstead. The last time she had seen old Marlowe he had been +ailing, yet she was quite unprepared for the rapid change that had +passed over him. He was cowering in the chimney-corner, his face yellow +and shrivelled, and his eyes, once blue as Phebe's own, sunken in their +sockets, and glowering dimly at her, with the strange intensity of gaze +in the deaf and dumb. There was a little oak table before him, with his +copy of Plato's Dialogues and a black leather Bible that had belonged to +his forefathers, lying upon it; but both of them were closed, and he +looked drowsy and listless. + +"Good sakes! Phebe," cried Mrs. Nixey, "whatever ails thy father? He +looks more like dust and ashes than a livin' man. Hast thou sent for no +physic for him?" + +"I didn't know he was ill," answered Phebe. "Father always feels the +winter long and trying. He'll be all right when the spring comes." + +"I'll ask him what's the matter with him," said Mrs. Nixey, drawing his +slate to her, and writing in the boldest letters she could form, as if +his deafness made it needful to write large. + +"What's the matter?" she asked. + +"Nothing, save old age," he answered in his small, neat hand-writing. +There was a gentle smile on his face as he pushed the slate under the +eyes of Mrs. Nixey and Phebe. He had sometimes thought he must tell +Phebe he would not be long with her, but his hands refused to convey +such sad warnings to his young daughter. He had put it off from day to +day, though he was not sorry now to give some slight hint of his fears. + +"Old! he's no older nor me," said Mrs. Nixey. "A pretty thing it'ud be +if folks gave up at sixty or so. There's another ten years' work in +you," she wrote on the slate. + +"Ten years' work." How earnestly he wished it was true! He might still +earn a little fortune for Phebe; for he was known all through the +county, and beyond, and could get a good price for his carving. He +stretched out his hand and took down his unfinished work, looking +longingly at it. + +Phebe's fingers were moving fast, so fast that he could not follow them. +Of late he had been unable to seize the meaning of those swift, glancing +finger-tips. He had reached the stage of a man who can no longer catch +the lower tones of a familiar voice, and has to guess at the words thus +spoken. If he lived long enough to lose his sight he would be cut off +from all communion with the outer world, even with his daughter. + +"Come close to me, and speak more slowly," he said to her. "I am growing +old and dark. Yet I am only sixty, and my father lived to be over +seventy. I was over forty when you were born. It was a sunny day, and I +kept away from the house, in the shed, till I saw Mrs. Nixey there +beckoning to me. And when I came in the house here she laid you in my +arms. God was very good to me that day." + +"He is always good," answered Phebe. + +"So the parson teaches us," he continued; "but it was very hard for me +to lose that money. It struck me a dreadful blow, Phebe. If I'd been +twenty years younger I could have borne it; but when a man's turned +sixty there's no chance. And he robbed me of more than money: he robbed +me of love. I loved him next to you." + +She knew that so well that she did not answer him. Her love for Roland +Sefton lived still; but it was altogether changed from the bright, +girlish admiration and trustful confidence it had once been. His +conduct had altered life itself to her; it was colder and darker, with +deeper and longer shadows in it. And now there was coming the darkest +shadow of all. + +"Read this," he said, opening the "Phaedo," and pointing to some words +with his crooked and trembling finger. She stooped her head till her +soft cheek rested against his with a caressing and soothing touch. + +"I go to die, you to live; but which is best God alone can know," she +read. Her arm stole round his neck, and her cheek was pressed more +closely against his. Mrs. Nixey's hard face softened a little as she +looked at them; but she could not help thinking of the new turn affairs +were taking. If old Marlowe died, it might be more convenient, on the +whole, than for her to marry him. How snugly she could live up here, +with a cow or two, and a little maid from the workhouse to be her +companion and drudge! + +Quite unconscious of Mrs. Nixey's plans, Phebe had drawn the old black +leather Bible toward her, turning over the stained and yellow leaves +with one hand, for she would not withdraw her arm from her father's +neck. She did not know exactly where to find the words she wanted; but +at last she came upon them. The gray shaggy locks of the old man and the +rippling glossy waves of Phebe's brown hair mingled as they bent their +heads again over the same page. + +"For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die +unto the Lord: whether we live therefore or die, we are the Lord's. For +to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be +Lord both of the dead and the living." + +"That is better than your old Socrates," said Phebe, with tears in her +eyes and a faint smile playing about her lips. "Our Lord has gone on +before us, through life and death. There is nothing we can have to bear +that He has not borne." + +"He never had to leave a young girl like you alone in the world," +answered her father. + +For a moment Phebe's fingers were still, and old Marlowe looked up at +her like one who has gained a miserable victory over a messenger of glad +tidings. + +"But He had to leave His mother, who was growing old, when the sword had +pierced through her very soul," answered Phebe. "That was a hard thing +to do." + +The old man nodded, and his withered hands folded over each other on the +open page before him. Mrs. Nixey, who could understand nothing of their +silent speech, was staring at them inquisitively, as if trying to +discover what they said by the expression of their faces. + +"Ask thy father if he's made his will," she said. "I've heard say as +land canno' go to a woman if there's no will; and it'ud niver do for +Upfold to go to a far-away stranger. May be he reckons on all he has +goin' to you quite natural. But there's law agen' it; the agent told me +so years ago. I niver heard of any relations thy father had, but they'll +find what's called an heir-at-law, take my word for it, if he doesn't +leave iver a will." + +But, instead of answering, Phebe rushed past her up the steep, dark +staircase, and Mrs. Nixey heard her sobbing and crying in the little +room above. It was quite natural, thought the hard old woman, with a +momentary feeling of pity for the lonely girl; but it was necessary to +make sure of Upfold Farm, and she drew old Marlowe's slate to her, and +wrote on it, very distinctly, "Has thee made thy will?" + +The dejected, miserable expression came back to his face, as his +thoughts were recalled to the loss he had sustained, and he nodded his +answer to Mrs. Nixey. + +"And left all to Phebe?" she wrote again. + +Again he nodded. It was all right so far, and Mrs. Nixey felt glad she +had made sure of the ground. The little farm was worth L15 a year, and +old Marlowe himself had once told her that his money brought him in L36 +yearly, without a stroke of work on his part. How money could be gained +in this way, with simply leaving it alone, she could not understand. But +here was Phebe Marlowe with L50 a year for her fortune: a chance not to +be lost by her son Simon. She hesitated for a few minutes, listening to +the soft low sobs overhead, but her sense of judicious forestalling of +the future prevailed over her sympathy with the troubled girl. + +"Phebe'll be very lonesome," she wrote, and old Marlowe looked sadly +into her face with his sunken eyes. There was no need to nod assent to +her words. + +"I've been like a mother to her," wrote Mrs. Nixey, and she rubbed both +the sentences off the slate with her pocket-handkerchief, and sat +pondering over the wording of her next communication. It was difficult +and embarrassing, this mode of intercourse on a subject which even she +felt to be delicate. How much easier it would have been if old Marlowe +could hear and speak like other men! He watched her closely as she wrote +word after word and rubbed them out again, unable to satisfy herself. At +last he stretched out his hand and seized the slate, just as she was +again about to rub out the sentence. + +"Our Simon'd marry her to-morrow," was written upon it. + +Old Marlowe sat looking at the words without raising his eyes or making +any sign. He had never seen the man yet worthy of being the husband of +his daughter, and Simon Nixey was not much to his mind. Still, he was a +kind-hearted man, and well-to-do for his station; he kept a servant to +wait on his mother, and he would do no less for his wife. Phebe would +not be left desolate if she could make up her mind to marry him. But +with a deep instinctive jealousy, born of his absolute separation from +his kind, he could not bear the thought of sharing her love with any +one. She must continue to be all his own for the little time he had to +live. + +"If Phebe likes to marry him when I'm gone, I've no objection," he +wrote, and then, with a feeling of irritation and bitterness, he rubbed +out the words with the palm of his hand and turned his back upon Mrs. +Nixey. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +A REJECTED SUITOR. + + +All the next day Phebe remained very near to her father, leaving her +house-work and painting to sit beside him on the low chair he had carved +for her when she was a child. For the first time she noticed how slowly +he caught her meaning when she spoke to him, and how he himself was +forgetting how to express his thoughts on his fingers. The time might +come when he could no longer hold any intercourse with her or she with +him. There was unutterable sadness in this new dread. + +"You used to laugh and sing," he said, "but you never do it now: never +since he robbed me. He robbed me of that too. I'm a poor, helpless, deaf +old man; and God never let me hear my child's voice. He used to tell me +it was sweet and pleasant to hear; and your laugh made every one merry +who heard it. But I could see you laugh, and now I never see it." + +She could not laugh now, and her smile was sadder than tears; so she +bent down her head and laid it against his knee where he could not see +her face. By and by he touched her, and she lifted up her tear-dimmed +eyes to his fingers. + +"Promise me," he said, "not to sell this old place. It has belonged to +the Marlowes from generation to generation. Who can tell but the dead +come back to the place where they've lived so long? If you can, keep it +for my sake." + +"I promise it," she answered. "I will never sell it." + +"Perhaps I shall lose my power to speak to you," he went on, "but don't +you fret as if I did not forgive him as robbed me. He learnt to talk on +his fingers for my sake, and I'll say 'God bless him' for your sake. If +we meet one another in the next world I'll forgive him freely, and if +need be I'll ask pardon for him. Phebe, I do forgive him." + +As he spoke there was a brighter light in his sunken eyes, and a smile +on his face such as she had not seen since the day he had helped Roland +Sefton to escape. She took both of his hands into hers and kissed them +fondly. But by and by, though it was yet clear day, he crept feebly +up-stairs to his dark little loft under the thatched roof, and lay down +on the bed where his father and grandfather had died before him. + +At first he was able to talk a little in short, brief sentences; but +very soon that which he had dreaded came upon him. His fingers grew too +stiff to form the signs, and his eyes too dim to discern even the +slowest movement of her dear hands. There was now no communication +between them but that of touch, and he could not bear to miss the gentle +clasp of Phebe's hand. When she moved away from him he tossed wearily +from side to side, groping restlessly with his thin fingers. In utter +silence and darkness, but hand to hand with her, he at last passed away. + +The next few days was a strange and bewildering time to Phebe. +Neighbors were coming and going, and taking the arrangements for the +funeral into their own hands, with little reference to her. The +clergyman of the parish, who lived three miles off, rode over the hills +to hold a solemn interview with her. Mrs. Nixey would not leave her +alone, and if she could have had her way would have carried her off to +her own house. But this Phebe would not submit to; except the two nights +she had been away when she went to the sea-side to break the news of +Roland's death to Felicita and her mother, she had never been absent for +a night from home. Why should she be afraid of that quiet, still form, +which even in death was dearer to her than any other upon earth? + +But Mrs. Nixey walked beside her, next the coffin, when the small +funeral procession wound its way slowly over the uplands to the country +churchyard, where the deaf and dumb old wood-carver was laid in a grave +beside his wife. It was almost impossible to shake her off on their +return, but Phebe could bear companionship no longer. She must walk +back alone along the familiar fields, where the green corn was springing +among the furrows, and under the brown hedgerows where all the buds were +swelling, to the open moor lying clear and barren in an unbroken plain +before her. How often had she walked along these narrow sheep-tracks +with her father pacing on in front, speechless, but so full of silent +sympathy with her that words were not missed between them. Their little +homestead lay like an island in a sea of heather and fern, with no other +dwelling in sight; but, oh, how empty and desolate it seemed! + +The old house-dog crept up quietly to her, and whined softly; and the +cow, as she went into the shed to milk her, turned and licked her hand +gently, as if these dumb creatures knew her sorrow. There were some +evening tasks to be performed, for the laborer, who had been to the +funeral, was staying in the village with the other men who had helped to +carry her father's coffin, to rest themselves and have some refreshment +in the little inn there. She lingered over each duty with a dreary sense +of the emptiness of the house haunting her, and of the silence of the +hearth where all the long evening must be spent alone. + +It was late in February, and though the fern and heather and gorse were +not yet in bud, there was a purple tinge upon the moor fore-telling the +quickly coming spring. The birds that had been silent all winter were +chirping under the eaves, or fluttered up from the causeway where she +had been scattering corn, at the sound of her footsteps across the +little farm-yard. The sun, near its setting, was shining across the +uplands, and throwing long shadows from every low bush and brake. Phebe +mounted the old horse-block by the garden wicket, and looked around her, +shading her eyes with her hands. The soft west wind, blowing over many +miles of moor and meadows and kissing her cheek, seemed like the touch +of a dear old friend, and the thin gray cloud overhead appeared only as +a slight veil scarcely hiding a beloved face. It would not have startled +her if she had seen her father come to the door, beckoning to her with +his quiet smile, or if she had caught sight of Roland Sefton crossing +the moor, with his swift, strong stride, and his face all aglow with +the delight of his mountain ramble. + +"But they are both dead," she said to herself. "If only Mr. Roland had +been living in Riversborough he would have told me what to do." + +She was too young to connect her father's death in any way with Roland +Sefton's crime. They two were the dearest persons in the world to her; +and both were now gone into the mysterious darkness of the next world, +meeting there perhaps with all earthly discords forgiven and forgotten +more perfectly than they could have been here. She remembered how her +father's dull, joyless face used to brighten when Roland was talking to +him--talking with slow, unaccustomed fingers, which the dumb man would +watch intently, and catch the meaning of the phrase before it was half +finished, flashing back an eager answer by signs and changeful +expression of his features. There would be no need of signs and gestures +where they had gone. Her father, perhaps, was speaking to him now. + +Phebe had passed into a reverie, as full of pleasure as of pain, and +she fancied she heard her father's voice--that voice which she had never +heard. She started, and awoke herself. It was growing dusk, and she was +faint with hunger and fatigue. The wintry sun had sunk some time since +behind the brow of the hill, leaving only a few faint lines of clouds +running across a clear amber light. She stepped down from the +horse-block reluctantly, and with slow steps loitered up the garden-path +to the deserted cottage. + +It might have been better, she thought, if she had let Mrs. Nixey come +home with her; but, oh, how tired she was of her aimless chatter, which +seemed to din the ear and drive away all quiet thought from the heart. +She had been very weary of all the fuss that had made a Babel of the +little homestead since her father's death. But now she was absolutely +alone, the loneliness seemed awful. + +It was quite dark before the fire burned up and threw its flickering +light over her old home. She sat down on the hearth opposite her +father's empty chair, in her own place--the place which had been hers +ever since she could remember. How long would it be hers? She knew that +one volume of her life was ended and closed; the new volume was all +hidden from her. She was not afraid of opening it, for there was a fund +of courage and hope in her nature of which she did not know all the +wealth. There was also the simple trust of a child in the goodness of +God. + +She had finished her tea and was sitting apparently idle, with her hands +lying on her lap, when a sudden knock at the door startled and almost +frightened her. Until this moment she had never thought of the +loneliness of the house as possessing any element of danger; but now she +turned her eyes to the uncurtained window, through which she had been so +plainly visible, and wished that she had taken the precaution of putting +the bar on the door. It was too late, for the latch was already lifted, +and she had scarcely time to say with a tremulous voice, "Come in." + +"It's me--Simon Nixey," said a loud, familiar voice, as the door opened +and the tall ungainly figure of the farmer filled up the doorway. He +had been at her father's funeral, and was still in his Sunday suit, +standing sheepishly within the door and stroking the mourning-band round +his hat, as he gazed at her with a shamefaced expression, altogether +unlike the bluntness of his usual manner. + +"Is there anything the matter, Mr. Nixey?" asked Phebe. "Have you time +to take a seat?" + +"Oh, ay! I'll sit down," he answered, stepping forward readily and +settling himself down in her father's chair, in spite of her hasty +movement to prevent it. "Mother thought as you'd be lonesome," he +continued; "her and me've been talking of nothing else but you all +evening. And mother said your heart'ud be sore and tender to-night, and +more likely to take to comfort. And I'd my best clothes on, and couldn't +go to fodder up, so I said I'd step up here and see if you was as +lonesome as we thought. You looked pretty lonesome through the window. +You wouldn't mind me staying a half hour or so?" + +"Oh, no," said Phebe simply; "you're kindly welcome." + +"That's what I'd like to be always," he went on, "and there's a deal +about me to make me welcome, come to think on it. Our house is a good +one, and the buildings they're all good; and I got the first prize for +my pigs at the last show, and the second prize for my bull the show +before that. Nobody can call me a poor farmer. You recollect painting my +prize-bull for me, don't you, Phebe?" + +"To be sure I do," she answered. + +"Ay! and mother shook like a leaf when I told her you'd gone into his +shed, and him not tied up. 'Never you mind, mother,' I says, 'there's +neither man nor beast'ud hurt little Phebe.' You'd enjoy painting my +prize-pigs, I know; and there'd be plenty o' time. Wouldn't you now?" + +"Very much," she said, "if I have time." + +"That's something to look forward to," he continued. "I'm always +thinking what you'd like to paint, and make a picture of. I should like +to be painted myself, and mother; and there'll be plenty o' time. For +I'm not a man to see you overdone with work, Phebe. I've been thinking +about it for the last five year, ever since you were a pretty young +lass of fifteen. 'She'll be a good girl,' mother said, 'and if old +Marlowe dies before you're wed, Simon, you'd best marry Phebe.' I've put +it off, Phebe, over and over again, when there's been girls only waiting +the asking; and now I'm glad I can bring you comfort. There's a home all +ready for you, with cows and poultry for you to manage and get the good +of, for mother always has the butter money and the egg money, and you'll +have it now. And there's stores of linen, mother says, and everything +that any farmer's wife could desire." + +Phebe laughed, a low, gentle, musical laugh, which had surprise in it, +but no derision. The sight of the gaunt embarrassed man opposite to her, +his face burning red, and his clumsy hands twisting and untwisting as he +uttered his persuasive sentences, drove her sadness away for the moment. +Her pleasant, surprised laugh made him laugh too. + +"Ay! mother was right; she always is," said Nixey, rubbing his great +hands gleefully. "'There'll be scores of lads after her,' says mother, +'for old Marlowe has piles o' money in Sefton's Old Bank, everybody +knows that.' But, Phebe, there aren't a many houses like mine for you to +step right into. I'm glad I came to bring you comfort to-night." + +"But father lost all his money in the Old Bank nine months ago," +answered Phebe. + +"Lost all his money!" repeated Nixey slowly and emphatically. There was +a deep silence in the little house, while he gazed at her with open +mouth and astonished eyes. Phebe had covered her face with her hands, +forgetting him and everything else in the recollection of that bitter +sorrow of hers nine months ago; worse than her sorrow now. Nixey spoke +again after a few minutes, in a husky and melancholy voice. + +"It shan't make no difference, Phebe," he said; "I came to bring you +comfort, and I'll not take it away again. There they all are for you, +linen and pigs, and cows and poultry. I don't mind a straw what +mother'ill say. Only you wipe away those tears and laugh again, my +pretty dear. Look up at Simon and laugh again." + +"It's very good of you," she answered, looking up into his face with +her blue eyes simply and frankly, "and I shall never forget it. But I +could not marry you. I could not marry anybody." + +"But you must," he said imperiously; "a pretty young girl like you can't +live alone here in this lonesome place. Mother says it wouldn't be +decent or safe. You'll want a home, and it had best be mine. Come, now. +You'll never have a better offer if you've lost all your money. But your +land lies nighest to my farm, and it's worth more to me than anybody +else. It wouldn't be a bad bargain for me, Phebe; and I've waited five +years for you besides. If you'll only say yes, I'll go down and face +mother, and have it out with her at once." + +But Phebe could not be brought to say yes, though Nixey used every +argument and persuasion he could think. He went away at last, in +dudgeon, leaving her alone, but not so sad as before. The new volume of +her life had already been opened. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +ANOTHER OFFER. + + +The next day Phebe locked up her house and rode down to Riversborough. +As she descended into the valley and the open plain beyond her +sorrowfulness fell away from her. Her social instincts were strong, and +she delighted in companionship and in the help she could render to any +fellow-creature. If she overtook a boy trudging reluctantly to school +she would dismount from her rough pony and give him a ride; or if she +met with a woman carrying a heavy load, she took the burden from her, +and let her pony saunter slowly along, while she listened to the homely +gossip of the neighborhood. Phebe was a great favorite along these +roads, which she had traversed every week during summer to attend +Riversborough market for the last eight years. Her spirits rose as she +rode along, receiving many a kindly word, and more invitations to spend +a little while in different houses than she could have accepted if she +had been willing to give twelve months to visiting. It was market-day at +Riversborough, and the greetings there were still more numerous, and, if +possible, more kindly. Everybody had a word for Phebe Marlowe; +especially to-day, when her pretty black dress told of the loss she had +suffered. + +She made her way to Whitefriars Road. The Old Bank was not so full as it +had formerly been, for immediately after the panic last May a new bank +had been opened more in the centre of the town, and a good many of the +tradesmen and farmers had transferred their accounts to it. The outer +office was fairly busy, but Phebe had not long to wait before being +summoned to see Mr. Clifford. The muscles of his stern and careworn +features relaxed into something approaching a smile as she entered, and +he caught sight of her sweet and frank young face. + +"Sit down, Phebe," he said. "I did not hear of your loss before +yesterday; and I was just about to send for you to see your father's +will. It is in our strong room. You are not one-and-twenty yet?" + +"Not till next December, sir," she replied. + +"Roland Sefton is the only executor appointed," he continued, his face +contracting for an instant, as if some painful memory flashed across +him; "and, since he is dead, I succeed to the charge as his executor. +You will be my ward, Phebe, till you are of age." + +"Will it be much trouble, sir?" she asked anxiously. + +"None at all," he answered; "I hope it will be a pleasure; for, Phebe, +it will not be fit for you to live alone at Upfold Farm; and I wish you +to come here--to make your home with me till you are of age. It would be +a great pleasure to me, and I would take care you should have every +opportunity for self-improvement. I know you are not a fine young lady, +my dear, but you are sensible, modest, and sweet-tempered, and we should +get on well together. If you were happy with me I should regard you as +my adopted daughter, and provide accordingly for you. Think of it for a +few minutes while I look over these letters. Perhaps I seem a grim and +surly old man to you; but I am not naturally so. You would never +disappoint me." + +He turned away to his desk, and appeared to occupy himself with his +letters, but he did not take in a single line of them. He had set his +heart once more on the hope of winning love and gratitude from some +young wayfarer on life's rough road, whose path he could make smooth and +bright. He had been bitterly disappointed in his own son and his +friend's son. But if this simple, unspoiled, little country maiden would +leave her future life in his keeping, how easy and how happy it should +be! + +"It's very good of you," said Phebe, in a trembling voice; "and I'm not +afraid of you, Mr. Clifford, not in the least; but I could not keep from +fretting in this house. Oh, I loved them so, every one of them; but Mr. +Roland most of all. No one was ever so good to me as he was. If it +hadn't been for him I should have learned nothing, and father himself +would have been a dull, ignorant man. Mr. Roland learnt to talk to +father, and nobody else could talk with him but me. I used to think it +was as much like our Lord Jesus Christ as anything any one could do. Mr. +Roland could not open father's ears, but he learned how to talk to him, +to make him less lonely. That was the kindest thing any one on earth +could do." + +"Do you believe Mr. Roland was innocent?" asked Mr. Clifford. + +"I know he was guilty," answered Phebe sadly. "He told me all about it +himself, and I saw his sorrow. Before that he always seemed to me more +like what I think Jesus Christ was than any one else. He could never +think of himself while there were other people to care for. And I know," +she went on, with simple sagacity, "that it was not Mr. Roland's sin +that fretted father, but the loss of the money. If he had made six +hundred pounds by using it without his consent, and said, 'Here, +Marlowe, are twelve hundred pounds for you instead of six; I did not put +your money up as you wanted, but used it instead;' why, father would +have praised him up to the skies, and could never have been grateful +enough." + +Mr. Clifford's conscience smote him as he listened to Phebe's unworldly +comment on Roland Sefton's conduct. If Roland had met him with the +announcement of a gain of ten thousand pounds by a lucky though +unauthorized speculation, he knew very well his own feeling would have +been utterly different from that with which he had heard of the loss of +ten thousand pounds. The world itself would have cried out against him +if he had prosecuted a man by whose disregard of the laws he had gained +so large a profit. Was it, then, a simple love of justice that had +actuated him? Yet the breach of trust would have been the same. + +"But if you will not come to live with me, my dear," he said, "what do +you propose to do? You cannot live alone in your old home." + +"May I tell you what I should like to do?" she asked. + +"Certainly," he answered. "I am bound to know it." + +"Those two who are dead," she said, "thought so much of my painting. +Mr. Roland was always wishing I could go to a school of art, and father +said when he was gone he should wish it too. But now we have lost our +money, the next best thing will be for me to go to live as servant to +some great artist, where I could see something of painting till I've +saved enough money to go to school. I can let Upfold Farm for fifteen +pounds a year to Simon Nixey, so I shall soon have money enough. I +promised father I would never sell our farm, that has belonged to +Marlowes ever since it was inclosed from the common. And if I go to +London, I shall be near Madame and the children, and Mrs. Roland +Sefton." + +The color had come back to Phebe's face, and her voice was steady and +musical again. There was a clear, frank shining in her blue eyes, +looking so pleasantly into his, that Mr. Clifford sighed regretfully as +he thought of his solitary and friendless life--self-chosen partly, but +growing more dreary as old age, with its infirmities, crept on. + +"No, no; you need not go into service," he said; "there is money enough +of your own to do what you wish with. Mrs. Roland refuses to receive +the income from her marriage settlement till every claim against her +husband is paid off. I shall pay your claim off at the rate of one +hundred a year, or more, if you like. You may have a sum sufficient to +keep you at an art school as long as you need be there." + +"Why, I shall be very rich!" exclaimed Phebe; "and father dreaded I +should be poor." + +"I will run up to London and see what arrangements I can make for you," +he continued. "Perhaps Mrs. Roland Sefton could find a corner for you in +her own house, small as it is, and Madame would make you as welcome as a +daughter. You are more of a daughter to her than Felicita. Only I must +make a bargain, that you and the children come down often to see me here +in the old house. I should have grown very fond of you, Phebe; and then +you would have married some man whom I detested, and disappointed me +bitterly again. It is best as it is, I suppose. But if you will change +your mind now, and stay with me as my adopted daughter, I'll run the +risk." + +"If it was anywhere else!" she answered with a wistful look into his +face, "but not here. If Mrs. Roland Sefton could find room for me I'd +rather live with them than anywhere else in the world. Only don't think +I'm ungrateful because I can't stay here." + +"No, no, Phebe," he replied; "it was for my own sake I asked it. As you +grow older, child, you'll find out that the secret root of nine tenths +of the benevolence you see is selfishness." + +Six weeks later all the arrangements for Phebe leaving her old home and +entering upon an utterly new life were completed. Simon Nixey, after +vainly urging her to accept himself, and to give herself and her little +farm and her restored fortune to him, offered to become her tenant at +L10 a year for the land, leaving the cottage uninhabited; for Phebe +could not bear the idea of any farm laborer and his family dwelling in +it, and destroying or injuring the curious carvings with which her +father had lined its walls. The spot was far out of the way of tramps +and wandering vagabonds, and there was no danger of damage being done +to it by the neighbors. Mrs. Nixey undertook to see that it was kept +from damp and dirt, promising to have a fire lighted there occasionally, +and Simon would see to the thatch being kept in repair, on condition +that Phebe would come herself once a year to receive her rent, and see +how the place was cared for. There was but a forlorn hope in Mrs. +Nixey's heart that Phebe would ever have Simon now she was going to +London; but it might possibly come about in the long run if he met with +no girl to accept him with as much fortune. + +Before leaving Upfold Farm Phebe received the following letter from +Felicita: + + "DEAR PHEBE: I shall be very glad to have you under my + roof. I believe I see in you a freshness and truthfulness of nature + on which I can rely for sympathy. I have always felt a sincere + regard for you, but of late I have learned to love you, and to + think of you as my friend. I love you next to my children. Let me + be a friend to you. Your pursuits will interest me, and you must + let me share them as your friend. + + "But one favor I must ask. Never mention my husband's name to me. + Madame will feel solace in talking of him, but the very sound of his + name is intolerable to me. It is my fault; but spare me. You are the + dearer to me because you love him, and because he prized your + affections so highly; but he must never be mentioned, if possible + not thought of, in my presence. If you think of him I shall feel it, + and be wounded. I say this before you come that you may spare me as + much pain as you can. + + "This is the only thing I dread. Otherwise your coming to us would + be the happiest thing that has befallen me for the last year. + + "Yours faithfully, + + "Felicita." + +If Felicita was glad to have her, Phebe knew that Madame and the +children would be enraptured. Nor had she judged wrongly. Madame +received her as if she had been a favorite child, whose presence was the +very comfort and help she stood most in need of. Though she devoted +herself to Felicita, there was a distance between them, an impenetrable +reserve, that chilled her spirits and threw her love back upon herself. +But to Phebe she could pour out her heart unrestrainedly, dwelling upon +the memory of her lost son, and mourning openly for him. And Phebe never +spoke a word that could lead Roland's mother to think she believed him +to be guilty. With a loving tact she avoided all discussion on that +point; and, though again and again the pang of her own loss made itself +poignantly felt, she knew how to pour consolation into the heart of +Roland's mother. + +But to Felix and Hilda Phebe's companionship was an endless delight. She +came from her lonely homestead on the hills into the full stream of +London life, and it had a ceaseless interest for her. She could not grow +weary of the streets with their crowd of passers-by; and the shop +windows filled with wealth and curiosities fascinated her. All the stir +and tumult were joyous to her, and the faces she met as she walked along +the pavement possessed an unceasing influence over her. The love of +humanity, scarcely called into existence before, developed rapidly in +her. Felix and Hilda shared in her childish pleasure without +understanding the deep springs from which it came. + +It was an education in itself for the children. A drive in an omnibus, +with its frequent stoppages and its constant change of passengers, was +delightful to Phebe, and never lost its charm for her. She and the +children explored London, seeing all its sights, which Phebe, in her +rustic curiosity, wished to see. From west to east, from north to south, +they became acquainted with the great capital as few children, rich or +poor, have a chance of doing. They sought out all its public buildings, +every museum and picture gallery, the birthplaces of its famous men, the +places where they died, and their tombs if they were within London. +Westminster Abbey was as familiar to them as their own home. It seemed +as if Phebe was compensating herself for her lonely girlhood on the +barren and solitary uplands. Yet it was not simply sight-seeing, but the +outcome of an intelligent and genuine curiosity, which was only +satisfied by understanding all she could about the things and places she +saw. + +To the children, as well as to Madame, she often talked of Roland +Sefton. Felix loved nothing more than to listen to her recollections of +his lost father, who had so strangely disappeared out of his life. On a +Sunday evening when, of course, their wanderings were over, she would +sit with them in summer by the attic window, which, overlooked the +river, and in winter by the fireside, recounting again and again all she +knew of him, especially of how good he always was to her. There were a +vividness and vivacity in all she said of him which charmed their +imagination and kept the memory of him alive in their hearts. Phebe gave +dramatic effect to her stories of him. Hilda could scarcely remember +him, though she believed she did; but to Felix he remained the tall, +handsome, kindly father, who was his ideal of all a man should be; while +Phebe, perhaps unconsciously, portrayed him as all that was great and +good. + +For neither Madame nor Phebe could find it in their hearts to tell the +boy, so proud and fond of his father's memory, that any suspicion had +ever been attached to his name. Madame, who had mourned so bitterly over +his premature death in her native land, but so far from his own, had +never believed in his guilt; and Phebe, who knew him to be guilty, had +forgiven him with that forgiveness which possesses an almost sacred +forgetfulness. If she had been urged to look back and down into that +dark abyss in which he had been lost to her, she must have owned +reluctantly that he had once done wrong. But it was hard to remember +anything against the dead. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +AT HOME IN LONDON. + + +Every summer Phebe went down to her own home on the uplands, according +to her promise to the Nixeys. Felix and Hilda always accompanied her, +for a change was necessary for the children, and Felicita seldom cared +to go far from London, and then only to some sea-side resort near at +hand, when Madame always went with her. Every summer Simon Nixey +repeated his offer the first evening of Phebe's residence under her own +roof; for, as Mrs. Nixey said, as long as she was wed to nobody else +there was a chance for him. Though they could see with sharp and envious +eyes the change that was coming over her, transforming her from the +simple, untaught country girl into an educated and self-possessed woman, +marking out her own path in life, yet the sweetness and the frankness +of Phebe's nature remained unchanged. + +"She's growing a notch or two higher every time she comes down," said +Mrs. Nixey regretfully; "she'll be far above thee, lad, next summer." + +"She's only old Dummy's daughter after all," answered Simon; "I'll never +give her up." + +To Phebe they were always old friends, whom she must care for as long as +she lived, however far she might travel from them or rise above them. +The free, homely life on the hills was as dear to her and the children +as their life in London. The little house, with its beautiful and +curious decorations; the small fields and twisted trees surrounding it; +the wide, purple moors, and all the associations Phebe conjured up for +them connected with their father, made the dumb old wood-carver's place +a second home to them. + +The happiest season of the year to Mr. Clifford was that when Phebe and +Roland Sefton's children were in his neighborhood. Felicita remained +firm to her resolution that Felix should have nothing to do with his +father's business, and the boy himself had decided in his very childhood +that he would follow in the footsteps of his ancestor, Felix Merle, the +brave pastor of the Jura. There was no hope of having him to train up +for the Old Bank. But every summer they spent a few days with him, in +the very house where their father had lived, and where Felix could still +associate him with the wainscoted rooms and the terraced garden. When +Felix talked of his father and asked questions about him, Mr. Clifford +always spoke of him in a regretful and affectionate tone. No hint +reached the boy that his father's memory was not revered in his native +town. + +"There is no stone to my father in the church," he said, one Sunday, +after he had been looking again and again at a tablet to his grandfather +on the church walls. + +"No; but I had a granite cross put over his grave in Engelberg," +answered Mr. Clifford; "when you can go to Switzerland you'll have no +trouble in finding it. Perhaps you and I may go there together some day. +I have some thoughts of it." + +"But my mother will not hear a word of any of us ever going to +Switzerland," said Felix. "I've asked her how soon she would think us +old enough to go, and she said never! Of course we don't expect she +would ever bear to go to the place where he was killed; but Phebe would +love to go, and so would I. We've saved enough money, Phebe and I; and +my mother will not let me say one word about it. She says I am never, +never to think of such a thing." + +"She is afraid of losing you as well as him," replied Mr. Clifford; "but +when you are more of a man she will let you go. You are all she has." + +"Except Hilda," said the boy fondly, "and I know she loves me most of +all. I do not wonder she cannot bear to hear about my father. My mother +is not like other women." + +"Your mother is a famous woman," rejoined Mr. Clifford; "you ought to be +proud of her." + +For as years passed on Felicita had attained some portion of her +ambition. In Riversborough it seemed as if she was the first writer of +the age; and though in London she had not won one of those extraordinary +successes which place an author suddenly at the top of the ladder, she +was steadily climbing upward, and was well known for her good and +conscientious work. The books she wrote were clever, though cynical and +captious; yet here and there they contained passages of pathos and +beauty which insured a fair amount of favor. Her work was always welcome +and well paid, so well that she could live comfortably on the income she +made for herself, without falling back on her marriage settlement. +Without an undue strain upon her mental powers she could earn a thousand +a year, which was amply sufficient for her small household. + +Though Roland Sefton had lavished upon his high-born wife all the pomp +and luxury he considered fitting to the position she had left for him, +Felicita's own tastes and habits were simple. Her father, Lord +Riversford, had been but a poor baron with an encumbered estate, and his +only child had been brought up in no extravagant ways. Now that she had +to earn most of the income of the household, for herself she had very +few personal expenses to curtail. Thanks to Madame and Phebe, the house +was kept in exquisite order, saving Felicita the shock of seeing the +rooms she dwelt in dingy and shabby. Excepting the use of a carriage, +there was no luxury that she greatly missed. + +As she became more widely known, Felicita was almost compelled to enter +into society, though she did it reluctantly. Old friends of her +father's, himself a literary man, sought her out; and her cousins from +Riversford insisted upon visiting her and being visited as her +relations. She could not altogether resist their overtures, partly on +account of her children, who, as they grew up, ought not to find +themselves without friends. But she went from home with unwillingness, +and returned to the refuge of her quiet study with alacrity. + +There was only one house where she visited voluntarily. A distant cousin +of hers had married a country clergyman, whose parish was about thirty +miles from London, in the flat, green meadows of Essex. The Pascals had +children the same age as Felix and Hilda; and when they engaged a tutor +for their own boys and girls they proposed to Felicita that her children +should join them. In Mr. Pascal's quiet country parsonage were to be met +some of the clearest and deepest thinkers of the day, who escaped from +the conventionalities of London society to the simple and pleasant +freedom they found there. Mr. Pascal himself was a leading spirit among +them, with an intellect and a heart large and broad enough to find +companionship in every human being who crossed his path. There was no +pleasure in life to Felicita equal to going down for a few days' rest to +this country parsonage. + +That she was still mourning bitterly for the husband, whose name could +never be mentioned to her, all the world believed. It made those who +loved her most feel very tenderly toward her. Though she never put on a +widow's garb she always wore black dresses. The jewels Roland had bought +for her in profusion lay in their cases, and never saw the light. She +could not bring herself to look at them; for she understood better now +the temptation that had assailed and conquered him. She knew that it was +for her chiefly, to gratify an ambition cherished on her account, that +he had fallen into crime. + +"I worship my mother still," said Felix one day to Phebe, "but I feel +more and more awe of her every day. What is it that separates her from +us? It would be different if my father had not died." + +"Yes, it would have been different," answered Phebe, thinking of how +terrible a change it must have made in their young lives if Roland +Sefton had not died. She, too, understood better what his crime had +been, and how the world regarded it; and she thanked God in her secret +soul that Roland was dead, and his wife and children saved from sharing +his punishment. It had all been for the best, sad as it was at the time. +Madame also was comforted, though she had not forgotten her son. It was +the will of God: it was God who had called him, as He would call her +some day. There was no bitterness in her grief, and she did not perplex +her soul with brooding over the impenetrable mystery of death. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +DEAD TO THE WORLD. + + +In an hospital at Lucerne a peasant had been lying ill for many weeks of +a brain fever, which left him so absolutely helpless that it was +impossible to turn him out into the streets on his recovery from the +fever, as he had no home or friends to go to. When his mind seemed clear +enough to give some account of himself, he was incoherent and bewildered +in the few statements he made. He did not answer to his own name, Jean +Merle; and he appeared incapable of understanding even a simple +question. That his brain had been, perhaps, permanently affected by the +fever was highly probable. + +When at length the authorities of the hospital were obliged to discharge +him, a purse was made up for him, containing enough money to keep him +in his own station for the next three months. + +By this time Jean Merle was no longer confused and unintelligible when +he opened his lips, but he very rarely uttered a word beyond what was +absolutely necessary. He appeared to the physicians attending him to be +bent on recollecting something that had occurred in the past before his +brain gave way. His face was always preoccupied and moody, and scarcely +any sound would catch his ear and make him lift up his head. There must +be mania somewhere, but it could not be discovered. + +"Have you any plans for the future, Merle?" he was asked the day he was +discharged as cured. + +"Yes, Monsieur," he replied; "I am a wood-carver by trade." + +"And where are you going to now?" was the next question. + +"I must go to Engelberg," answered Merle, with a shudder. + +"Ah! to Monsieur Nicodemus; then," said the doctor, "you must be a good +hand at your work to please him, my good fellow." + +"I am a good hand," replied Merle. + +The valley of Engelberg lies high, and is little more than a cleft in +the huge mass of mountains; a narrow gap where storms gather, and bring +themselves into a focus. In the summer thunder-clouds draw together, and +fill up the whole valley, while rain falls in torrents, and the streams +war and rage along their stony channels. But when Jean Merle returned to +it in March, after four months' absence, the valley was covered with +snow stretching up to the summits of the mountains around it, save only +where the rocks were too precipitous for it to lodge. + +He had come back to Engelberg because there was the grave of the +friendless man who bore his former name. It had a fascination for him, +this grave, where he was supposed to be at rest. The handsome granite +cross, bearing only the name of Roland Sefton and the date of his death, +attracted him, and held him by an irresistible spell. At first, in the +strange weakness of his mind, he could hardly believe but that he was +dead, and this inexplicable second life as Jean Merle was an illusion. +It would not have amazed him if he had been invisible and inaudible to +those about him. That which filled him with astonishment and terror was +the fact that the people took him to be what he said he was, a Swiss +peasant, and a wood-carver. + +He had no difficulty in getting work as soon as he had done a piece as a +specimen of his skill. Monsieur Nicodemus recognized a delicate and +cultivated hand, and a faithful delineator of nature. As he acquired +more skill with steady practice he surpassed the master's most dexterous +helper, and bid fair to rival Monsieur Nicodemus himself. But Jean Merle +had no ambition; there was no desire to make himself known, or put his +productions forward. He was content with receiving liberal wages, such +as the master, with the generosity of a true artist, paid to him. But +for the unflagging care he expended upon his work, his fellow-craftsmen +would have thought him indifferent to it. + +For nine months in the year Jean Merle remained in Engelberg, giving +himself no holiday, no leisure, no breathing time. He lived on the +poorest fare, and in the meanest lodging. His clothing was often little +better than rags. His wages brought him no relaxation from toil, or +delivered him from self-chosen wretchedness. Silent and morose, he lived +apart from all his fellows, who regarded him as a half-witted miser. + +When the summer season brought flights of foreign tourists, Merle +disappeared, and was seen no more till autumn. Nobody knew whither he +went, but it was believed he acted as a guide to some of the highest and +most perilous of the Alps. When he came back to his work at the end of +the season, his blackened and swarthy face, from which the skin had +peeled, and his hands wounded and torn as if from scaling jagged cliffs, +bore testimony to these conjectures. + +He never entered the church when mass was performed, or any congregation +assembled; but at rare intervals he might be seen kneeling on the steps +before the high altar, his shaggy head bent down, and his frame shaken +with repressed sobs which no one could hear. The cure had tried to win +his confidence, but had failed. Jean Merle was a heretic. + +When he was spoken to he would speak, but he never addressed himself to +any one. He was not a native-born Swiss, and he did not seek +naturalization, or claim any right in the canton. He did not seek +permission to marry or to build a house, but as he was skilful and +industrious and thrifty, a man in the prime of life, the commune left +him alone. + +He seemed to have taken it as a self-imposed task that he should have +the charge of the granite cross, erected over the man whose death he had +witnessed. He was recognized in Engelberg as the man who had spent the +last hours with the buried Englishman, but no suspicion attached to him. +So careful was he of the monument that it was generally rumored he +received a sum of money yearly for keeping it in order. No doubt the +friends of the rich Englishman, who had erected so handsome a stone to +his memory, made it worth the man's while to attend to it. Besides this +grave, which he could not keep himself from haunting, Engelberg +attracted him by its double association with Felicita. Here he had seen +her for the first and for the last time. There was no other spot in the +world, except the home he had lost forever, so full of memories of her. +He could live over again every instant of each interview with her, with +all the happy interval that lay between them. The rest of his life was +steeped in shadow; the earlier years before he knew Felicita were pale +and dim; the time since he lost her was unreal and empty, like a +confused dream. + +After a while a dull despondency succeeded to the acute misery of his +first winter and summer. His second fraud had been terribly successful; +in a certain measure he was duped by it himself. All the world believed +him to be dead, and he lived as a shadow among shadows. The wild and +solitary ice-peaks he sometimes scaled seemed to him the unsubstantial +phantasmagoria of a troubled sleep. He wondered with a dull amazement if +the crevasses which yawned before him would swallow him up, or the +shuddering violence of an avalanche bury him beneath it. His life had +been as a tale that is told, even to its last word, death. + + + + +PART II. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +AFTER MANY YEARS. + + +The busy, monotonous years ran through their course tranquilly, marked +only by a change of residence from the narrow little house suited to +Felicita's slender means to a larger, more commodious, and more +fashionable dwelling-place in a West End square. Both Felicita and Phebe +had won their share of public favor and a fair measure of fame; and the +new home was chosen partly on account of an artist's studio with a +separate entrance, through which Phebe could go in and out, and admit +her visitors and sitters, in independence of the rest of the household. + +Never once had Felix wavered in his desire to take orders and become a +clergyman, from the time his boyish imagination had been fired by the +stories of his great-grandfather's perils and labors in the Jura. +Felicita had looked coldly on his resolution, having a quiet contempt +for English clergymen, in spite of her friendship for Mr. Pascal, if +friendship it could be called. For each year as it passed over Felicita +left her in a separation from her fellow-creatures, always growing more +chilly and dreary. It seemed to herself as if her lips were even losing +the use of language, and that only with her pen could she find vent in +expression. And these written thoughts of hers, printed and published +for any eye to read, how unutterably empty of all but bitterness she +found them. She almost marvelled at the popularity of her own books. How +could it be that the cynical, scornful pictures she drew of human nature +and human fellowship could be read so eagerly? She felt ashamed of her +children seeing them, lest they should learn to distrust all men's truth +and honor, and she would not suffer a word to be said about them in her +own family. + +But Madame Sefton, in her failing old age, was always ready to +sympathize with Felix, and to help to keep him steady to her own simple +faith; and Phebe was on the same side. These two women, with their +quiet, unquestioning trust in God, and sweet charity toward their +fellow-men, did more for Felix than all the opposing influences of +college life could undo; and when his grandmother's peaceful and happy +death set the last seal on her truthful life, Felix devoted himself with +renewed earnestness to the career he had chosen. To enter the lists in +the battle against darkness, and ignorance, and sin, wherever these foes +were to be met in close quarters, was his ambition; and the enthusiasm +with which he followed it made Felicita smile, yet sigh with unutterable +bitterness as she looked into the midnight gloom of her own soul. + +It became quite plain to Felicita as the years passed by that her son +was no genius. At present there was a freshness and singleness of +purpose about him, which, with the charm of his handsome young face and +the genial simplicity of his manners, made him everywhere a favorite, +and carried him into circles where a graver man and a deeper thinker +could not find entrance; but let twenty years pass by, and Felix, she +said to herself, would be nothing but a commonplace country clergyman, +looking after his glebe lands and riding lazily about his parish, +talking with old women and consulting farmers about his crops and +cattle. She felt disappointed in him; and this disappointment removed +him far away from her. The enchanted circle of her own isolation was +complete. + +The subtle influence of Felicita's dissatisfaction was vaguely felt by +Felix. He had done well at Oxford, and had satisfied his friend and +tutor, Mr. Pascal; but he knew that his mother wished him to make a +great name there, and he had failed to do it. Every day, when he spent a +few minutes in Felicita's library, lined with books which were her only +companions, their conversation grew more and more vapid, unless his +mother gave utterance to some of her sarcastic sayings, which he only +half understood and altogether disliked. + +But in Phebe's studio all was different; he was at home there. Though it +was separate from the house, it had from the first been the favorite +haunt of all the other members of the family. Madame had been wont to +bring her knitting and sit beside Phebe's easel, talking of old times, +and of the dear son she had lost so sorrowfully. Felix had read his +school-boy stories aloud to her whilst she was painting; and Hilda +flitted in and out restlessly, carrying every bit of news she picked up +from her girl friends to Phebe. Even Felicita was used to steal in +silently in the dusk, when no one else was there, and talk in her low +sad voice as she talked to no one else. + +As soon as Felix was old enough, within a few months of Madame's death, +he took orders, and accepted a curacy in a poor and densely populated +London district. It was not much more than two miles from home, but it +was considered advisable that he should take lodgings near his vicar's +church, and dwell in the midst of the people with whom he had to do. The +separation was not so complete as if he had gone into a country parish, +but it brought another blank into the home, which had not yet ceased to +miss the tranquil and quiet presence of the old grandmother. + +"I shall not have to fight with wolves like Felix Merle, my +great-grandfather," said Felix, the evening before he left home, as he +and Phebe were sitting over her studio fire. "I think sometimes I ought +to go out as a missionary to some wild country. Yet there are dangers to +meet here in London, and risks to run; ay! and battles to fight. I shall +have a good fist for drunken men beating helpless women in my parish. I +couldn't stand by and see a woman ill-used without striking a blow, +could I, Phebe?" + +"I hope you'll strike as few blows as you can," she answered, smiling. + +"How could I help standing up for a woman when I think of my mother, and +you, and little Hilda, and her who is gone?" asked Felix. + +"Is there nobody else?" inquired Phebe, with a mischievous tone in her +pleasant voice. + +"When I think of the good women I have known," he answered evasively, +"the sweet true, noble women, I feel my blood boil at the thought of any +man ill-using any woman. Phebe, I can just remember my father speaking +of it with the utmost contempt and anger, with a fire in his eyes and a +sternness in his voice which made me tremble with fear. He was in a +righteous passion; it was the other side of his worship of my mother." + +"He was always kind and tender toward all women," answered Phebe. "All +the Seftons have been like that; they could never be harsh to any woman. +But your father almost worshipped the ground your mother trod upon; +nothing on earth was good enough for her. Look here, my dear boy, I've +been trying to paint a picture for you." + +She lifted up a stretcher which had been turned with the canvas to the +wall, and placed it on her easel in the full light of a shaded lamp. For +a moment she stood between him and it, gazing at it with tears in her +blue eyes. Then she fell back to his side to look at it with him, +clasping his hand in hers, and holding it in a warm, fond grasp. + +It was a portrait of Roland Sefton, painted from her faithful memory, +which had been aided by a photograph taken when he was the same age +Felix was now. Phebe could only see it dimly through her tears, and for +a moment or two both of them were silent. + +"My father?" said Felix, his face flushing and his voice faltering; "is +it like him, Phebe? Yes, yes! I recollect him now; only he looked +happier or merrier than he does there. There is something sad about his +face that I do not remember. What a king he was among men! I'm not +worthy to be the son of such a man and such a woman." + +"No, no; don't say that," she answered eagerly; "you're not as handsome, +or as strong, or as clever as he was; but you may be as good a man--yes, +a better man." + +She spoke with a deep, low sigh that was almost a sob, as the memory of +how she had seen him last--crushed under a weight of sin and flying from +the penalty of crime--flashed across her brain. She knew now why there +had lurked a subtle sadness in the face she had been painting, which she +had not been able to banish. + +"I think," she said, as if speaking to herself, "that the sense of sin +links us to God almost as closely as love does. I never understood Jesus +Christ until I knew something of the wickedness of the world, and the +frailty of our nature at its best. It is when a good man has to cry, +'Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy +sight,' that we feel something of the awful sinfulness of sin." + +"And have you this sense of sin, Phebe?" asked Felix in a low voice. "I +have thought sometimes that you, and my mother, and men like my father +and Mr. Pascal, felt but little of the inward strength of sin. Your +lives stand out so clear and true. If there is a stain upon them it is +so slight, so plainly a defect of the physical nature, that it often +seems to me you do not know what evil is." + +"We all know it," she answered, "and that shadow of sorrow you see in +your father's face must bear witness for him to you that he has passed +through the same conflict you may be fighting. The sins of good men are +greater than the sins of bad men. One lie from a truthful man is more +hurtful than all the lies of a liar. The sins of a man after God's own +heart have done more harm than all the crimes of all the Pagan +emperors." + +"It is true," he said thoughtfully. + +"If I told you a falsehood, what would you think of me?" + +"I believe it would almost break my heart if you or my mother told me a +falsehood," he answered. + +"I could not paint this portrait while your grandmother was living," +said Phebe, after a short silence; "I tried it once or twice, but I +could never succeed. See; here is the photograph your father gave me +when I was quite a little girl, because I cried so bitterly at his going +away for a few months on his wedding trip. There were only two taken, +and your mother has the other. They were both very young; he was only +your age, and your mother was not twenty. But Lord Riversford was dead, +and she was not happy with her cousins; and your grandfather, who was +living then, was eager for the match. Everybody said it was a great +match for your father." + +"They were very happy; they were not too young to be married," answered +Felix, with a deep flush on his handsome face. "Why should not people +marry young, if they love one another?" + +"I would ask Canon Pascal that question if I were you," she said, +smiling significantly. + +"I have a good mind to ask him to-night," he replied, stooping down to +kiss Phebe's cheek; "he is at Westminster, and Alice is there too. Bid +me good speed, Phebe." + +"God bless you, my Felix," she whispered. + +He turned abruptly away, though he lingered for a minute or two longer, +gazing at his father's portrait. How like him, and yet how unlike him, +he was in Phebe's eyes! Then, with a gentle pressure of her hand, he +went away in silence; while she took down the painting, and set it again +with its face to the wall, lest Felicita coming in should catch a sight +of it. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +CANON PASCAL. + + +The massive pile of the old Abbey stood darkly against the sky, with not +a glimmer of light shining through its many windows; whilst behind it +the Houses of Parliament, now in full session, glittered from roof to +basement with innumerable lamps. All about them there was the rush and +rattle of busy life, but the Abbey seemed inclosed in a magic circle of +solitude and stillness. Overhead a countless host of little silvery +clouds covered the sky, with fine threads and interspaces of dark blue +lying between them. The moon, pale and bright, seemed to be drifting +slowly among them, sometimes behind them, and faintly veiled by their +light vapor; but more often the little clouds made way for her, and +clustered round, in a circle of vaguely outlined cherub-heads, golden +brown in the halo she shed about her. These child-like angel-heads, +floating over the greater part of the sky, seemed pressing forward, one +behind the other, and hastening into the narrow ring of light, with a +gentle eagerness; and fading softly away as the moon passed by. + +Felix stood still for a minute or two looking up from the dark and +silent front of the Abbey to the silent and silvery clouds above it. +Almost every stone of the venerable old walls was familiar and dear to +him. For Phebe, when she came from the broad, grand solitude of her +native moors, had fixed at once upon the Abbey as the one spot in London +where she could find something of the repose she had been accustomed to +meet with in the sight of the far-stretching horizon, and the unbroken +vault of heaven overarching it. Felicita, too, had attended the +cathedral service every Sunday morning, since she had been wealthy +enough to set up a carriage, which was the first luxury she had allowed +herself. The music, the chants, the dim light of the colored windows, +the long aisle of lofty arches, and the many persistent and dominant +associations taking possession of her memory and imagination, made the +Abbey almost as dear to Felicita as it was through its mysterious and +sacred repose to Phebe. + +Felix had paced along the streets with rapid and headlong haste, but now +he hesitated before turning into Dean's Yard. When he did so, he +sauntered round the inclosure two or three times, wondering in what +words he could best move the Canon, and framing half a dozen speeches in +his mind, which seemed ridiculous to himself when he whispered them half +aloud. At last, with a sudden determination to trust to the inspiration +of the moment, he turned his steps hurriedly into the dark, low arches +of the cloisters. + +But he had not many steps to take. The tall, somewhat stooping figure of +Canon Pascal, so familiar to him, was leaving through one of the +archways, with head upturned to the little field of sky above the +quadrangle, where the moon was to be seen with her attendant clouds. +Felix could read every line in his strongly marked features, and the +deep furrows which lay between his thick brows. The tinge of gray in his +dark hair was visible in the moonlight, or rather the pale gleam caused +all his hair to seem silvery. His eyes were glistening with delight, and +as he heard steps pausing at his side, he turned, and at the sight of +Felix his harsh face melted into almost a womanly smile of greeting. + +"Welcome, my son," he said, in a pleasant and deep voice; "you are just +in time to share this glorious sight with me. Pity 'tis it vanishes so +soon!" + +He clasped Felix's hand with a warm, hearty pressure, such as few hands +know how to give; though it is one of the most tender and most refined +expressions of friendship. Felix grasped his with an unconscious grip +which made Canon Pascal wince, though he said nothing. For a few minutes +the two men stood gazing upward in reverent silence, each brain busy +with its own thoughts. + +"You were coming to see me?" said Canon Pascal at last. + +"Yes," answered Felix, in a voice faltering with eager emotion. + +"On some special errand?" pursued Canon Pascal. "Don't let us lose time +in beating about the bush, then. You cannot say anything that will not +be interesting to me, Felix; for I always find a lad like you, and at +your age, has something in his mind worth listening to. What is it, my +son?" + +"I don't want to beat about the bush," stammered Felix, "but oh! if you +only knew how I love Alice! More than words can tell. You've known me +all my life, and Alice has known me. Will you let her be my wife?" + +The smile was gone from Canon Pascal's face. A moment ago, and he, +gazing up at the moon, had been recalling, with a boyish freshness of +heart, the days of his own happy though protracted courtship of the dear +wife, who might be gazing at the same scene from her window in his +country rectory. His face grew almost harsh with its grave +thoughtfulness as his eyes fastened upon the agitated features of the +young man beside him. A fine-looking young fellow, he said to himself; +with a frank, open nature, and a constitution and disposition unspoiled +by the world. He needed nobody to tell him what his old pupil was, for +he knew him as well as he knew his own boys, but he had never thought +of him as any other than a boy. Alice, too, was a child still. This +sudden demand struck him into a mood of silent and serious thought; and +he paced to and fro for a while along the corridor, with Felix equally +silent and serious at his side. + +"You've no idea how much I love her!" Felix at last ventured to say. + +"Hush, my boy!" he answered, with a sharp, imperative tone in his voice. +"I loved Alice's mother before you were born; and I love her more every +day of my life. You children don't know what love means." + +Felix answered by a gesture of protest. Not know what love meant, when +neither day nor night was the thought of Alice absent from his inmost +heart! He had been almost afraid of the vehemence of his own passion, +lest it should prove a hindrance to him in God's service. Canon Pascal +drew his arm affectionately through his and turned back to pace the +cloister once more. + +"I'm trying to think," he said, in a gentler voice, "that Alice is out +of the nursery, and you out of the schoolroom. It is difficult, Felix." + + +"You were present at my ordination last week," exclaimed Felix, in an +aggrieved tone; "the Church, and the Bishop, and you did not think me +too young to take charge of souls. Surely you cannot urge that I am not +old enough to take care of one whom I love better than my own life!" + +Canon Pascal pressed Felix's arm closer to his side. + +"Oh, my boy!" he said, "you will discover that it is easier to commit +unknown souls to anybody's charge, than to give away one's child, body, +soul, and spirit. It is a solemn thing we are talking of; more solemn, +in some respects, than my girl's death. I would rather follow Alice to +the grave than see her enter into a marriage not made for her in +heaven." + +"So would I," answered Felix tremulously. + +"And to make sure that any marriage is made in heaven!" mused the Canon, +speaking as if to himself, with his head sunk in thought. "There's the +grand difficulty! For oh! Felix, my son, it is not love only that is +needed, but wisdom; yes! the highest wisdom, that which cometh down +from above, and is first pure, and then peaceable. For how could Christ +Himself be the husband of the Church, if He was not both the wisdom of +God and the love of God? How could God be the heavenly Father of us all, +if He was not infinite in wisdom? Know you not what Bacon saith; 'To +love and to be wise is not granted unto man?'" + +"I dare not say I am wise," answered Felix, "but surely such love as I +bear to Alice will bring wisdom." + +"And does Alice love you?" asked Canon Pascal. + +"I did not think it right to ask her?" he replied. + +"Then there's some hope still," said the Canon, more joyously; "the +child is scarcely twenty yet. Do not you be in a hurry, my boy. You do +not know what woman is yet; how delicately and tenderly organized; how +full of seeming contradictions and uncertainties, often with a blessed +meaning in them, ah, a heavenly meaning, but hard to be understood and +apprehended by the rougher portion of humanity. Study them a little +longer, Felix; take another year or two before you fix on your life +mistress." + +"You forget how many years I have lived under the same roof as Alice," +replied Felix eagerly, "and how many women I have lived with; my mother, +my grandmother, Phebe, and Hilda. Surely I know more about them than +most men." + +"All good women," he answered, "happy lad! blessed lad, I should rather +say. They have been better to thee than angels. Phebe has been more than +a guardian angel to thee, though thou knowest not all thou owest to her +yet. But a wife, Felix, is different, God knows, from mother, or sister, +or friend. God chooses our kinsfolk for us; but man chooses his own +wife; having free will in that choice on which hangs his own life, and +the lives of others. Yet the wisest of men said, 'Whoso findeth a wife +findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord.' Ay, a good wife +is the token of such loving favor as we know not yet in this world." + +The Canon's voice had fallen into a low and gentle tone, little louder +than a whisper. The dim, obscure light in the cloisters scarcely gave +Felix a chance of seeing the expression of his face; but the young man's +heart beat high with hope. + +"You don't say No to me?" he faltered. + +"How can I say No or Yes?" asked Canon Pascal, almost with an accent of +surprise. "I will talk it over with your mother and Alice's mother; but +the Yes or No must come from Alice herself. What am I that I should +stand between you two and God, if it is His will to bestow His sweet +boon upon you both? Only do not disturb the child, Felix. Leave her +fancy-free a little longer." + +"And you are willing to take me as your son? You do not count me +unworthy?" he exclaimed. + +"I've boys of my own," he answered, "whose up-growing I've watched from +the day of their birth, and who are precious to me as my own soul; and +you, Felix, come next to them. You've been like another son to me. But I +must see your mother. Who knows what thoughts she may not have for her +only son?" + +"None, none that can come between Alice and me," cried Felix +rapturously. "Father! yes, I shall know again what it is to have a +father." + +A sob rose to his throat as he uttered the word. He seemed to see his +own father again, as he remembered him in his childhood, and as Phebe's +portrait had recalled him vividly to his mind. If he had only lived till +now to witness, and to share in this new happiness! It seemed as if his +early death gathered an additional sadness about it, since he had left +the world while so much joy and gladness had been enfolded in the +future. Even in this first moment of ineffable happiness he promised +himself that he would go and visit his father's foreign grave. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +FELICITA'S REFUSAL. + + +Now there was no longer a doubt weighing upon his spirit, Felix longed +to tell his mother all. The slight cloud that had arisen of late years +between them was so gossamer-like yet, that the faintest breath could +drive it away. Though her boy was not the brilliant genius she had +secretly and fondly hoped he would prove, he was still dearer to +Felicita than ought else on earth or, indeed, in heaven; and her love +for him was deeper than she supposed. On his part he had never lost that +chivalrous tenderness, blended with deferential awe, with which he had +regarded her from his early boyhood. His love for Alice was so utterly +different from his devotion to her, that he had never compared them, and +they had not come into any kind of collision yet. + +Felix sought his mother in her library. Felicita was alone, reading in +the light of a lamp which shed a strong illumination over her. In his +eyes she was incomparably the loveliest woman he had ever seen, not even +excepting Alice; and the stately magnificence of her velvet dress, and +rich lace, and costly jewels, was utterly different from that of any +other woman he knew. For Mrs. Pascal dressed simply, as became the wife +of a country rector; and Phebe, in her studio, always wore a blouse or +apron of brown holland, which suited her well, making her homely and +domestic in appearance as she was in nature. Felicita looked like a +queen in his eyes. + +When she heard his voice speaking to her, having not caught the sound of +his step on the soft carpet, Felicita looked up with a smile in her dark +eyes. In a day or two her son was about to leave her roof, and her heart +felt very soft toward him. She had scarcely realized that he was a man, +until she knew that he had decided to have a place and a dwelling of his +own. + +She stretched out both hands to him, with a gesture of tenderness +peculiar to herself, and shown only to him. It was as if one hand could +not link them closely enough; could not bring them so nearly heart to +heart. Felix took them both into his own, and knelt down before her; his +young face flushed with eagerness, and his eyes, so like her own, +fastened upon hers. + +"Your face speaks for you," she said, pressing one of her rare kisses +upon it. "What is it my boy has to tell me?" + +"Oh, mother," he cried, "you will never think I love you less than I +have always done? See, I kiss your feet still as I used to do when I was +a boy." + +He bent his head to caress the little feet, and then laid it on his +mother's lap, while she let her white fingers play with his hair. + +"Why should you love me less than you have always done?" she asked, in a +sweet languid voice. "Have I ever changed toward you, Felix?" + +"No, mother, no," he answered, "but to-night I feel how different I am +from what I was but a year or two ago. I am a man now; I was a boy +then." + +"You will always be a boy to me," she said, with a tender smile. + +"Yet I am as old as my father was when you were married," he replied. + +Felicita's face grew white, and she leaned back in her chair with a +sudden feeling of faintness. It was years since the boy had spoken of +his father; why should he utter his name now? He had raised his head +when he felt her move, and her dim and failing eyes saw his face in a +mist, looking so like his father when she had known him first, that she +shrank from him, with a terror and aversion too deep to be concealed. + +"Roland!" she cried. + +He did not speak or move, being too bewildered and wonderstruck at his +mother's agitation. Felicita hid her face in her white hands, and sat +still recovering herself. The pang had been sudden, and poignant; it had +smitten her so unawares that she had betrayed its anguish. But, she felt +in an instant, her boy had no thought of wounding her; and for her own +sake, as well as his, she must conquer this painful excitement. There +must be no scene to awaken observation or suspicion. + +"Mother, forgive me," he exclaimed, "I did not mean to distress you." + +"No," she breathed with difficulty, "I am sure of it. Go on Felix." + +"I came to tell you," he said gravely, "that as long as I can +remember--at least as long as we have been in London and known the +Pascals--I have loved Alice. Oh, mother, I've thought sometimes you +seemed as fond of her as you are of Hilda. You will be glad to have her +as your daughter?" + +Felicita closed her eyes with a feeling of helpless misery. She could +hardly give a thought to Felix and the words he uttered; yet it was +those words which brought a flood of hidden memories and fears sweeping +over her shrinking soul. It was so long since she had thought much of +Roland! She had persuaded herself that as so many years had passed by +bringing to her no hint or token of his existence, he must be dead; and +as one dead passes presently out of the active thoughts, busy only with +the present, so had her husband passed away from her mind into some dim, +hidden cell of memory, with which she had long ceased to trouble +herself. + +Her husband seemed to stand before her as she had seen him last, a +haggard, way-worn, ruined man, beggared and stripped of all that makes +life desirable. And this was only six months after he had lost all. What +would he be after thirteen years if he was living still? + +But if it had appeared to her out of the question to face and bear the +ignominy and disgrace he had brought upon her thirteen years ago, how +utterly impossible it was now. She could never retrace her steps. To +confess the deception she had herself consented to, and taken part in, +would be to pull down with her own hands the fair edifice of her life. +The very name she had made for herself, and the broader light in which +her fame had placed her, made any repentance impossible. "A city that is +set on a hill cannot be hid." Her hill was not as lofty as she had once +fancied it would be; but still she was not on the low and safer level +of the plain. She was honorably famous. She could not stain her honor by +the acknowledgment of dishonor. The chief question, after all, was +whether Roland was alive or dead. + +Her colorless face and closed eyes, the expression of unutterable +perplexity and anguish in her knitted brows and quivering lips, filled +Felix with wonder and grief. He had risen from his kneeling posture at +her feet, and now his reverential awe of her yielded to the tender +compassion of a man for a weak and suffering woman. He drew her beloved +head on to his breast, and held her in a firm and loving grasp. + +"I would not grieve or pain you for worlds," he said falteringly, "nor +would Alice. I love you better than myself; as much as I love her. We +will talk of it another day, mother." + +She pressed close to him, and he felt her arms strained about him, as if +she could not hold him near enough to her. It seemed to him as if she +was striving to draw him into the very heart of her motherhood; but she +knew how deep the gulf was between her and him, and shuddered at her own +loneliness. + +"It is losing you, my son," she whispered with her quivering lips. + +"No, no," he said eagerly; "it is not losing me, but finding another +child. Don't take a gloomy view of it, mother. I shall be as happy as my +father was with you." + +He could not keep himself from thinking of his father, or of speaking of +him. He understood more perfectly now what his father's worship of his +mother had been; the tenderness of a stronger being toward a weaker one, +blended with the chivalrous homage of a generous nature to the one woman +chosen to represent all womanhood. There was a keener trouble to him +to-night, than ever before, in the thought that his mother was a widow. + +"Leave me now, Felix," she said, loosing him from her close embrace, and +shutting her eyes from the sight of him. "Do not let any one come to me +again to-night. I must be alone." + +But when she was alone it was only to let her thoughts whirl round and +round in one monotonous circle. If Roland was dead, her secret was +safe, and Felix might be happy. If he was not dead, Felix must not marry +Alice Pascal. She had not looked forward to this difficulty. There had +been an unconscious and vague feeling in her heart that her son loved +her too passionately to be easily pleased by any girl; and, almost +unawares to herself, she had been in the habit of comparing her own +attractions and loveliness with those of the younger women who crossed +his path. Yet there was no personal vanity in the calm conviction she +possessed that Felix had never seen a woman more beautiful and +fascinating than the mother he had always admired with so much +enthusiasm. + +She was not jealous of Alice Pascal, she said to herself, and yet her +heart was sore when she said it. Why could not Felix remain simply +constant to her? He was the only being she had ever really loved; and +her love for him was deeper than she had known it to be. Yet to crush +his hopes, to wound him, would be like the bitterness of death to her. +If she could but let him marry his Alice, how much easier it would be +than throwing obstacles in the way of his happiness; obstacles that +would seem but the weak and wilful caprices of a foolish mother. + +When the morning came, and Canon Pascal made his appearance, Felicita +received him in her library, apparently composed, but grave and almost +stern in her manner. They were old friends; but the friendship on his +side was warm and genial, while on hers it was cold and reserved. He +lost no time in beginning on the subject which had brought him to her. + +"My dear Felicita," he said, "Felix tells me he had some talk with you +last night. What do you think of our young people?" + +"What does Alice say?" she asked. + +"Oh, Alice!" he answered in an amused yet tender tone; "she would be of +one mind with Felix. There is something beautiful in the innocent, +unworldly love of children like these, who are ready to build a nest +under any eaves. Felicita, you do not disapprove of it?" + +"I cannot disapprove of Alice," she replied gloomily; "but I do +disapprove of Felix marrying so young. A man should not marry under +thirty." + +"Thirty!" echoed Canon Pascal; "that would be in seven years. It is a +long time; but if they do not object I should not. I'm in no hurry to +lose my daughter. But they will not wait so long." + +"Do not let them be engaged yet," she said in hurried and sad tones. +"They may see others whom they would love more. Early marriages and long +engagements are both bad. Tell them from me that it is better for them +to be free a while longer, till they know themselves and the world +better. I would rather Felix and Hilda never married. When I see Phebe +so free from all the gnawing cares and anxieties of this life, and so +joyous in her freedom, I wish to heaven I could have had a single life +like hers." + +"Why! Felicita!" he exclaimed; "this is morbid. You have never forgiven +God for taking away your husband. You have been keeping a grudge against +Him all these years of your widowhood." + +"No, no!" she interrupted; "it is not that. They married me too soon, my +uncle and Mr. Sefton. I never loved Roland as I ought. Oh! if I had +loved him, how different my life would have been, and his!" + +Her voice faltered and broke into deep sobs, which cut off all further +speech. For a few minutes Canon Pascal endeavored to reason with her and +comfort her, but in vain. At length he quietly went away and sent Phebe +to her. There could be no more discussion of the subject for the +present. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +TAKING ORDERS. + + +The darkness that had dwelt so long in the heart of Felicita began now +to cast its gloom over the whole household. A sharp attack of illness, +which followed immediately upon her great and inexplicable agitation, +caused great consternation to her friends, and above all to Felix. The +eminent physician who was called in said her brain had been over-worked, +and she must be kept absolutely free of all worry and anxiety. How +easily is this direction given, and how difficult, how impossible, in +many cases, is it to follow! That any soul, except that of a child, can +be freed from all anxiety, is possible only to the soul that knows and +trusts God. + +All further mention of his love for Alice was out of the question now +for Felix. Bitter as silence was, it was imperative; for while his +mother's objections and prejudices were not overcome, Canon Pascal +would not hear of any closer tie than that which already existed being +formed between the young people. He had, however, the comfort of +believing that Alice had heard so much of what had passed from her +mother, as that she knew he loved her, and had owned his love to her +father. There was a subtle change in her manner toward him; she was more +silent in his presence, and there was a tremulous tone in her voice at +times when she spoke to him, yet she lingered beside him, and listened +more closely to all he had to say; and when they left Westminster to +return to their country rectory the tears glistened in her eyes as they +had never done before when he bade her good-by. + +"Come and see us as soon as it will not vex your mother, my boy," said +Canon Pascal; "you may always think of our home as your own." + +The only person who was not perplexed by Felicita's inexplicable conduct +and her illness, was Phebe Marlowe, who believed that she knew the +cause, and was drawn closer to her in the deepest sympathy and pity. It +seemed to Phebe that Felicita was creating the obstacle, which existed +chiefly in her fancy; and with her usual frankness and directness she +went to Canon Pascal's abode in the Cloisters at Westminster, to tell +him simply what she thought. + +"I want to ask you," she said, with her clear, honest gaze fastened on +his face, "if you know why Mrs. Sefton left Riversborough thirteen years +ago?" + +"Partly," he answered; "my wife is a Riversdale, you know, Felicita's +second or third cousin. There was some painful suspicion attaching to +Roland Sefton." + +"Yes," answered Phebe sadly. + +"Was it not quite cleared up?" asked Canon Pascal. + +Phebe shook her head. + +"We heard," he went on, "that it was believed Roland Sefton's +confidential clerk was the actual culprit; and Sefton himself was only +guilty of negligence. Mr. Clifford himself told Lord Riversdale that +Sefton was gone away on a long holiday, and might not be back for +months; and something of the same kind was put forth in a circular +issued from the Old Bank. I had one sent to me; for some little business +of my wife's was in the hands of the firm. I recollect thinking it was +an odd affair, but it passed out of my mind; and the poor fellow's death +quite obliterated all accusing thoughts against him." + +"That is the scruple in Felicita's mind," said Phebe in a sorrowful +tone; "she feels that you ought to know everything before you consent to +Alice marrying Felix, and she cannot bring herself to speak of it." + +"But how morbid that is!" he answered; "as if I did not know Felix, +every thought of him, and every motion of his soul! His father was a +careless, negligent man. He was nothing worse, was he, Phebe?" + +"He was the best friend I ever had," she answered earnestly, though her +face grew pale, and her eyelids drooped, "I owe all I am to him. But it +was not Acton who was guilty. It was Felix and Hilda's father." + +"And Felicita knew it?" he exclaimed. + +"She knew nothing about it until I told her," answered Phebe. "Roland +Sefton came to me when he was trying to escape out of the country, and +my father and I helped him to get away. He told me all; and oh! he was +not so much to blame as you might think. But he was guilty of the crime; +and if he had been taken he would have been sent to jail. I would have +died then sooner than let him be taken to jail." + +"If I had only known this from the beginning!" said Canon Pascal. + +"What would you have done?" asked Phebe eagerly. "Would you have refused +to take Felix into your home? He has done no wrong. Hilda has done no +wrong. There would have been disgrace and shame for them if their father +had been sent to jail; but his death saved them from all danger of that. +Nobody would ever speak a word against Roland Sefton now. Yet this is +what is preying on Felicita's mind. If she was sure you knew all, and +still consented to Felix marrying Alice, she would be at peace again. +And I too think you ought to know all. But you-will not visit the sins +of the father upon the son----" + +"Divine providence does so," he interrupted; "if the fathers eat sour +grapes the teeth of the sons are set on edge. Phebe, Phebe, that is only +too true." + +"But Roland's death set the children free from the curse," answered +Phebe, weeping. "If he had been taken, they would have gone away to some +foreign land where they were not known; or even if he had not died, we +must have done differently from what we have done. But there is no one +now to bring this condemnation against them. Even old Mr. Clifford has +more than forgiven Roland; and if possible would have the time back +again, that he might act so as to reinstate him in his position. No one +in the world bears a grudge against Roland." + +"I'm not hard-hearted, God knows," he answered, "but no man likes to +give his child to the son of a felon, convicted or unconvicted." + +"Then I have done harm by telling you." + +"No, no; you have done rightly," he replied, "it was good for me to know +the truth. We will let things be for awhile. And yet," he added, his +grave, stern face softening a little, "if it would be good for Felicita, +tell her that I know all, and that after a battle or two with myself, I +am sure to yield. I could not see Alice unhappy; and that lad holds her +heart in his hands. After all, she too must bear her part in the sins of +the world." + +But though Phebe watched for an opportunity for telling Felicita what +she had done, no chance came. If Felicita had been reserved before, she +inclosed herself in almost unbroken silence now. During her illness she +had been on the verge of delirium; and then she had shut her lips with a +stern determination, which even her weak and fevered brain could not +break. She had once begged Phebe, if she grew really delirious, to +dismiss all other attendants, so that no ear but hers might hear her +wanderings; but this emergency had not arisen. And since then she had +sunk more and more into a stern silence. + +Felix had left home, and entered into his lodgings, taking his father's +portrait with him. He was not so far from home but that he either +visited it, or received visitors from it almost every day. His mother's +illness troubled him; or otherwise the change in his life, his first +step in independent manhood, would have been one of great happiness to +him. He did not feel any deep misgivings as to Alice, and the +blessedness of the future with her; and in the mean-time, while he was +waiting, there was his work to do. + +He had taken orders, not from ambition or any hope of worldly gain, +those lay quite apart from the path he had chosen, but from the simple +desire of fighting as best he might against the growing vices and +miseries of civilization. Step for step with the ever-increasing luxury +of the rich he saw marching beside it the gaunt degradation of the poor. +The life of refined self-indulgence in the one class was caricatured by +loathsome self-indulgence in the other. On the one hand he saw, young as +he was, something of the languor and weariness of life of those who have +nothing to do, and from satiety have little to hope or to fear; and on +the other the ignorance and want which deprived both mind and body of +all healthful activity, and in the pressure of utter need left but +little scope for hope or fear. He fancied that such civilization sank +its victims into deeper depths of misery than those of barbarism. + +Before him seemed to lie a huge, weltering mass of slime, a very +quagmire of foulness and miasma, in the depths and darkness of which he +could dimly discern the innumerable coils of a deadly dragon, breathing +forth poison and death into the air, which those beloved of God and +himself must breathe, and crushing in its pestilential folds the bodies +and souls of immortal men. He was one of the young St. Michaels called +by God to give combat to that old serpent, called the Devil and Satan, +which was deceiving the old world. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +A LONDON CURACY. + + +The district on which his vicar directed Felix to concentrate his +efforts was by no means a neglected one. It was rather suffering from +the multitude of laborers, who had chosen it as their part of the great +vineyard. Lying close to a wealthy and fashionable neighborhood, it had +long been a kind of pleasure-ground, or park for hunting sinners in, to +the charitable and religious inhabitants of the comfortable dwellings +standing within a stone's throw of the wretched streets. There was +interest and excitement to be found there for their own unoccupied time, +and a pleasant glow of approbation for their consciences. Every +denomination had a mission there; and the mission-halls stood thickly on +the ground. There were Bible-women, nurses, city missionaries, tract +distributors at work; mothers' meetings were held; classes of all sorts +were open; infirmaries and medical mission-rooms were established; and +coffee-rooms were to be found in nearly every street. Each body of +Christians acted as if there were no other workers in the field; each +was striving to hunt souls into its own special fold; and each +distributed its funds as if no money but theirs was being laid out for +the welfare of the poor district. Hence there were greater pauperism and +more complete poverty than in many a neglected quarter of the East End, +with all its untold misery. Spirit-vaults flourished; the low +lodging-houses were crowded to excess; rents rose rapidly; and the +narrow ill lighted streets swarmed with riff-raff after nightfall, when +the greater part of the wealthy district-visitors were spending their +evening hours in their comfortable homes, satisfied with their day's +work for the Lord. + +But Felix began his work in the evenings, when the few decent working +men, who still continued to live in the Brickfields, had come home from +their day's toil, and the throng of professional beggars and thieves, +who found themselves in good quarters there, poured in from their day's +prowling. It was well for him that he had an athletic and muscular +frame, well-knitted together, and strengthened by exercise, for many a +time he had to force his way out of houses, where he found himself +surrounded by a crew of half-drunken and dangerous men. Presently they +got to know and respect him both for his strength and forbearance, which +he exercised with good temper and generosity. He could give a blow, as +well as take one, when it was necessary. At one time his absence from +church was compulsory, because he had received a black eye when +defending a querulous old crone from her drunken son; he was seen about +the wretched streets of the Brickfields with this too familiar +decoration, but he took care not to go home until it was lost. + +With the more decent inhabitants of the district he was soon a great +favorite; but he was feared and abhorred by the others. Felix belonged +to the new school of philanthropic economy, which discerns, and protests +against thoughtless almsgiving; and above all, against doles to street +beggars. He would have made giving equally illegal with begging. But he +soon began to despair of effecting a reformation in this direction; for +even Phebe could not always refrain from finding a penny for some poor +little shivering urchin, dogging her steps on a winter's day. + +"You do not stop to think how cruel you are," Felix would say +indignantly; "if it was not for women giving to them, these poor little +wretches would never be sent out, with their naked feet on the frozen +pavement, and scarcely rags enough to hide their bodies, blue with cold. +If you could only step inside the gin-shops as I do, you would see a +drunken sinner of a father or a mother drinking down the pence you drop +into the children's hands. Your thoughtless kindness is as cruel as +their vice." + +But still, with all that fresh ardor and energy which is sneered at in +the familiar proverb, "A new broom sweeps clean," Felix swept away at +the misery, and the ignorance, and the vice of his degraded district. He +was not going to spare himself; it should be no sham fight with him. The +place was his first battlefield; and it had a strong attraction for him. + + +So through the pleasant months of spring, which for the last four years +had been spent at Oxford, and into the hot weeks of summer, Felix was +indefatigably at work, giving himself no rest and no recreation, besides +writing long and frequent letters to Mrs. Pascal, or rather to Alice. +For would not Alice always read those letters, every word of them? would +she not even often be the first to open them? it being the pleasant +custom of the Pascal household for most letters to be in common, +excepting such as were actually marked "private." And Mrs. Pascal's +answer might have been dictated by Alice herself, so exactly did they +express her mind. They did not as yet stand on the footing of betrothed +lovers; but neither of them doubted but that they soon would do so. + +It was not without a sharp pang, however, that Felix learned that the +Pascals were going to Switzerland for the summer. He had an intense +longing to visit the land, of which his grandmother had so often spoken +to him, and where his father's grave lay. But quite apart from his duty +to the district placed under his charge, there was an obstacle in the +absolute interdiction Felicita laid upon the country where her husband +had met with his terrible death. It was impossible even to hint at going +to Switzerland whilst she was in her present state of health. She had +only partially recovered from the low, nervous fever which had attacked +her during the winter; and still those about her strove their utmost to +save her from all worry and anxiety. + +The sultry, fervid days of August came; and if possible the narrow +thoroughfares of the Brickfields seemed more wretched than in the +winter. The pavements burned like an oven, and the thin walls of the +houses did not screen their inmates from the reeking heat. Not a breath +of fresh air seemed to wander through the low-lying streets, and a +sickly glare and heaviness brooded over them. No wonder there was fever +about. The fields were too far away to be reached in this tiring +weather; and when the men and women returned home from their day's work, +they sunk down in silent and languid groups on their door-steps, or on +the dirty flag-stones of the causeway. Even the professional beggars +suffered more than in the winter, for the tide of almsgiving is at its +lowest ebb during the summer, when the rich have many other and +pleasanter occupations. + +Felix walked through his "parish," as he called it, with slow and weary +steps. Yet his holiday was come, and this was the last evening he would +work thus for the present. The Pascals were in Switzerland; he had had a +letter from Mrs. Pascal, with a few lines from Alice herself in a +postscript, telling him she and her father were about to start for +Engelberg to visit his father's grave for him. It was a loving and +gracious thing to do, just suited to Canon Pascal's kindly nature; and +Felix felt his whole being lifted up by it to a happier level. Phebe and +Hilda were gone to their usual summer haunt, Phebe's quaint little +cottage on the solitary mountain-moor; where he was going to join them +for a day or two, before they went to Mr. Clifford, in the old house at +Riversborough. His mother alone, of all the friends he had, was +remaining in London; and she had refused to leave until Phebe and Hilda +had first paid their yearly visits to the old places. + +He reached his mission-room at last, through the close, unwholesome +atmosphere, and found it fairly filled, chiefly with working men, some +of whom had turned into it as being a trifle less hot and noisy than the +baking pavements without, crowded with quarrelsome children. It was, +moreover, the pay-night for a Providence club which Felix had +established for any, either men or women, who chose to contribute to it. +There was a short and simple lecture given first; and afterwards the +club-books were brought out, and a committee of working men received the +weekly subscriptions, and attended to the affairs of the little club. + +The lecture was near its close, when a drunken man, in the quarrelsome +stage of intoxication, stumbled in through the open door. Felix knew him +by sight well; a confirmed drunkard, a mere miserable sot, who hung +about the spirit-vaults, and lived only for the drink he could pour down +his throat. There had been a vague instinctive dread and disgust for the +man, mingled with a deep interest he could not understand, in Felix's +mind. He paused for an instant, looking at the dirty rags, and bleared +eyes, and degraded face of the drunkard standing just in the doorway, +with the summer's light behind him. + +"What's the parson's name?" he called in a thick, unsteady voice. "Is it +Sefton?" + +"Hush! hush!" cried two or three voices in answer. + +"I'll not hush! If it's Sefton, it were his father as made me what I am. +It were his father as stole every blessed penny of my earnings. It were +his father as drove me to drink, and ruined me, soul and body. Sefton! +I've a right to know the name of Sefton if any man on earth does. Curse +it!" + +Felix had ceased speaking, and stood facing his little congregation, +listening as in a dream. The men caught the drunken accuser by the arms, +and were violently expelling him, but his rough voice rose above the +noise of the scuffle. + +"Ay!" he shouted, "the parson won't hear the truth told. But take care +of your money, mates, or it'll go where mine went." + +"Don't turn him out," called Felix; "it's a mistake, my men. Let him +alone. He never knew my father." + +The drunkard turned round and confronted him, and the little assembly +was quiet again, with an intense quietness, waiting to hear what would +follow. + +"Your father's name was Roland Sefton?" said the drunkard. + +"Yes," answered Felix. + +"And he was banker of the Old Bank at Riversborough?" he asked. + +"Yes," said Felix. + +"Then what I've got to say is this," went on the rough, thick voice of +the half-drunken man; "and the tale's true, mates. Roland Sefton, o' +Riversborough, cheated me out o' all my hard earnings--one hundred and +nineteen pounds--as I'd trusted him with, and drove me to drink. I were +a steady man till then, as steady as the best of ye; and he were a fine, +handsome, fair-spoken gentleman as ever walked; and we poor folks +trusted him as if he'd been God Almighty. There was a old deaf and dumb +man, called Marlowe, lost six hundred pound by him, and it broke his +heart; he never held his head up after, and he died. Me, it drove to +drink. That's the father o' the parson who stands here telling you about +Jesus Christ, and maybe trusted with your money, as I trusted mine with +him as cheated me. It's a true tale, mates, if God Almighty struck me +dead for it this moment." + +There was such a tone of truth in the hoarse and passionate tones, which +grew steadier as the speaker gained assurance by the silence of the +audience, that there was not one there who did not believe the story. +Even Felix, listening with white face and flaming eyes, dared not cry +out that the accusation was a lie. Horrible as it was, he could not say +to himself that it was all untrue. There came flashing across his mind +confused reminiscences of the time when his father had disappeared from +out of his life. He remembered asking his mother how long he would be +away, and did he never write to her? and she had answered him that he +was too young to understand the truth about his father. Was it possible +that this was the truth? + +In after years he never forgot that sultry evening, with the close, +noisome atmosphere of the hot mission-hall, and the confused buzzing of +many voices, which after a short silence began to hum in his ears. The +drunkard was still standing in the doorway, the very wreck and ruin of a +man; and every detail of his loathsome, degraded appearance was burnt in +on Felix's brain. He felt stupefied and bewildered--as if he had +received almost a death-blow. But in his inmost soul a cry went up to +heaven, "Lord, Thou also hast been a man!" + +Then he saw that the cross lay before him in his path. "Whosoever will +come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow +me." It had seemed to Felix at times as if he had never been called upon +to bear any cross. But now it lay there close before him. He could not +take another step forward unless he lifted it up and laid it on his +shoulders, whatever its weight might be. The cross of shame--the bearing +of another's sin--his father's sin. His whole soul recoiled from it. Any +other cross but this he could have borne after Christ with willing feet +and rejoicing heart. But to know that his father was a criminal; and to +bear the shame of it openly! + +Yet he could not stand there longer, fighting his battle, in the +presence of these curious eyes so keenly fastened upon him. The clock +over the door showed upon its dial only a minute or two gone; but to +Felix the time consumed in his brief foretaste of the cross seemed +years. He gathered together so much of his self-possession as could be +summoned at a moment's notice, and looked straight into the faces of his +audience. + +"Friends," he said, "if this is true, it is as new to me as it is to +you. My father died when I was a boy of ten; and no one had a heart hard +enough to tell me then my father was a rogue. But if I find it is true, +I'll not rest day nor night till this man has his money again. What is +his name?" + +"Nixey," called out three or four voices; "John Nixey." + +Again Felix's heart sank, for he knew Simon Nixey, whose farm lay +nearest to Phebe's little homestead; and there was a familiar ring in +the name. + +"Ay, ay!" stammered Nixey; "but old Clifford o' the Bank paid me the +money back all right; only I'd sworn a dreadful oath I'd never lay by +another farthin', and it soon came to an end. It were me as were lost as +well as the money." + +"Then what do you come bothering here for," asked one of the men, "if +you've had your money back all right? Get out with you." + +For a minute or two there was a scuffle, and then the drunkard was +hustled outside and the door shut behind him. For another half hour +Felix mechanically conducted the business of the club, as if he had been +in a dream; and then, bidding the members of the little committee good +night, he paced swiftly away from his district in the direction of his +home. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS. + + +"But why go home?" Felix stopped as he asked himself this question. He +could not face his mother with any inquiry about the mystery that +surrounded his father's memory, that mystery which was slowly +dissipating like the mists which vanish imperceptibly from a landscape. +He was beginning to read his mother's life in a more intelligible light, +and all along the clearer line new meanings were springing into sight. +The solitude and sadness, the bitterness of spirit, which had separated +her from the genial influences of a society that had courted her, was +plain to him now at their fountain-head. She had known--if this terrible +thing was true--that shame, not glory, was hers; confusion of face, not +the bearing of the palm. His heart ached for her more than for himself. + +In his heart of hearts, Felix had triumphed greatly in his mother's +fame. From his very babyhood the first thought impressed upon his mind +had been that his mother was different from other women; far above them. +It had been his father who had given him that first impression, but it +had grown with strong and vigorous growth from its deep root, through +all the years which had passed since his father died. Even his love for +Alice had not touched his passionate loyalty and devotion to his mother. +He had rejoiced in thinking that she was known, not in England alone, +but in other countries into whose language her books had been +translated. Her celebrity shone in his eyes with a very strong and +brilliant splendor. How could he tell her that he had been thrust into +the secret of his father's infamy! + +There was only Phebe to whom he could just yet lay open the doubt and +terror of his soul. If it was true that her father, old Marlowe, had +died broken-hearted from the loss of his money, she would be sure to +know of it. His preparations for his journey to-morrow morning were +complete; and if he chose there was time enough for him to catch the +night train, and start at once for Riversborough. There would be no +sleep for him until some of these tormenting questions were answered. + +It was a little after sunrise when he reached Riversborough, where with +some difficulty he roused up a hostler and obtained a horse at one of +the inns. Before six he was riding up the long, steep lanes, fresh and +cool with dew, and overhung with tall hedgerows, which led up to the +moor. He had not met a living soul since he left the sleeping town +behind him, and it seemed to him as if he was in quite a different world +from the close, crowded, and noisome streets he had traversed only a few +hours ago. In the natural exhilaration of the sweet mountain air, and +the silence broken only by the singing of the birds, his fears fell from +him. There must be some mistake which Phebe would clear up. It was +nothing but the accusation of a besotted brain which had frightened him. + +He shouted boyishly when the quaint little cottage came in sight, with a +thin column of blue smoke floating upward from its ivy-clad chimney. +Phebe herself came to the door, and Hilda, with ruffled hair and a +sleepy face, looked out of the little window in the thatched roof. There +was nothing in his appearance a few hours earlier than he was expected +to alarm them, and their surprise and pleasure were complete. Even to +himself it seemed singular that he should sit down at the little +breakfast-table with them, the almost level rays of the morning sun +shining through the lattice window, instead of in the dingy parlor of +his London lodgings. + +"Come with me on to the moors, Phebe," he said as soon as breakfast was +over. + +She went out with him bareheaded, as she had been used to do when a girl +at home, and led him to a little knoll covered with short heath and +ferns, from which a broad landscape of many miles stretched under their +eyes to a far-off horizon. The hollow of the earth curved upwards in +perfect lines to meet the perfect curve of the blue dome of the sky +bending over it. They were resting as some small bird might rest in the +rounded shelter of two hands which held it safely. For a few minutes +they sat silent, gazing over the wide sweep of sky and land, till Felix +caught sight of a faint haze, through which two or three spires were +dimly visible. It was where Riversborough was lying. + +"Phebe," he said, "I want you to tell me the naked truth. Did my father +defraud yours of some money?" + +"Felix!" she cried, in startled tones. + +"Say only yes or no to me first," he continued; "explain it afterward. +Only say yes or no." + +Through Phebe's brain came trooping the vivid memories of the past. She +saw Roland again hurrying over the moors from his day's shooting to +mount his horse, which she had saddled for him, and to ride off down the +steep lanes, with a cheery shout of "Good-night" to her when he reached +the last point where she could catch sight of him; and she saw him as +his dark form walked beside her pony that night when he was already +crushed down beneath his weight of sin and shame, pouring out his +burdened heart into her ears. If Felix had asked her this question in +London it might have hurt her less poignantly; but here, where Roland +and her father filled all the place with the memory of their presence, +it wounded her like the thrust of a sword. She burst into a passion of +tears. + +"Yes or no?" urged Felix, setting his face like a flint, and striking +out blindly and pitilessly. + +"Yes!" she sobbed; "but, oh, your father was the dearest friend I ever +had!" + +The sharp, cruel sound of the yes smote him with a deadly force. He +could not tell himself what he had expected to hear; but now for a +certainty, his father, whom he had been taught to regard as a hero and a +saint, proved no other than a rogue. + +It was a long time before he spoke again, or lifted up his head; so long +that Phebe ceased weeping, and laid her hand tenderly on his to comfort +him by her mute sympathy. But he took no notice of her silent fellowship +in his suffering; it was too bitter for him to feel as yet that any one +could share it. + +"I must give up Alice!" he groaned at last. + +"No, no!" said Phebe. "I told Canon Pascal all, and he does not say so. +It is your mother who cannot give her consent, and she will do it some +day." + +"Does he know all?" cried Felix. "Is it possible he knows all, and will +let me love Alice still? I think I could bear anything if that is true. +But, oh! how could I offer to her a name stained like mine?" + +"Nay, the name was saved by his death," answered Phebe sadly. "There are +only three who knew he was guilty--Mr. Clifford, and your mother, and I. +If he had lived he might have been brought to trial and sent to a +convict prison; I suppose he would; but his death saved him and you. +Down in Riversborough yonder some few uncharitable people might tell you +there was some suspicion about him, but most of them speak of him still +as the kindest and the best man they ever knew. It Was covered up +skilfully, Felix, and nobody knew the truth but we three." + +"Alice is visiting my father's grave this very day," he said +falteringly. + +"Ah! how like that is to Canon Pascal!" answered Phebe; "he will not +tell Alice; no, she will never know, nor Hilda. Why should they be told? +But he will stand there by the grave, sorrowing over the sin which +drove your father into exile, and brought him to his sorrowful death. +And his heart will feel more tenderly than ever for you and your mother. +He will be devising some means for overcoming your mother's scruples and +making you and Alice happy." + +"I never ran be happy again," he exclaimed. "I never thought of such a +sorrow as this." + +"It was the sorrow that fell to Christ's lot," she answered; "the burden +of other people's sins." + +"Phebe," he said, "if I felt the misery of my fellow-man before, and I +did feel it, how can I bear now to remember the horrible degradation of +the man who told me of my father's sin? It was a drunkard----" + +"John Nixey," she interrupted; "ay, but he caught at your father's sin +as an excuse for his own. He was always a drinking man. No man is forced +into sin. Nothing can harm them who are the followers of God. Don't lay +on your father's shoulders more than his own wrong-doing. Sin spreads +misery around it only when there is ground ready for the bad seed. Your +father's sin opened my soul to deeper influences from God; I did not +love him less because he had fallen, but I learned to trust God more, +and walk more closely with Him. You, too, will be drawn nearer to God by +this sorrow." + +"Phebe," he said, "can I speak to Mr. Clifford about it? It would be +impossible to speak to my mother." + +"Quite impossible," she answered emphatically. "Yes, go down to +Riversborough, and hear what Mr. Clifford can tell you. Your father +repented of his sin bitterly, and paid a heavy price for it; but he was +forgiven. If my poor old father could not withhold his forgiveness, +would our heavenly Father fall short of it? You, too, must forgive him, +my Felix." + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AN OLD MAN'S PARDON. + + +To forgive his father--that was a strange inversion of the attitude of +Felix's mind in regard to his father's memory. He had been taught to +think of him with reverence, and admiration, and deep filial love. As +Felicita looked back on the long line of her distinguished ancestry with +an exaltation of feeling which, if it was pride, was a legitimate pride, +so had Felix looked back upon the line of good men from whom his own +being had sprung. He had felt himself pledged to a Christian life by the +eminently Christian lives of his forefathers. + +Now, suddenly, with no warning, he was called upon to forgive his father +for a crime which had made him amenable to the penal laws of his +country; a mean, treacherous, cowardly crime. Like Judas, he had borne +the bag, and his fellow-pilgrims had trusted him with their money; and, +like Judas, he had been a thief. Felix could not understand how a +Christian man could be tempted by money. To attempt to serve Mammon as +well as God seemed utterly comtemptible and incredible to him. + +His heart was very heavy as he rode slowly down the lanes and along the +highway to Riversborough, which his father had so often traversed before +him. When he had come this way in the freshness and stillness of the +early morning there had been more hope in his soul than he had been +aware of, that Phebe would be able to remove this load from him; but now +he knew for a certainty that his father had left to him a heritage of +dishonor. She had told him all the circumstances known to her, and he +was going to learn more from Mr. Clifford. + +He entered his old home with more bitterness of spirit than he had ever +felt before in his young life. Here, of all places in the world, +clustered memories of his father; memories which he had fondly cherished +and graved as deeply as he could upon his mind. He could almost hear the +joyous tones of his father's voice, and see the summer gladness of his +face, as he remembered them. How was it possible that with such a hidden +load of shame he could have been so happy. + +Mr. Clifford, though a very old man, was still in full and clear +possession of his faculties, and had not yet given up an occasional +attention to the business of the bank. He was nearly eighty years of +age, and his hair was white, and the cold, stern blue eyes were watery +and sunken in their sockets. Some years ago, when Samuel Nixey had given +up his last hope of winning Phebe, and had married a farmer's daughter, +his mother, Mrs. Nixey, had come to the Old Bank as housekeeper to Mr. +Clifford, and looked well after his welfare. Felix found him sitting in +the wainscoted parlor, a withered, bent, old man, seldom leaving the +warm hearth, but keen in sight and memory, living over again in his +solitude the many years that had passed over him from his childhood +until now. He welcomed Felix with delight, holding his hands, and +looking earnestly into his face, with the half-childlike affection of +old age. + +"I've not seen you since you became a parson," he said, with a sigh; +"ah, my lad, you ought to have come to me. You don't get half as much as +my cashier, and not a tenth part of what I give my manager. But there! +that's your mother's fault, who would never let you touch business. She +would never hear of you taking your father's place." + +"How could she?" said Felix, indignantly. "Do you think my mother would +let me come into the house my father had disgraced and almost ruined?" + +"So you've plucked that bitter apple at last!" he answered, in a tone of +regret. "I thought it was possible you might never have to taste it. +Felix, my boy, your mother paid every farthing of the money your father +had, with interest and compound interest; even to me, who begged and +entreated to bear the loss. Your mother is a noble woman." + +A blessed ray of comfort shot across the gloom in Felix's heart, and lit +up his dejected face with a momentary smile; and Mr. Clifford stretched +out his thin old hand again, and clasped his feebly. + +"Ah, my boy!" he said, "and your father was not a bad man. I know how +you are sitting in judgment upon him, as young people do, who do not +know what it is to be sorely tempted. I judged him, and my son before +him, as harshly as man could do. Remember we judge hardest where we love +the most; there's selfishness in it. Our children, our fathers, must be +better than other folk's children and fathers. Don't begin to reckon up +your father's sins before you are thirty, and don't pass sentence till +you're fifty. Judges ought to be old men." + +Felix sat down near to the old man, whose chair was in the oriel window, +on which the sun was shining warmly. There below him lay the garden +where he had played as a child, with the river flowing swiftly past it, +and the boat-house in the corner, from which his father and he had so +often started for a pleasant hour or two on the rapid current. But he +could never think of his father again without sorrow and shame. + +"Sin hurts us most as it comes nearest to us," said old Mr. Clifford; +"the crime of a Frenchman does not make our blood boil as the crime of +an Englishman; our neighbor's sin is not half as black as our kinsman's +sin. But when we have to look it in the face in a son, in a father, then +we see the exceeding sinfulness of it. Why, Felix, you knew that men +defrauded one another; that even men professing godliness were +sometimes dishonest." + +"I knew it," he answered, "but I never felt it before." + +"And I never felt it till I saw it in my son," continued the old man, +sadly; "but there are other sins besides dishonesty, of a deeper dye, +perhaps, in the sight of our Creator. If Roland Sefton had met with a +more merciful man than I am he might have been saved." + +For a minute or two his white head was bowed down, and his wrinkled +eyelids were closed, whilst Felix sat beside him as sorrowful as +himself. + +"I could not be merciful," he burst out with a sudden fierceness in his +face and tone, "I could not spare him, because I had not spared my own +son. I had let one life go down into darkness, refusing to stretch out +so much as a little finger in help, though he was as dear to me as my +own life; and God required me yet again to see a life perish because of +my hardness of heart. I think sometimes if Roland had come and cast +himself on my mercy, I should have pardoned him; but again I think my +heart was too hard then to know what mercy was. But those two, Felix, my +son Robert, who died of starvation in the streets of Paris, and your +father, who perished on a winter's night in Switzerland, they are my +daily companions. They sit down beside me here, and by the fireside, and +at my solitary meals; and they watch beside me in the night. They will +never leave me till I see them again, and confess my sin to them." + +"It was not you alone whom my father wronged," said Felix, "there were +others besides you who might have prosecuted him." + +"Yes, but they were ignorant, simple men," replied Mr. Clifford, "they +need never have known of his crime. All their money could have been +replaced without their knowledge; it was of me Roland was afraid. If the +time could come over again--and I go over and over it in my own mind all +in vain--I would act altogether differently. I would make him feel to +the utmost the sin and peril of his course; but I would keep his secret. +Even Felicita should know nothing. It was partly my fault too. If I had +fulfilled my duty, and looked after my affairs instead of dreaming my +time away in Italy, your father, as the junior partner, could not have +fallen into this snare. When a crime is committed the criminal is not +the only one to be blamed. Consciously or unconsciously those about him +have been helping by their own carelessness and indolence, by cowardice, +by indifference to right and wrong. By a thousand subtle influences we +help our brother to disobey God; and when he is found out we stand aloof +and raise an outcry against him. God has made every one of us his +brother's keeper." + +"Then you too have forgiven him," said Felix, with a glowing sense of +comfort in his heart. + +"Forgiven him? ay!" he answered, "as he sits by me at the fireside, +invisible to all but me, I say to him again and again in words inaudible +to all but him: + + 'Even as I hope for pardon in that day, + When the great Judge of heaven in scarlet sits, + So be thou pardoned.'" + +The tremulous, weak old voice paused, and the withered hands lay feebly +on his knees as he looked out on the summer sky, seeing nothing of its +brightness, for the thoughts and memories that were flocking to his +brain. Felix's younger eyes caught every familiar object on which the +sun was shining, and knitted them up for ever with the memory of that +hour. + +"God help me!" he cried, "I forgive my father too; but I have lost him. +I never knew the real man." + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG. + + +On the same August morning when Felix was riding up the long lovely +lanes to Phebe Marlowe's little farmstead, Canon Pascal and Alice were +starting by the earliest boat which left Lucerne for Stansstad, in the +dewy coolness of the dawn. The short transit was quickly over, and an +omnibus carried them into Stans, where they left their knapsacks to be +sent on after them during the day. The long pleasant walk of fourteen +miles to Engelberg lay before them, to be taken leisurely, with many a +rest in the deep cool shades of the woods, or under the shadow of some +great rock. The only impediment with which Alice burdened herself was a +little green slip of ivy, which Felix had gathered from the walls of her +country home, and which she had carried in a little flower-pot filled +with English soil, to plant on his father's grave. It had been a sacred, +though somewhat troublesome charge to her, as they had travelled from +place to place, and she had not permitted any one to take the care of it +off her hands. This evening, with her own hands, she was going to plant +it upon the foreign grave of Roland Sefton; which had been so long +neglected, and unvisited by those whom he had left behind him. That +Felicita should never have made a pilgrimage to this sacred spot was a +wonder to her; but that she should so steadily resist the wish of Felix +to visit his father's resting-place, filled Alice's heart with grave +misgivings for her own future happiness. + +But she was not troubling herself with any misgivings to-day, as they +journeyed onward and upward through the rich meadows and thick forests +leading to the Alpine valley which lay under the snowy dome of the +Titlis. Her father's enjoyment of the sweet solitude and changeful +beauty of their pathway was too perfect for her to mar it by any +mournful forebodings. He walked beside her under the arched aisles of +the pine-woods bareheaded, singing snatches of song as joyously as a +school-boy, or waded off through marshy and miry places in quest of some +rare plant which ought to be growing there, splashing back to her +farther on in the winding road, scarcely less happy if he had not found +it than if he had. How could she be troubled whilst her father was +treading on enchanted ground? + +But the last time they allowed themselves to sit down to rest before +entering the village, Canon Pascal's face grew grave, and his manner +toward his daughter became more tender and caressing than usual. The +secret which Phebe had told him of Roland Sefton had been pondered over +these many weeks in his heart. If it had concerned Felix only he would +have felt himself grieved at this story of his father's sin, but he knew +too well it concerned Alice as closely. This little ivy-slip, so +carefully though silently guarded through all the journey, had been a +daily reminder to him of his girl's love for her old playfellow and +companion. Though she had not told him of its destiny he had guessed it, +and now as she screened it from the too direct rays of the hot sun it +spoke to her of Felix, and to him of his father's crime. + +He had no resolve to make his daughter miserable by raising obstacles to +her marriage with Felix, who was truly as dear to him as his own sons. +But yet, if he had only known this dishonest strain in the blood, would +he, years ago, have taken Felix into his home, and exposed Alice to the +danger of loving him? Felix was out of the way of temptation; there was +no stream of money passing through his hands, and it would be hard and +vile indeed for him to fall into any dishonest trickery. But it might be +that his children, Alice's children, might tread in the steps of their +forefather, Roland Sefton, and pursue the same devious course. Thieves +breed thieves, it was said, in the lowest dregs of social life. Would +there be some fatal weakness, some insidious improbity, in the nature of +those descending from Roland Sefton? + +It was a wrong against God, a faithless distrust of Him, he said to +himself, to let these dark thoughts distress his mind, at the close of a +day such as that which had been granted to him, almost as a direct and +perfect gift from heaven itself. He looked into the sweet, tranquil face +of his girl, and the trustful loving eyes which met his anxious gaze +with so open and frank an expression; yet he could not altogether shake +off the feeling of solicitude and foreboding which had fallen upon his +spirit. + +"Let us go on, and have a quiet dinner by ourselves," said Alice, at +last, "and then we shall have all the cool of the evening to wander +about as we please." + +They left their resting-place, and walked on in silence, as if they were +overawed by the snow-clad mountains and towering peaks hanging over the +valley. A little way off the road they saw a poor and miserable hut, +built on piles of stones, with deep, sheltering eaves, but with a broken +roof, and no light except such as entered it by the door. In the dimness +of the interior they just caught sight of a gray-headed man, sitting on +the floor, with his face hidden on his knees. It was an attitude telling +of deep wretchedness, and heaviness of heart; and though neither of them +spoke of the glimpse they had had, they drew nearer to one another, and +walked closely together until they reached the hotel. + +It was still broad daylight, though the sun had sunk behind the lofty +mountains when they strolled out again into the picturesque, irregular +street of the village. The clear blue sky above them was of the color of +the wild hyacinth, the simplest, purest blue, against which the pure and +simple white of the snowy domes and pinnacles of the mountain ranges +inclosing the valley stood out in sharp, bold outlines; whilst the dark +green of the solemn pine-forests climbing up the steep slopes looked +almost black against the pale grey peaks jutting up from among them, +with silver lines of snow marking out every line and crevice in their +furrowed and fretted architecture. Canon Pascal bared his head, as if he +had been entering his beloved Abbey in Westminster. + +"God is very glorious!" he said, in a low and reverent tone. "God is +very good!" + +In silence they sauntered on, with loitering steps, to the little +cemetery, where lay the grave they had come to seek. They found it in a +forlorn and deserted corner, but there was no trace of neglect about the +grey unpolished granite of the cross that marked it. No weeds were +growing around it, and no moss was gathering upon it; the lettering, +telling the name, and age, and date of death, of the man who lay beneath +it, was as clear as if it had just come from the chisel of the graver. +The tears sprang to Alice's eyes as she stood before it with reverently +bowed head, looking down on Roland Sefton's grave. + +"Did you ever see him, father?" she asked, almost in a whisper. + +"I saw him once," he answered, "at Riversdale Towers, when Felix was +still only a baby. He was a finer and handsomer man than Felix will ever +be; and there was more foreign blood in his veins, which gave him greater +gaiety and simpler vivacity than Englishmen usually have. I remember how +he watched over Felicita, and waited on her in an almost womanly fashion; +and fetched his baby himself for us to see, carrying him in his own arms +with the deft skill of a nurse. Felix is as tender-hearted, but he would +not make a show of it so openly." + +"Cousin Felicita must have loved him with her whole heart," sighed +Alice, "yet if I were in her place, I should come here often; it would +be the one place I loved to come to. She is a hard woman, father; hard, +and bitter, and obstinate. Do you think Felix's father would have set +himself against me as she has done?" + +She turned to him, her sad and pensive face, almost the dearest face in +the world to him; and he gazed into it with penetrating and loving eyes. +Would it not be best to tell the child the secret this grave covered, +here, by the grave itself? Better for her to know the truth concerning +the dead, than cherish hard and unjust thoughts of the living. Even if +Felicita consented, he could not let her marry Felix ignorant of the +facts which Phebe had disclosed to him. Felix himself must know them +some day; and was not this the hour and the place for revealing them to +Alice? + +"My darling," he said, "I know why Felicita never comes here, nor lets +her children come; and also why she is at present opposed to the thought +of Felix marrying. Roland Sefton, her husband, the unhappy man whose +body lies here, was guilty of a crime; and died miserably while a +fugitive from our country. His death consigned the crime to oblivion; no +one remembered it against her and her children. But if he had lived he +would have been a convict; and she, and Felix, and Hilda would have +shared his ignominy. She feels that she must not suffer Felix to enter +our family until she has told me this; and it is the mere thought and +dread of such a disclosure that has made her ill. We must wait till her +mind recovers its strength." + +"What was it he had done?" asked Alice, with quivering lips. + +"He had misappropriated a number of securities left in his charge," +answered Canon Pascal, "Phebe says to the amount of over L10,000; most +of it belonging to Mr. Clifford." + +"Is that all?" cried Alice, the color rushing back again to her face, +and the light to her eyes, "was it only money? Oh! I thought it was more +dreadful than that. Why! we should never blame cousin Felicita because +her husband misappropriated some securities belonging to old Mr. +Clifford. And Felix is not to blame at all; how could he be? Poor +Felix!" + +"But, Alice," he said, with a half smile, "if, instead of being buried +here, Roland Sefton had lived, and been arrested, and sent to a convict +prison for a term of imprisonment, Felicita's life, and the life of her +children, would have been altogether overshadowed by the disgrace and +infamy of it. There could have been no love between you and Felix." + +"It was a good thing that he died," she answered, looking down on the +grave again almost gladly. "Does Felix know this? But I am sure he does +not," she added quickly, and looking up with a heightened color into her +father's face, "he is all honor, and truth, and unselfishness. He could +not be guilty of a crime against any one." + +"I believe in Felix; I love him dearly," her father said, "but if I had +known of this I do not think I could have brought him up in my own home, +with my own boys and girls. God knows it would have been a difficult +point to settle; but it was not given to my poor wisdom to decide." + +"I shall not love Felix one jot less," she said, "or reverence him less. +If all his forefathers had been bad men I should be sure still that he +was good. I never knew him do or say anything that was mean or selfish. +My poor Felix! Oh, father! I shall love him more than ever now I know +there is something in his life that needs pity. When he knows it he will +come to me for comfort; and I will comfort him. His father shall hear me +promise it by this grave here. I will never, never visit Roland +Sefton's sin on his son; I will never in my heart think of it as a thing +against him. And if all the world came to know it, I would never once +feel a moment's shame of him." + +Her voice faltered a little, and she knelt down on the parched grass at +the foot of the cross, hiding her face in her hands. Canon Pascal laid +his hand fondly on her bowed head; and then he left her that she might +be alone with the grave, and God. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +THE LOWEST DEEPS. + + +The miserable, delapidated hut at the entrance of Engelberg, with no +light save that which entered by the doorway, had been Jean Merle's +home since he had fixed his abode in the valley, drawn thither +irresistibly by the grave which bore Roland Sefton's name. There was +less provision for comfort in this dark hovel than in a monk's cell. A +log of rough, unbarked timber from the forest was the only seat, and a +rude framework of wood filled with straw or dry ferns was his bed. The +floor was bare, except near the door, the upper half of which usually +stood open, and here it was covered with fine chips of box and oak-wood, +and the dust which fell from his busy graver, the tool which was never +out of his fingers while the light served him. There was no more +decoration then there was comfort; except that on the smoke-stained +walls the mildew had pencilled out some strange and grotesque lines, as +if some mural painting had mouldered into ruin there. Two or three +English books alone, of the cheap continental editions, lay at one end +of a clumsy shelf; with the few cooking utensils which were absolutely +necessary, piled together on the other. There was a small stove in one +corner of the hovel, where a handful of embers could be seen at times, +like the eye of some wild creature lurking in the deep gloom. + +Jean Merle, though still two or three years under fifty, was looked upon +by his neighbors as being a man of great, though unknown age. Yet, +though he stooped in the shoulders a little, and walked with his head +bent down, he was not infirm, nor had he the appearance of infirmity. +His long mountain expeditions kept his muscles in full force and +activity. But his grey face was marked with many lines, so fine as to be +seen only at close quarters; yet on the whole forming a wrinkled and +aged mask as of one far advanced in life. In addition to this +singularity of aspect there was the extraordinary seclusion and sordid +miserliness of his mode of existence, more in harmony with the +passiveness of extreme old age, than with the energy of a man still in +the prime of his days. The village mothers frightened their children +with tales about Jean Merle's gigantic strength, which made him an +object of terror to them. He sought acquaintanceship with none of his +neighbors; and they avoided him as a heretic and a stranger. + +The rugged, simple, narrow life of his Swiss forefathers gathered around +him, and hedged him in. They had been peasant-farmers, with the +exception of the mountain-pastor his grandfather, and he still +well-remembered Felix Merle, after whom his boy had been called. All of +them had been men toiling with their own hands, with a never-ceasing +bodily activity, which had left them but little time or faculty for any +mental pursuit. This half of his nature fitted him well for the life +that now lay before him. As his Swiss ancestors had been for many +generations toil-worn and weather-beaten men, whose faces were sunburnt +and sun-blistered, whose backs were bent with labor, and whose weary +feet dragged heavily along the rough paths, so he became. The social +refinement of the prosperous Englishman, skin deep as it is, vanished in +the coarse and narrow life to which he had partly doomed himself, had +partly been doomed, by the dull, despondent apathy which had possessed +his soul, when he first left the hospital in Lucerne. + +His mode of living was as monotonous as it was solitary. His work only +gave him some passing interest, for in the bitterness of his spirit he +kept himself quite apart from all relation with his fellow-men. As far +as in him lay he shut out the memory of the irrevocable past, and +forbade his heart to wander back to the years that were gone. He strove +to concentrate himself upon his daily toil, and the few daily wants of +his body; and after a while a small degree of calm and composure had +been won by him. Roland Sefton was dead; let him lie motionless, as a +corpse should do, in the silence of his grave. But Jean Merle was +living, and might continue to live another twenty years or more, thus +solitarily and monotonously. + +But there was one project which he formed early in his new state of +existence, which linked him by a living link to the old. As soon as he +found he could earn handsome wages for his skilled and delicate work, +wages which he could in no way spend, and yet continue the penance which +he pronounced upon himself, the thought came to him of restoring the +money which had been intrusted to him by old Marlowe, and the other poor +men who had placed their savings in his care. To repay the larger amount +to which he was indebted to Mr. Clifford would be impossible; but to +earn the other sums, though it might be the work of years, was still +practicable, especially if from time to time he could make safe and +prudent speculations, such as his knowledge of the money-market might +enable him to do, so as to insure more rapid returns. At the village inn +he could see the newspapers, with their lists of the various continental +funds, and the share and stock markets; and without entering at all into +the world he could direct the buying in and selling out of his stock +through some bankers in Lucerne. + +Even this restitution must be made in secret, and be so wrapped up in +darkness and stealth that no one could suspect the hand from which it +came. For he knew that the net he had woven about himself was too strong +and intricate to be broken through without deadly injury to others, and +above all to Felicita. The grave yonder, and the stone cross above it, +barred the way to any return by the path he had come. But would it be +utterly impossible for him to venture back, changed as he was by these +many years, to England? It would be only Jean Merle who would travel +thither, there could be no resurrection for Roland Sefton. But could not +Jean Merle see from afar off the old home; or Phebe Marlowe's cottage on +the hill-side; or possibly his mother, or his children; nay, Felicita +herself? Only afar off; as some banished, repentant soul, drawing a +little nearer to the walls of the eternal city, might be favored with a +glimpse of the golden streets, and the white-robed citizens therein, the +memory of which would dwell within him for evermore. + +As he drew nearer the end he grew more eager to reach it. The dull +apathy of the past thirteen years was transformed into a feverish +anticipation of his secret journey to England with the accumulated +proceeds of his work and his speculations; which in some way or other +must find their way into the hands of the men who had trusted him in +time past. But at this juncture the bankers at Lucerne failed him, as +he had failed others. It was not simply that his speculations turned +out badly; but the men to whom he had intrusted the conduct of them, +from his solitary mountain-home, had defrauded him; and the bank broke. +The measure he had meted out to others had been measured to him again. +Whatsoever he had done unto men they had done unto him. + +For three days Jean Merle wandered about the eternal frosts of the +ice-bound peaks and snow-fields of the mountains around him, living he +did not himself know how. It was not money he had lost. Like old Marlowe +he realized how poor a symbol money was of the long years of ceaseless +toil, the days of self-denial, the hours of anxious thoughts it +represented. And besides this darker side, it stood also for the hopes +he had cherished, vaguely, almost unconsciously, but still with strong +earnestness. He had fled from the penalty the just laws of his country +demanded from him, taking refuge in a second and more terrible fraud, +and now God suffered him not to make this small reparation for his sin, +or to taste the single drop of satisfaction that he hoped for in +realizing the object he had set before him. There was no place of +repentance for him; not a foot-hold in all the wide wilderness of his +banishment on which he could stand, and repair one jot a little of the +injury he had inflicted upon his fellow-men. + +What passed through his soul those three days, amidst the ice-solitudes +where no life was, and where the only sounds that spoke to him were the +wild awful tones of nature in her dreariest haunts, he could never tell; +he could hardly recall it to his own memory. He felt as utterly alone as +if no other human being existed on the face of the earth; yet as if he +alone had to bear the burden of all the falsehood, and dishonesty and +dishonor of the countless generations of false and dishonorable men +which this earth has seen. + +All hope was dead now. There was nothing more to work for, or to look +forward to. Nothing lay before him but his solitary blank life in the +miserable hut below. There was no interest in the world for him but +Roland Sefton's grave. + +He descended the mountain-side at last. For the first time since he had +left the valley he noticed that the sun was shining, and that the whole +landscape below him was bathed in light. The village was all astir, and +travellers were coming and going. It was not in the sight of all the +world that he could drag his weary feet to the cemetery, where Roland +Sefton's grave was; and he turned aside into his own hut to wait till +the evening was come. + +At last the sun went down upon his misery, and the cool shades of the +long twilight crept on. He made a circuit round the village to reach the +spot he longed to visit. His downcast eyes saw nothing but the rough +ground he trod, and the narrow path his footsteps had made to the +solitary grave, until he was close to it; and then, looking up to read +the name upon the cross, he discerned the figure of a girl kneeling +before it, and carefully planting a little slip of ivy into the soil +beneath it. + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +ALICE PASCAL. + + +Alice Pascal looked up into Jean Merle's face with the frank and easy +self-possession of a well-bred English woman; coloring a little with +girlish shyness, yet at the same time smiling with a pleasant light in +her dark eyes. The oval of her face, and the color of her hair and eyes, +resembled, though slightly, the more beautiful face of Felicita in her +girlhood; it was simply the curious likeness which runs through some +families to the remotest branches. But her smile, the shape of her eyes, +the kneeling attitude, riveted him to the spot where he stood, and +struck him dumb. A fancy flashed across his brain, which shone like a +light from heaven. Could this girl be Hilda, his little daughter, whom +he had seen last sleeping in her cot? Was she then come, after many +years, to visit her father's grave? + +There had always been a corroding grief to him in the thought that it +was Felicita herself who had erected that cross over the tomb of the +stranger, with whom his name was buried. He did not know that it was Mr. +Clifford alone who had thus set a mark upon the place where he believed +that the son of his old friend was lying. It had pained Jean Merle to +think that Felicita had commemorated their mutual sin by the erection +of an imperishable monument; and it had never surprised him that no one +had visited the grave. His astonishment came now. Was it possible that +Felicita had revisited Switzerland? Could she be near at hand, in the +village down yonder? His mother, also, and his boy, Felix, could they be +treading the same soil, and breathing the same air as himself? An agony +of mingled terror and rapture shot through his inmost soul. His lips +were dry, and his throat parched: he could not articulate a syllable. + +He did not know what a gaunt and haggard madman he appeared. His grey +hair was ragged and tangled, and his sunken eyes gleamed with a strange +brightness. The villagers, who were wont at times to call him an +imbecile, would have been sure they were right at this moment, as he +stood motionless and dumb, staring at Alice; but to her he looked more +like one whose reason was just trembling in the balance. She was alone, +her father was no longer in sight; but she was not easily frightened. +Rather a sense of sacred pity for the forlorn wretch before her filled +her heart. + +"See!" she said, in clear and penetrating accents, full, however, of +gentle kindness, and she spoke unconsciously in English, "see! I have +carried this little slip of ivy all the way from England to plant it +here. This is the grave of a man I should have loved very dearly." + +A rapid flush of color passed over her face as she spoke, leaving it +paler than before, while a slight sadness clouded the smile in her eyes. + +"Was he your father?" he articulated, with an immense effort. + +"No," she answered; "not my father, but the father of my dearest +friends. They cannot come here; but it was his son who gathered this +slip of ivy from our porch at home, and asked me to plant it here for +him. Will it grow, do you think?" + +"It shall grow," he muttered. + +It was not his daughter, then; none of his own blood was at hand. But +this English girl fascinated him; he could not turn away his eyes, but +watched every slight movement as she carefully gathered the soil about +the root of the little plant, which he vowed within himself should +grow. She was rather long about her task, for she wished this madman to +go away, and leave her alone beside Roland Sefton's grave. What her +father had told her about him was still strange to her, and she wanted +to familiarize it to herself. But still the haggard-looking peasant +lingered at her side, gazing at her with his glowering and sunken eyes; +yet neither moving nor speaking. + +"You know English?" she said, as all at once it occurred to her that she +had spoken to him as she would have spoken to one of the villagers in +their own country churchyard at home, and that he had answered her. He +replied only by a gesture. + +"Can you find me some one who will take charge of this little plant?" +she asked. + +Jean Merle raised his head and lifted up his dim eyes to the eastern +mountain-peaks, which were still shining in the rays of the sinking sun, +though the twilight was darkening everywhere in the valley. Only last +night he had slept among some juniper-bushes just below the boundary of +that everlasting snow, feeling himself cast out forever from any glimpse +of his old Paradise. But now, if he could only find words and +utterance, there was come to him, even to him, a messenger, an angel +direct from the very heart of his home, who could tell him all that last +night he believed that he should never know. The tears sprang to his +eyes, blessed tears; and a rush of uncontrollable longing overwhelmed +him. He must hear all he could of those whom he loved; and then, whether +he lived long or died soon, he would thank God as long as his miserable +life continued. + +"It is I who take care of this grave," he said; "I was with him when he +died. He spoke to me of Felix and Hilda and his mother; and I saw their +portraits. You hear? I know them all." + +"Was it you who watched beside him?" asked Alice eagerly. "Oh! sit down +here and tell me all about it; all you can remember. I will tell it all +again to Felix, and Hilda, and Phebe Marlowe; and oh! how glad, and how +sorry they will be to listen!" + +There was no mention of Felicita's name, and Jean Merle felt a terrible +dread come over him at this omission. He sank down on the ground beside +the grave, and looked up into Alice's bright young face, with eyes that +to her were no longer lit up with the fire of insanity, however intense +and eager they might seem. It was an undreamed-of chance which had +brought to her side the man who had watched by the death-bed of Felix's +father. + +"Tell me all you remember," she urged. + +"I remember nothing," he answered, pressing his dark hard hand against +his forehead, "it is more than thirteen years ago. But he showed to me +their portraits. Is his wife still living?" + +"Oh, yes!" she answered, "but she will not let either of them come to +Switzerland; neither Felix nor Hilda. Nobody speaks of this country in +her hearing; and his name is never uttered. But his mother used to talk +to us about him; and Phebe Marlowe does so still. She has painted a +portrait of him for Felix." + +"Is Roland Sefton's mother yet alive?" he asked, with a dull, aching +foreboding of her reply. + +"No," she said. "Oh! how we all loved dear old Madame Sefton! She was +always more like Felix and Hilda's mother than Cousin Felicita was. We +loved her more a hundred times than Cousin Felicita, for we are afraid +of her. It was her husband's death that spoiled her whole life and set +her quite apart from everybody else. But Madame--she was not made so +utterly miserable by it; she knew she would meet her son again in +heaven. When she was dying she said to Cousin Felicita, 'He did not +return to me, but I go to him; I go gladly to see again my dear son.' +The very last words they heard her say were, 'I come, Roland!'" + +Alice's voice trembled, and she laid her hand caressingly on the name of +Roland Sefton graved on the cross above her. Jean Merle listened, as if +he heard the words whispered a long way off, or as by some one speaking +in a dream. The meaning had not reached his brain, but was travelling +slowly to it, and would surely pierce his heart with a new sorrow and a +fresh pang of remorse. The loud chanting of the monks in the abbey close +by broke in upon their solemn silence, and awoke Alice from the reverie +into which she had fallen. + +"Can you tell me nothing about him?" she asked. "Talk to me as if I was +his child." + +"I have nothing to tell you," answered Jean Merle. "I remember nothing +he said." + +She looked down on the poor ragged peasant at her feet, with his gaunt +and scarred features, and his slowly articulated speech. There seemed +nothing strange in such a man not being able to recall Roland Sefton's +dying words. It was probable that he barely understood them; and most +likely he could not gather up the meaning of what she herself was +saying. The few words he uttered were English, but they were very few +and forced. + +"I am sorry," she said gently, "but I will tell them you promised to +take care of the ivy I have planted here." + +She wished the dull, gray-headed villager would go home, and leave her +alone for awhile in this solemn and sacred place; but he crouched still +on the ground, stirring neither hand nor foot. When at last she moved as +if to go away, he stretched out a toil-worn hand, and laid it on her +dress. + +"Stay," he said, "tell me more about Roland Sefton's children; I will +think of it when I am tending this grave." + +"What am I to tell you?" she asked gently, "Hilda is three years younger +than me, and people say we are like sisters. She and Felix were brought +up with me and my brothers in my father's house; we were like brothers +and sisters. And Felix is like another son to my father, who says he +will be both good and great some day. Good he is now; as good as man can +be." + +"And you love him!" said Jean Merle, in a low and humble voice, with his +head turned away from her, and resting on the lowest step of the cross. + +Alice started and trembled as she looked down on the grave and the +prostrate man. It seemed to her as if the words had almost come out of +this sad, and solitary, and forsaken grave, where Roland Sefton had lain +unvisited so many years. The last gleam of daylight had vanished from +the snowy peaks, leaving them wan and pallid as the dead. A sudden chill +came into the evening air which made her shiver; but she was not +terrified, though she felt a certain bewilderment and agitation creeping +through her. She could not resist the impulse to answer the strange +question. + +"Yes, I love Felix," she said simply. "We love each other dearly." + +"God bless you!" cried Jean Merle, in a tremulous voice. "God in heaven +bless you both, and preserve you to each other." + +He had lifted himself up, and was kneeling before her, eagerly scanning +her face, as if to impress it on his memory. He bent down his gray head +and kissed her hand humbly and reverently, touching it only with his +lips. Then starting to his feet he hastened away from the cemetery, and +was soon lost to her sight in the gathering gloom of the dusk. + +For a little while longer Alice lingered at the grave, thinking over +what had passed. It was not much as she recalled it, but it left her +agitated and disturbed. Yet after all she had only uttered aloud what +her heart would have said at the grave of Felix's father. But this +strange peasant, so miserable and poverty-stricken, so haggard and +hopeless-looking, haunted her thoughts both waking and sleeping. Early +the next morning she and Canon Pascal went to the hovel inhabited by +Jean Merle, but found it deserted and locked up. Some laborers had seen +him start off at daybreak up the Truebsee Alps, from which he might be +either ascending the Titlis or taking the route to the Joch-Pass. There +was no chance of his return that day, and Jean Merle's absence might +last for several days, as he was eccentric, and bestowed his confidence +on nobody. There was little more to be learned of him, except that he +was a heretic, a stranger, and a miser. Canon Pascal and Alice visited +once more Roland Sefton's grave, and then they went on their way over +the Joch-Pass, with some faint hopes of meeting with Jean Merle on their +route, hopes that were not fulfilled. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +COMING TO HIMSELF. + + +When he left the cemetery Jean Merle went home to his wretched chalet, +flung himself down on his rough bed, and slept for some hours the +profound and dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. The last three nights +he had passed under the stars, and stretched upon the low +juniper-bushes. He awoke suddenly, from the bright, clear moonlight of a +cloudless sky and dry atmosphere streaming in through his door, which he +had left open. There was light enough for him to withdraw some money +from a safe hiding-place he had constructed in his crazy old hut, and to +make up a packet of most of the clothing he possessed. There were +between twenty and thirty pounds in gold pieces of twenty francs +each--the only money he was master of now his Lucerne bankers had failed +him. A vague purpose, dimly shaping itself, was in his brain, but he was +in no hurry to see it take definite form. With his small bundle of +clothes and his leathern purse he started off in the earliest rays of +the dawn to escape being visited by the young English girl, whom he had +seen at the grave, and who would probably seek him out in the morning +with her father. Who they were he could find out if he himself returned +to Engelberg. + +_If_ he returned; for, as he ascended the steep path leading up to the +Truebsee Alp, he turned back to look at the high mountain-valley where he +had dwelt so long, as though he was looking upon it for the last time. +It seemed to him as if he was awaking out of a long lethargy and +paralysis. Three days ago the dull round of incessant toil and +parsimonious hoarding had been abruptly broken up by the loss of all he +had toiled for and hoarded up, and the shock had driven him out like a +maniac, to wander about the desolate heights of Engelberg in a mood +bordering on despair, which had made him utterly reckless of his life. +Since then news had come to him from home--stray gleams from the +Paradise he had forfeited. Strongest of them all was the thought that +these fourteen years had transformed his little son Felix into a man, +loving as he himself had loved, and already called to take his part in +the battle of life. He had never realized this before, and it stirred +his heart to the very depths. His children had been but soft, vague +memories to him; it was Felicita who had engrossed all his thought. All +at once he comprehended that he was a father, the father of a son and +daughter, who had their own separate life and career. A deep and +poignant interest in these beings took possession of him. He had called +them into existence; they belonged to him by a tie which nothing on +earth, in heaven, or in hell itself could destroy. As long as they lived +there must be an indestructible interest for him in this world. Felicita +was no longer the first in his thoughts. + +The dim veil which time had drawn around them was rent asunder, and they +stood before him bathed in light, but placed on the other side of a gulf +as fathomless, as impassable, and as death-like as the ice-crevasses +yawning at his feet. He gazed down into the cold, gleaming abyss, and +across it to the sharp and slippery margin where there could be no +foot-hold, and he pictured to himself the springing across that horrible +gulf to reach them on the other side, and the falling, with outstretched +hands and clutching fingers, into the unseen icy depths below him. For +the first time in his life he shrank back shivering and terror-stricken +from the edge of the crevasse, with palsied limbs and treacherous +nerves. He felt that he must get back into safer standing-ground than +this solitary and perilous glacier. + +He reached at last a point of safety, where he could lie down and let +his trembling limbs rest awhile. The whole slope of the valley lay below +him, with its rich meadows of emerald green, and its silvery streams +wandering through them. Little farms and chalets were dotted about, some +of them clinging to the sides of the rocks opposite to him, or resting +on the very edge of precipices thousands of feet deep, and looking as if +they were about to slip over them. He felt his head grow giddy as he +looked at them, and thought of the children at play in such dangerous +playgrounds. There were a few gray clouds hanging about the Titlis, and +caught upon the sharp horns of the rugged peaks around the valley. Every +peak and precipice he knew; they had been his refuge in the hours of his +greatest anguish. But these palsied limbs and this giddy head could not +be trusted to carry him there again. He had lost his last hope of making +any atonement. Hope was gone; was he to lose his indomitable courage +also? It was the last faculty which made his present life endurable. + +He lay motionless for hours, neither listening nor looking. Yet he +heard, for the memory of it often came back to him in after years, the +tinkling of innumerable bells from the pastures below him, and around +him; and the voices of many waterfalls rushing down through the +pine-forests into the valley; and the tossing to and fro of the +interwoven branches of the trees. And he saw the sunlight stealing from +one point to another, chased by the shadows of the clouds, that gathered +and dispersed, dimming the blue sky for a little time, and then leaving +it brighter and deeper than before. He was unconscious of it all; he was +even unaware that his brain was at work at all, until suddenly, like a +flash, there rose upon him the clear, resolute, unchangeable +determination, "I will go to England." + +He started up at once, and seized his bundle and his alpenstock. The +afternoon was far advanced, but there was time enough to reach the +Engstlenalp, where he could stay the night, and go on in the morning to +Meiringen. He could be in England in three days. + +Three days: so short a time separated him from the country and the home +from which he had been exiled so many years. Any day during those +fourteen years he might have started homeward as he was doing now; but +there had not been the irresistible hunger in his heart that at this +moment drove him thither. He had been vainly seeking to satisfy himself +with husks; but even these, dry and empty, and bitter as they were, had +failed him. He had lost all; and having lost all, he was coming to +himself. + +There was not the slightest fear of detection in his mind. A gray-haired +man with bowed shoulders, and seamed and marred face, who had lost every +trace of the fastidiousness, which had verged upon foppery in the +handsome and prosperous Roland Sefton, ran no risk of recognition, more +especially as Roland Sefton had been reckoned among the dead and buried +for many a long year. The lineaments of the dead die with them, however +cunningly the artist may have used his skill to preserve them. The face +is gone, and the memory of it. Some hearts may long to keep it engraven +sharp and clear in their remembrance; but oh, when the "inward eye" +comes to look for it how dull and blurred it lies there, like a +forgotten photograph which has grown faded and stained in some +seldom-visited cabinet! + +Jean Merle travelled, as a man of his class would travel, in a +third-class wagon and a slow train; but he kept on, stopping nowhere for +rest, and advancing as rapidly as he could, until on the third day, in +the gray of the evening, he saw the chalk-line of the English coast +rising against the faint yellow light of the sunset; and as night fell +his feet once more trod upon his native soil. + +So far he had been simply yielding to his blind and irresistible longing +to get back to England, and nearer to his unknown children. He had heard +so little of them from Alice Pascal, that he could no longer rest +without knowing more. How to carry out his intention he did not know, +and he had hardly given it a thought. But now, as he strolled slowly +along the flat and sandy shore for an hour or two, with the darkness +hiding both sea and land from him, except the spot on which he stood, he +began to consider what steps he must take to learn what he wanted to +know, and to see their happiness afar off without in any way endangering +it. He had purchased it at too heavy a price to be willing to place it +in any peril now. + +That Felicita had left Riversborough he had heard from her own lips, but +there was no other place where he was sure of discovering her present +abode, for London was too wide a city, even if she had carried out her +intention of living there, for him to ascertain where she dwelt. Phebe +Marlowe would certainly know where he could find them, for the English +girl at Roland Sefton's grave had spoken of Phebe as familiarly as of +Felix and Hilda--spoken of her, in fact, as if she was quite one of the +family. There would be no danger in seeking out Phebe Marlowe. If his +own mother could not have recognized her son in the rugged peasant he +had become, there was no chance of a young girl such as Phebe had been +ever thinking of Roland Sefton in connection with him; and he could +learn all he wished to know from her. + +He was careful to take the precaution of exchanging his foreign garb of +a Swiss peasant for the dress of an English mechanic. The change did not +make him look any more like his old self, for there was no longer any +incongruity in his appearance. No soul on earth knew that he had not +died many years ago, except Felicita. He might saunter down the streets +of his native town in broad daylight on a market-day, and not a +suspicion would cross any brain that here was their old townsman, Roland +Sefton, the fraudulent banker. + +Yet he timed his journey so as not to reach Riversborough before the +evening of the next day; and it was growing dusk when he paced once more +the familiar streets, slowly, and at every step gathering up some sharp +reminiscence of the past. How little were they changed! The old +grammar-school, with its gray walls and mullioned windows, looked +exactly as it had done when he was yet a boy wearing his college-cap and +carrying his satchel of school-books. His name, he knew, was painted in +gold on a black tablet on the walls inside as a scholar who had gained +a scholarship. Most of the shops on each side of the streets bore the +same names and looked but little altered. In the churchyard the same +grave-stones were standing as they stood when he, as a child, spelt out +their inscriptions through the open railings which separated them from +the causeway. There was a zigzag crack in one of the flag-stones, which +was one of his earliest recollections; he stood and put his clumsy boot +upon it as he had often placed his little foot in those childish years, +and leaning his head against the railings of the churchyard, where all +his English forefathers for many a generation were buried, he waited as +if for some voice to speak to him. + +Suddenly the bells in the dark tower above him rang out a peal, clanging +and clashing noisily together as if to give him a welcome. They had rung +so the day he brought Felicita home after their long wedding journey. It +was Friday night, the night when the ringers had always been used to +practise, in the days when he was churchwarden. The pain of hearing them +was intolerable; he could bear no more that night. Not daring to go on +and look at the house where he was born, and where his children had been +born, but which he could never more enter, he sought out a quiet inn, +and shut himself up in a garret there to think, and at last to sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE. + + +I cannot tell whether it was fancy merely, but the morning light which +streamed into his room seemed more familiar and home-like to him than +it had ever done in Switzerland. He was awakened by one of those sounds +which dwell longest in the memory--the chiming of the church bells +nearest home, which in childhood had so often called to him to shake off +his slumbers, and which spoke to him now in sweet and friendly tones, as +if he was still an innocent child. The tempest-tossed, sinful man lay +listening to them for a minute or two, half asleep yet. He had been +dreaming that he was in truth dead, but that the task assigned to him +was that of an invisible guardian and defender to those who had lost +him. He had been present all these years with his wife, and mother, and +children, going out and coming in with them, hearing all their +conversation, and sharing their family life, but himself unseen and +unheard, felt only by the spiritual influence he could exercise over +them. It had been a blissful dream, such as had never visited him in his +exile; and as the familiar chiming of the bells, high up in the belfry +not far from his attic, fell upon his ear, the dream for a brief moment +gathered a stronger sense of reality. + +It was with a strange feeling, as if he was himself a phantom mingling +with creatures of flesh and blood, that he went out into the streets. +His whole former life lay unrolled before him, but there was no point at +which he could touch it. Every object and every spot was commonplace, +yet invested with a singular and intense significance. Many a man among +the townsfolk he knew by name and history, whose eyes glanced at him as +a stranger, with no surprise at his appearance, and no show of suspicion +or of welcome. Certainly he was nothing but a ghost revisiting the +scenes of a life to which there was no possible return. Yet how he +longed to stretch out his hand and grasp those of these old towns-people +of his! Even the least interesting of the shopkeepers in the streets, +bestirring themselves to meet the business of a new day, seemed to him +one of the most desirable of companions. + +His heart was drawing him to Whitefriars Road, to that spot on earth of +all others most his own, but his resolution failed him whenever he +turned his face that way. He rambled into the ancient market square, +where stood a statue of his Felicita's great uncle, the first Baron +Riversdale. The long shadow of it fell across him as he lingered to look +in at a bookseller's window. He and the bookseller had been +school-fellows together at the grammar-school, and their friendship had +lasted after each was started in his own career. Hundreds of times he +had crossed this door-sill to have a chat with the studious and quiet +bookworm within whose modest life was so great a contrast with his own. +Jean Merle stopped at the well-remembered shop-window. + +His eyes glanced aimlessly along the crowded shelves, but suddenly his +attention was arrested, and his pulses, which had been beating somewhat +fast, throbbed with eager rapidity. A dozen volumes or more, ranged +together, were labelled, "Works by Mrs. Roland Sefton." Surprise, and +pride, and pleasure were in the rapid beatings of his heart. By +Felicita! He read over the titles with a new sense of delight and +admiration; and in the first glow of his astonishment he stepped quickly +into the shop, with erect head and firm tread, and found himself face +to face with his old school-fellow. The sight of his blank, +unrecognizing gaze brought him back to the consciousness of the utter +change in himself. He looked down at his coarse hands and mechanic's +dress, and remembered that he was no longer Roland Sefton. His tongue +was parched; it was difficult to stammer out a word. + +"Do you want anything, my good man?" asked the bookseller quietly. + +There was something in the words "my good man" that brought home to him +at once the complete separation between his former life and the present, +and the perfect security that existed for him in the conviction that +Roland Sefton was dead. With a great effort he commanded himself, and +answered the bookseller's question collectedly. + +"There are some books in the window by Mrs. Roland Sefton," he said, +"how much are they?" + +"That is the six shilling edition," replied the bookseller. + +Jean Merle was on the point of saying he would take them all, but he +checked himself. He must possess them all, and read every line that +Felicita had ever written, but not now, and not here. + +"Which do you think is the best?" he asked. + +"They are all good," was the answer; "we are very proud of Mrs. Roland +Sefton, who belongs to Riversborough. That is her great uncle yonder, +the first Lord Riversdale; and she married a prominent townsman, Roland +Sefton, of the Old Bank. I have a soiled copy or two, which I could sell +to you for half the price of the new ones." + +"She is famous then?" said Jean Merle. + +"She has won her rank as an author," replied the bookseller. "I knew her +husband well, and he always foretold that she would make her mark; and +she has. He died fourteen years ago; and, strange to say, there was +something about your step as you came in which reminded me of him. Do +you belong to Riversborough?" + +"No," he answered; "but my name is Jean Merle, and I am related to +Madame Sefton, his mother. I suppose there is some of the same blood in +Roland Sefton and me." + +"That is it," said the bookseller cordially. "I thought you were a +foreigner, though you speak English so well." + +"There was some mystery about Roland Sefton's death?" remarked Jean +Merle. + +"No, no; at least not much," was the answer. "He went away on a long +holiday, unluckily without announcing it, on account of bank business; +but Mr. Clifford, the senior partner, was on his way to take charge of +affairs. There was but one day between Roland Sefton's departure and Mr. +Clifford's arrival, but during that very day, for some reason or other +unknown, the head clerk committed suicide, and there was a panic and a +run upon the bank. Unfortunately there was no means of communicating +with Sefton, who had started at once for the continent. Mr. Clifford did +not see any necessity for his return, as the mischief was done; but just +as his six months' absence was over--not all holiday, as folks said, for +there was foreign business to see after--he died by accident in +Switzerland. I knew the truth better than most people; for Mr. Clifford +came here often, and dropped many a hint. Some persons still say the +police were seeking for Roland; but that is not true. It was an +unfortunate concatenation of circumstances." + +"You knew him well?" said Jean Merle. + +"Yes; we were school-fellows and friends," answered the bookseller, "and +a finer fellow never breathed. He was always eager to get on, and to +help other people on. We have not had such a public-spirited man amongst +us since he died. It cuts me to the heart when anybody pretends that he +absconded. Absconded! Why! there were dozens of us who would have made +him welcome to every penny we could command. But I own appearances were +against him, and he never came back to clear them up, and prove his +innocence." + +"And this is his wife's best book," said Jean Merle, holding it with +shaking, nerveless hands. Felicita's book! The tears burned under his +eyelids as he looked down on it. + +"I won't say it is the best; it is my favorite," replied the bookseller. +"Her son, Felix Sefton, a clergyman now, was in here yesterday, asking +the same question. If you are related to Madame Sefton, you'll be very +welcome at the Old Bank; and you'll find both of Madame's grand-children +visiting old Mr. Clifford. I'll send one of my boys to show you the +house." + +"Not now," said Jean Merle. If Mr. Clifford was living yet he must be +careful what risks he ran. Hatred has eyes as keen as love; and if any +one could break through his secret it would be the implacable old man, +who had still the power of sending him to a convict prison. + +A shudder ran through him at the dread idea of detection. What would it +be to Felicita now, when her name was famous, to have it dragged down to +ignominy and utter disgrace? The dishonor would be a hundred-fold the +greater for the fair reputation she had won, and the popularity she had +secured. And her children too! Worse for them past all words would it be +than if they were still little creatures, ignorant of the value of the +world's opinion. He bade the bookseller good-morning, and threaded his +way through many alleys and by-lanes of the old town until he reached a +ferry and a boat-house, where many a boat lay ready for him, as they +had always done when he was a boy. He seated himself in one of them, and +taking the oars fell down with the current to the willows under the +garden-wall of his old home. + +He steered his boat aside into a small creek, where the willow-wands +grew tall and thick, from which he could see the whole river frontage of +the old house. Was there any change in it? His keen, despairing gaze +could not detect one. The high tilted gables in the roof stood out clear +against the sky, with their spiral wooden rods projecting above them. +The oriel window cast its slowly moving shadow on the half-timber walls; +and the many lattice casements, with their small diamond-shaped panes, +glistened in the sun as in the days gone by. The garden-plots were +unchanged, and the smooth turf on the terraces was as green and soft as +when he ran along them at his mother's side. The old house brought to +his mind his mother rather than his wife. It was full of associations +and memories of her, with her sweet, humble, self-sacrificing nature. +There was repose and healing in the very thought of her, which seemed +to touch his anguish with a strong and soothing hand. Was there an echo +of her voice still lingering for him about the old spot where he had +listened to it so often? Could he hear her calling to him by his name, +the name he had buried irrecoverably in a foreign grave? For the first +time for many years he bent down his face upon his hands, and wept many +tears; not bitter ones, full of grief as they were. His mother was dead; +he had not wept for her till now. + +Presently there came upon the summer silence the sound of a young, +clear, laughing voice, calling "Phebe;" and he lifted up his head to +look once more at the house. An old man, with silvery white hair was +pacing slowly to and fro on the upper terrace, and a slight girlish +figure was beside him. That was old Clifford, his enemy; but could that +girl be Hilda? A face looked out of one of the windows, smiling down +upon this young girl, which he knew again as Phebe Marlowe's. By and by +she came down to the terrace, with a tall, fine-looking young man +walking beside her; and all three, bidding farewell to the old man, +descended from terrace to terrace, becoming every minute more distinct +to his eyes. Yes, there was Phebe; and these others must be his girl +Hilda and his son Felix. They were near to him, every word they spoke +reached his ears, and penetrated to his heart. They seemed more +beautiful, more perfect than any young creatures he had ever beheld. He +listened to them unfastening the chain which secured the boat, and to +the creaking of the row-locks as they fitted the oars into them. It was +as if one of his own long-lost days was come back again to earth, when +he had sat where Felix was now sitting, with Felicita instead of Hilda +dipping her little white hand into the water. He had scarcely eyes for +Phebe; but he was conscious that she was there, for Hilda was speaking +to her in a low voice which just reached him. "See," she said, "that man +has one of my mother's books! And he is quite a common man!" + +"As much a common man, perhaps, as I am a common woman," answered Phebe, +in a gentle though half-reproving tone. + +As long as his eyes could see them they were fastened upon the receding +boat; and long after, he gazed in the direction in which they had gone. +He had had the passing glimpse he longed for into the Paradise he had +forfeited. This had been his place, appointed to him by God, where he +could have served God best, and served Him in as perfect gladness and +freedom as the earth gives to any of her children. What lot could have +been more blessed? The lines had fallen unto him in pleasant places; he +had had a goodly heritage, and he had lost it through grasping +dishonestly at a larger share of what this world called success. The +madness and the folly of his sin smote him with unutterable bitterness. + +He could bear to look at it no longer. The yearning he had felt to see +his old home was satisfied; but the satisfaction seemed an increase of +sorrow. He would not wait to witness the return of his children. The old +man was gone into the house, and the garden was quiet and deserted. With +weary strokes he rowed back again up the river; and with a heavier +weight of sorrow and a keener consciousness of sin he made his way +through the streets so familiar to his tread. It was as if no eye saw +him, and no heart warmed to him in his native town. He was a stranger in +a strange place; there was none to say to him, here or elsewhere on +earth, "You are one of us." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +A LONDON GARRET. + + +There was one other place he must see before he went out again from this +region of many memories, to which all that he could call life was +linked--the little farmstead on the hills, which, of all places, had +been his favorite haunt when a boy, and which had been the last spot he +had visited before fleeing from England. Phebe Marlowe he had seen; if +he went away at once he could see her home before her return to it. Next +to his mother and his wife, he knew that Phebe was most likely to +recognize him, if recognition by any one was possible. Most likely old +Marlowe was dead; but if not, his senses would surely be too dull to +detect him. + +The long, hot, white highway, dusty with a week's drought, carried back +his thoughts so fully to old times that he walked on unconscious of the +noontide heat and the sultriness of the road. Yet when he came to the +lanes, green overhead and underfoot, and as silent as the +mountain-heights round Engelberg, he felt the solace of the change. All +the recollections treasured up in the secret cells of memory were +springing into light at every step; and these were remembrances less +bitter than those the sight of his lost home had called to mind. He felt +himself less of a phantom here, where no one met him or crossed his +path, than in the streets where many faces looking blankly at him wore +the well-known features of old comrades. By the time he gained the +moorlands, and looked across its purple heather and yellow gorse, his +mind was in a healthier mood than it had been for years. The low +thatched roof of the small homestead, and the stunted and twisted trees +surrounding it, seemed like a possible refuge to him, where for a little +while he might find shelter from the storm of life. He pressed on with +eagerness, and found himself quickly at the door, which he had never met +with fastened. + +But it was locked now. After knocking twice he tried the latch, but it +did not open. He went to the little window, uncurtained as usual and +peered in, but all was still and dark; there was not a glimmer of light +on the hearth, where he had always seen some glimmering embers. There +was no sign of life about the place; no dog barking, no sheep bleating, +or fowls fluttering about the little farm-yard. All the innocent, +joyous gayety of the place had vanished; yet he could see that it was +not falling into decay; the thatch was in repair, the dark interior, +dimly visible through the window, was as it used to be. It was not a +ruin, but it was not a home. A home might have received him with its +hospitable walls, or a ruin might have given him an hour's shelter. But +Phebe's door was shut against him, though it would have done him good to +stand within it once more, a penitent man. + +He was turning away sadly, when a loud rustic voice called to him; and +Simon Nixey, almost hidden under a huge load of dried ferns, came into +sight. Jean Merle stepped down the stone causeway of the farm-yard to +open the gate for him. + +"What are you doing here?" he inquired suspiciously. + +"A wood-carver, called old Marlowe, used to live here," he answered, +"what has become of him?" + +"Dead!" said Simon; "dead this many a year. Why, if you know anything +you ought to know that." + +"What did he die of?" asked Jean Merle. + +"A broken heart, if ever man did," answered Simon; "he'd saved a mint o' +money by scraping and moiling; and he lost it all when there was a run +on the Old Bank over thirteen years ago. He couldn't talk about it like +other folks, poor old Dummy! and it struck inwards, as you may say. It +killed him as certain as if they'd shot a bullet into him." + +Jean Merle staggered as if Simon had struck him a heavy blow. He had not +thought of anything like this, old Marlowe dying broken-hearted, and +Phebe left alone in the world. Simon Nixey seemed pleased at the +impression his words had produced. + +"Ay!" he said, "it was hard on old Marlowe; and drove my cousin, John +Nixey, into desperate ways o' drinking. Not but all the money was paid +up; only it was too late for them two. Every penny was paid, so as folks +had nothing to say against the Old Bank. Only money won't bring a dead +man back to life again. I offered Phebe to make her my wife before I +knew it'ud be paid back; but she always said no, till I grew tired of +it, and married somebody else." + +"And where is she now?" inquired Jean Merle. + +"Oh! she's quite the fine lady," answered Simon. "Mrs. Roland Sefton, +Lord Riversdale's daughter that was, took quite a fancy to her, and had +her to live with her in London; not as a servant, you know, but as a +friend; and she paints pictures wonderful. My mother, who lives +housekeeper with Mr. Clifford, hears say she can get sixty pounds or +more for one likeness. Think of that now! If she'd been my wife what a +fortune she'd have been to me!" + +"Has she sold this place?" asked Jean Merle. + +"There it is," he replied; "she gave her father a faithful promise never +to part with it, or I'd have bought it myself. She comes here once a +year with Miss Hilda and Mr. Felix, and they stay a week or two; and +it's shut up all the rest of the time. I've got the key here if you'd +like to look inside at old Dummy's carving." + +How familiar, yet how different, the interior of the cottage seemed! He +knew all these carvings, curious and beautiful, which lined the walls +and decorated every article of the old oak furniture. But the hearth was +cold, and there was no pleasant disorder about the small house telling +its story of daily work. In the deep recess of the window-frame, where +the western sun was already shining, stood old Marlowe's copy of a +carved crucifix, which he had himself once brought from the Tyrol, and +lent to him before finding a place for it in his own home. The sacred +head was bowed down so low as to be almost hidden under the shadow of +the crown of thorns. At the foot of the cross, in delicately small old +English letters, the old man had carved the words, "Come unto me all ye +that be weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He remembered +pointing out the mistake that he had made to old Marlowe. + +"I like it best," said the dumb man; "I have often been weary, but not +with labor; weary of myself, weary of the world, weary of life, weary of +everything but my Phebe. That is what Christ says to me." + +Jean Merle could see the old man's speaking face again, and the fingers +moving less swiftly when spelling out the words to him, than when he was +talking to Phebe. Weary! weary! was it not so with him? Could any man on +earth be more weary than he was? + +He loitered back to Riversborough through the cool of the evening, with +the pale stars shining dimly in the twilight of the summer sky; +pondering, brooding over what he had seen and heard that day. He had +already done much of what he had come to England to do; but what next? +What was the path he ought to take now? He was in a labyrinth, where +there were many false openings leading no-whither; and he had no clue to +guide him. All these years he had lain as one dead in the coil he had +wound about himself, but now he was living again. There was agony in the +life that he had entered into, but it was better than the apathy of his +death in life. + +He returned to London, and hired a garret for a small weekly rent, where +he would lodge until he could resolve what to do. But week after week +passed without bringing to his mind the solution of the problem. +Remorse had given place to repentance; but despair had not been +succeeded by hope. There was nothing to hope for. The irrevocable past +stood between him and any reparation for his sin which his soul +earnestly desired to make. An easy thing, and light, it would have been +to put himself into the power of his enemy, Mr. Clifford, and bear the +penalty of the law. He had suffered a hundred fold more than justice +would have exacted. The broken law demanded satisfaction, and it would +have been a blessed relief to him to give it. But that could never be. +He could never bear the penalty of his crime without dragging Felicita +into depths of shame and suffering deeper than they would have been if +he had borne it at first. The fame she had won for herself would lift up +his infamy and hers to the intolerable gaze of a keen and bitter +publicity. He must blacken her fair reputation if he sought to appease +his own conscience. + +He made no effort to find out where she and his children were living. +But one after another, in the solitude of his garret, he read every book +Felicita had written. They gave him no pleasure, and awoke in him no +admiration, for he read them through different eyes from her other +readers. There was great bitterness of soul for him in many of the +sentences she had penned; now and then he came upon some to which he +alone held the true key. He felt that he, her husband, was dwelling in +her mind as a type of subtle selfishness and weak ambition. When she +depicted a good or noble character it was almost invariably a woman, not +a man; it was never a man past his early manhood. However varied their +circumstances and temperaments, they were in the main worldly and mean; +sometimes they were successful hypocrites, deceiving those nearest and +dearest to them. + +It was a wholesome penance to him, perhaps, but it shook and troubled +his soul to its very depths. His sin had ruined the poor weakminded +drunkard, John Nixey, and hastened the end of dumb old Marlowe; these +consequences of it must, at any time, have clouded his own after-life. +But it had also wrought a baneful change in the spirit of the woman whom +he loved. It was he who had slain within her the hope, and the love, and +the faith in her fellow-men which had been needed for the full +perfecting of her genius. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +HIS FATHER'S SIN. + + +When Felix returned from his brief and clouded holiday to his work in +that corner of the great vineyard, so overcrowded with busy husbandmen +that they were always plucking up each others' plants, and pruning and +repruning each others' vines, till they made a wilderness where there +should have been a harvest, he found that his special plot there had +suffered much damage. John Nixey, following up the impression he had so +successfully made, had spread his story abroad, and found ears willing +to listen to it, and hearts willing to believe it. The small Provident +Club, instituted by Felix to check the waste and thriftlessness of the +people, had already, in his short absence, elected another treasurer of +its scanty funds; and the members who formed it, working men and women +who had been gathered together by his personal influence, treated him +with but scant civility. His evening lectures in the church +mission-house were sometimes scarcely attended, whilst on other days +there was an influx of hearers, among whom John Nixey was prominent, +with half-a-dozen rough and turbulent fellows like himself, hangers-on +at the nearest spirit-vaults, who were ready for any turn that might +lead to a row. The women and children who had been accustomed to come +stayed away, or went to some other of the numerous preaching-places, as +though afraid of this boisterous element in his little congregation. + +Now and then, too, he heard his name called out aloud in the streets by +some of Nixey's friends, as he passed the prospering gin-palaces with +their groups of loungers about the doors; but though he could catch the +sound of the laugh and the sneer that followed him, he could take no +notice. He could not turn round in righteous indignation and tell the +fellows, and the listening bystanders, that what they said of his father +was a lie. The poor young curate, with his high hopes and his +enthusiastic love of the work he had chosen for the sake of his +fellow-men, was compelled to pass on with bowed head, and silent lips, +and a heart burdened with the conviction that his influence was +altogether blighted and uprooted. + +"It isn't true, sir, is it, what folks are tellin' about your father?" +was a question put to him more than once, when he entered some squalid +home, in the hope of giving counsel, or help, or comfort. There was +something highly welcome and agreeable to these people, themselves +thieves or bordering on thievedom, in the idea that this fine, handsome, +gentlemanly young clergyman, who had set to work among them with so much +energy and zeal, was the son of a dishonest rogue, who ought to have +been sent to jail as many of them had been. Felix had not failed to make +enemies in the Brickfields by his youthful intolerance of idleness, +beggary, and drunkenness. The owners of the gin-palaces hated him, and +not a few of the rival religious sects were, to say the least, +uncharitably disposed towards one who had drawn so many of their +followers to himself. There was very little common social interest in +the population of the district, for the tramping classes of the lowest +London poor, such as were drawn to the Brickfields by its overflowing +charities, have as little cohesion as a rope of sand; but Felix was so +conspicuous a figure in its narrow and dirty streets, that even +strangers would nudge one another's elbows, and almost before he was +gone by narrate Nixey's story, with curious additions and alterations. + +It was gall and wormwood to Felix that he was unable to contradict the +story in full. He could say that his father had never been a convict; +but no inducement on earth could have wrung from him the declaration +that his father had never been guilty of fraud. Sometimes he wondered +whether it would not be well to own the simple truth, and endure the +shame: if he had been the sole survivor of his father's sin this he +would have done, and gone on toilsomely regaining the influence he had +lost. But the secret touched his mother even more closely than himself, +and Hilda was equally concerned in it. It had been sacredly kept by +those older than he was, and it was not for him to betray it. "My poor +mother!" he called her. Never, before he learned the secret burden she +had borne, had he called her by that tender and pitiful epithet; but as +often as he thought of her now his heart said, "My poor mother!" + +As soon as Canon Pascal returned to England Felix took a day's holiday, +and ran down by train to the quiet rectory in Essex, where he had spent +the greater portion of his boyhood. Only a few years separated him from +that careless and happiest period of his life; yet the last three months +had driven it into the far background. He almost smiled at the +recollection of how young he was half-a-year ago, when he had declared +his love for Alice. How far dearer to him she was now than then! The one +letter he had received from her, written in Switzerland, and telling him +in loving detail of her visit to his father's grave, would be forever +one of his most precious treasures. But he was not going to share his +blemished name with her. He had had nothing worthy of her, or of his +father, to lay at her feet, whilst he was yet in utter ignorance of the +shame he had inherited; and now? He must never more think of her as his +wife. + +She was at home, he knew; but he sternly forbade himself to seek for +her. It was Canon Pascal he had come down to see, and he went straight +on to his well-known study. He was busy in the preparation of next +Sunday's sermons, but at the sight of Felix's dejected, unsmiling face, +he swept away his books and papers with one hand, whilst he stretched +out his hand to give him such a warm, strong, hearty grip as he might +have given to a drowning man. + +"What is it, my son?" he asked. + +There was such a full sympathetic tone in the friendly voice speaking to +him, that Felix felt his burden already shared, and pressing less +heavily on his bruised spirit. He stood a little behind Canon Pascal, +with his hand upon his shoulder, as he had often placed himself before +when he was pleading for some boyish indulgence, or begging pardon for +some boyish fault. + +"You have been like a true father to me, and I come to tell you a great +trouble," he began in a tremulous voice. + +"I know it, my boy," replied Canon Pascal; "you have found out how true +it is, 'The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are +set on edge.' Ah! Felix, life teaches us so, as well as this wise old +Book." + +"You know it?" stammered Felix. + +"Phebe told me," he interrupted, "six months since. And now you and I +can understand Felicita. There was no prejudice against our Alice in her +mind; no unkindness to either of you. But she could not bring herself to +say the truth against the husband whom she has wept and mourned over so +long. And your mother is the soul of truth and honor; she could not let +you marry whilst we were ignorant of this matter. It has been a terrible +cross to bear, and she has borne it in silence. I love and revere your +mother more than ever." + +"Yes!" said Felix with a sob. He had not yet seen her since coming to +this fateful knowledge; for Phebe and Hilda had joined her at the +sea-side where they were still staying. But if his father had gone down +into depths of darkness, his mother had risen so much the higher in his +reverence and love. She had become a saint and a martyr in his eyes; and +to save her from a moment's grief seemed to be a cause worth dying for. + +"I came to tell you all," he went on, "and to say I cannot any more hope +that you will give Alice to me. God alone knows what it costs me to give +her up: and she will suffer too for a while, a long while, I fear; for +we have grown together so. But it must be. Alice cannot marry a man who +has not even an unblemished name to offer to her." + +"You should ask Alice herself about that," said Canon Pascal quietly. + +A thrill of rapture ran through Felix, and he grasped the shoulder, on +which his hand still rested, more firmly. What! was it possible that +this second father of his knew all his disgrace and dishonor, how his +teeth were set on edge by the sour grapes which he had not eaten, and +yet was willing that Alice should share his name and his lot? There was +no fear as to what Alice would say. He recollected how Phebe spoke, as +if her thoughts dwelt more on his father's sorrow and sad death, than on +his sin; and Alice would be the same. She would cover it with a woman's +sweet charity. He could not command his voice to speak; and after a +minute's pause Canon Pascal continued-- + +"Yes! Alice, too, knows all about it. I told her beside your father's +grave. And do you suppose she said, 'Here is cause enough for me to +break with Felix'? Nay, I believe if the sin had been your own, Alice +would have said it was her duty to share it, and your repentance. Shall +our Lord come to save sinners, and we turn away from their blameless +children? Yet I thought it must be so at first, I own it, Felix; at +first, while my eyes were blinded and my heart hardened; and I looked at +it in the light of the world. But then I be-thought me of your mother. +Shall not she make good to you the evil your father has wrought? If he +dishonored your name in the eyes of a few, she has brought honor to it, +and made it known far beyond the limits it could have been known through +him. The world will regard you as her son, not as his." + +"But I came also to tell you that I wish to leave the country," said +Felix. "There is a difficulty in getting young men for our colonial +work; and I am young and strong, stronger than most young men in the +Church. I could endure hardships, and go in for work that feebler men +must leave untried; you have taken care of that for me. Such a life +would be more like old Felix Merle's than a London curacy. You let your +own sons emigrate, believing that the old country is getting +over-populated; and I thought I would go too." + +"Why?" asked Canon Pascal, turning round in his chair, and looking up +searchingly into his face. + +In a few words, and in short broken sentences, Felix told him of Nixey's +charge, and the change it had wrought in the London curacy, upon which +he had entered with so much enthusiasm and delight. + +"It will be the same wherever I go in England," he said in conclusion; +"and I cannot face them boldly and say it is all a falsehood." + +"You must live it down," answered Canon Pascal; "go on, and take no +notice of it." + +"But it hinders my work sadly," said Felix, "and I cannot go on in the +Brickfields. There might be a row any evening, and then the story would +come out in the police-courts; and what could I say? At least, I must +give up that." + +For a few minutes Canon Pascal was lost in thought. If Felix was right +in his apprehension, and the whole story came out in the police-court, +there were journals pandering to public curiosity that would gladly lay +hold of any gossip or scandal connected with Mrs. Roland Sefton. Her +name would ensure its publicity. And how could Felicita endure that, +especially now that her health was affected? If the dread of disclosing +her secret to him had wrought so powerfully upon her physical and mental +constitution, what would she suffer if it became a nine days' talk for +the world? + +"I will get your rector to exchange curates with me till we can see our +way clear," he said. "He is Alice's godfather, you know, and will do it +willingly. I am going up to Westminster in November, and you will be +here in my place, where everybody knows your face and you know theirs. +There will be no question here about your father, for you are looked +upon as my son. Now go away, and find Alice." + +When Felix turned out of Liverpool Street station that evening, a tall, +gaunt-looking workman man offered to carry his bag for him. It was +filled with choice fruit from the rectory garden, grown on trees grafted +and pruned by Canon Pascal's own hands; and Felix had helped Alice to +gather it for some of his sick parishioners in the unwholesome +dwelling-places he visited. + +"I am going no farther than the Mansion House," he answered, "and I can +carry it myself." + +"You'd do me a kindness if you'd let me carry it," said the man. + +It was not the tone of a common loafer, hanging about the station for +any chance job, and Felix turned to look at him in the light of the +street-lamp. It was the old story, he thought to himself, a decent +mechanic from the country, out of work, and lost in this great labyrinth +of a city. He handed his bag to him and walked on along the crowded +thoroughfare, soon forgetting that he was treading the flagged streets +of a city; he was back again, strolling through dewy fields in the cool +twilight, with Alice beside him, accompanying him to the quiet little +station. He thought no more of the stranger behind him, or of the bag he +carried, until he hailed an omnibus travelling westward. + +"Here is your bag, sir," said the man. + +"Ah! I'd forgotten it," exclaimed Felix. "Good night, and thank you." + +He had just time to drop a shilling into his hand before the omnibus was +off. But the man stood there in front of the Mansion House, motionless, +with all the busy sea of life roaring around him, hearing nothing and +seeing nothing. This coin that lay in his hand had been given to him by +his son; his son's voice was still sounding in his ears. He had walked +behind him taking note of his firm strong step, his upright carriage and +manly bearing. It had been too swift a march for him, full of exquisite +pain and pleasure, which chance might never offer to him again. + +"Move on, will you?" said a policeman authoritatively; and Jean Merle, +rousing himself from his reverie, went back to his lonely garret. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +HAUNTING MEMORIES. + + +Felicita was slowly recovering her strength at the sea-side. She had +never before felt so seriously shaken in health, as since she had known +of the attachment of Felix to Alice Pascal; an attachment which would +have been quite to her mind, if there was no loss of honor in allowing +it whilst she held a secret which, in all probability, would seem an +insuperable barrier in the eyes of Canon Pascal. + +This secret she had kept resolutely in the background of her own memory, +conscious of its existence, but never turning her eyes towards it. The +fact that it was absolutely a secret, suspected by no one, made this +more possible; for there was no gleam of cognizance in any eye meeting +hers which could awaken even a momentary recollection of it. It seemed +so certain that her husband was dead to every one but herself, that she +came at last almost to believe that it was true. + +And was it not most likely to be true? Through all these long years +there had come no hint to her in any way that he was living. She had +never seen or heard of any man lingering about her home where she and +her children lived, all whom Roland loved, and loved so passionately. +Certainly she had made no effort to discover whether he was yet alive; +but though it would be well for her if he was dead--a cause of rest +almost amounting to satisfaction--it was not likely that he would remain +content with unbroken and complete ignorance of how she and her children +were faring. If he had been living, surely he would have given her some +sign. + +There was a terrible duty now lying in her path. Before she could give +her consent to Felix marrying Alice, she must ascertain positively if +her husband was dead. Should it be so, her secret was safe, and would +die with her. Nobody need ever know of this fraud, so successfully +carried out. But if not? Then she knew in herself that her lips could +never confess the sin in which she had shared; and nothing would remain +for her to do but to oppose with all the energy and persistence possible +the marriage either of her son or daughter. And she fully believed that +neither of them would marry against her will. + +Her health had not permitted her hitherto to make the exertion necessary +for ascertaining this fact, on which her whole future depended--hers and +her children's. The physician whom she had consulted in London had urged +upon her the imperative necessity of avoiding all excitement and +fatigue, and had ordered her down to this dull little village of +Freshwater, where not even a brass band on the unfinished pier or the +arrival of an excursion steamer could disturb or agitate her. She had +nothing to do but to sit on the quiet downs, where no sound could +startle her, and no spectacle flutter her, until the sea-breezes had +brought back her usual tone of health. + +How long this promised restoration was in coming! Phebe, who watched for +it anxiously, saw but little sign of it. Felicita was more silent than +ever, more withdrawn into herself, gazing for hours upon the changeful +surface of the sea with absent eyes, through which the brain was not +looking out. Neither sound nor sight reached the absorbed soul, that was +wandering through some intricate mazes to which Phebe had no clue. But +no color came to Felicita's pale face, and no light into her dim eyes. +There was a painful and weird feeling often in Phebe's heart that +Felicita herself was not there; only the fair, frail form, which was as +insensible as a corpse, until this spirit came back to it. At such times +Phebe was impelled to touch her, and speak to her, and call her back +again, though it might be to irritability and displeasure. + +"Phebe," said Felicita, one day when they sat on the cliff, so near the +edge that nothing but the sea lay within the range of their sight, "how +should you feel if, instead of helping a fellow-creature to save himself +from drowning, you had thrust him back into the water, and left him, +sure that he would perish?" + +"But I cannot tell you how I should feel," answered Phebe, "because I +could never do it. It makes me shudder to think of such a thing. No +human being could do it." + +"But if you had thrust the one fellow-creature nearest to you, the one +who loved you the most," pursued Felicita, "into sin, down into a deeper +gulf than he could have fallen into but for you--" + +"My dear, my dear!" cried Phebe, interrupting her in a tone of the +tenderest pity. "Oh! I know now what is preying upon you. Because Felix +loves Alice it has brought back all the sorrowful past to you, and you +are letting it kill you. Listen! Let me speak this once, and then I will +never speak again, if you wish it. Canon Pascal knows it all; I told +him. And Felix knows it, and he loves you more than ever; you are dearer +to him a hundred times than you were before. And he forgives his +father--fully. God has cast his sin as a stone into the depths of the +sea, to be remembered against him no more forever!" + +A slight flush crept over Felicita's pale face. It was a relief to her +to learn that Canon Pascal and Felix knew so much of the truth. The +darker secret must be hidden still in the depths of her heart until she +found out whether she was altogether free from the chance of discovery. + +"It was right they should know," she said in a low and dreamy tone; "and +Canon Pascal makes no difficulty of it?" + +"Canon Pascal said to me," answered Phebe, "that your noble life and the +fame you had won atoned for the error of which Felix and Hilda's father +had been guilty. He said they were your children, brought up under your +training and example, not their father's. Why do you dwell so bitterly +upon the past? It is all forgotten now." + +"Not by me," murmured Felicita, "nor by you, Phebe." + +"No; I have never forgotten him," cried Phebe, with a passionate sorrow +in her voice. "How good he was to me, and to all about him! Yes, he was +guilty of a sin before God and against man; I know it. But oh! if he had +only suffered the penalty, and come back to us again, for us to comfort +him, and to help him to live down the shame! Possibly we could not have +done it in Riversborough; I do not know; but I would have gone with you, +as your servant, to the ends of the earth, and you would have lived +happy days again--happier than the former days. And he would have proved +himself a good man, in spite of his sin; a Christian man, whom Christ +would not have been ashamed to own." + +"No, no," said Felicita; "that is impossible. I never loved Roland; can +you believe that, Phebe?" + +"Yes," she answered in a whisper, and with downcast eyes. + +"Not as I think of love," continued Felicita in a dreary voice. "I have +tried to love you all; but you seem so far away from me, as if I could +never touch you. Even Felix and Hilda, they are like phantom children, +who do not warm my heart, or gladden it, as other mothers are made happy +by their children. Sometimes I have dreamed of what life would have been +if I had given myself to some man for whom I would have forfeited the +world, and counted the loss as nothing. But that is past now, and I feel +old. There is nothing more before me; all is gray and flat and cold, a +desolate monotony of years, till death comes." + +"You make me unhappy," said Phebe. "Ought we not to love God first, and +man for God's sake? There is no passion in that; but there is +inexhaustible faithfulness and tenderness." + +"How far away from me you are!" answered Felicita with a faint smile. + +She turned her sad face again towards the sea, and sat silent, watching +the flitting sails pass by, but holding Phebe's hand fast in her own, as +if she craved her companionship. Phebe, too, was silent, the tears +dimming her blue eyes and blotting out the scene before her. Her heart +was very heavy and troubled for Felicita. + +"Will you go to Engelberg with me by-and-by?" asked Felicita suddenly, +but in a calm and tranquil tone. + +"To Engelberg!" echoed Phebe. + +"I must go there before Felix thinks of marrying," she answered in short +and broken sentences; "but it cannot be till spring. Yet I cannot write +again until I have been there; the thought of it haunts me intolerably. +Sometimes, nay, often, the word Engelberg has slipped from my pen +unawares when I have tried to write; so I shall do no more work till I +have fulfilled this duty; but I will rest another few months. When I +have been to Engelberg again, for the last time, I shall be not happy, +but less miserable." + +"I will go with you wherever you wish," said Phebe. + +It was so great a relief to have said this much to Phebe, to have broken +through so much of the icy reserve which froze her heart, that +Felicita's spirits at once grew more cheerful. The dreaded words had +been uttered, and the plan was settled; though its fulfilment was +postponed till spring; a reprieve to Felicita. She regained health and +strength rapidly, and returned to London so far recovered that her +physician gave her permission to return to work. + +But she did not wish to take up her work again. It had long ago lost the +charm of novelty to her, and though circumstances had compelled her to +write, or to live upon her marriage settlement, which in her eyes was to +live upon the proceeds of a sin successfully carried out, her writing +itself had become tedious to her. "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity!" +and there is much vexation of spirit, as well as weariness of the flesh, +in the making of many books. She had made enemies who were spiteful, +and friends who were exacting; she, who felt equally the irksomeness of +petty enmities and of small friendships, which, like gnats buzzing +monotonously about her, were now and then ready to sting. The sting +itself might be trivial, but it was irritating. + +Felicita had soon found out how limited is the circle of fame for even a +successful writer. For one person who would read a book, there were +fifty who would go to hear a famous singer or actor, and a hundred who +would crowd to see a clever acrobat. As she read more she discovered +that what she had fondly imagined were ideas originated by her own +intellect, was, in reality, the echo only of thought long since given to +mankind by other minds, in other words, often better than her own. Her +own silent claim to genius was greatly modified; she was humbler than +she had been. But she knew painfully that her name was now a +hundred-fold better known than it had been while she was yet only the +wife of a Riversborough banker. All her work for the last fourteen years +had placed it more and more prominently before the public. Any scandal +attaching to it now would be blazoned farther and wider, in deeper and +more enduring characters, than if her life as an author had been a +failure. + +The subtle hope, very real, vague as it was, that her husband was in +truth dead, gathered strength. The silence that had engulfed him had +been so profound that it seemed impossible he should still be treading +the same earth as herself, and wearing through its slow and commonplace +days, sleeping and waking, eating and drinking like other men. Felicita +was not superstitious, but there was in her that deep-rooted, +instinctive sense of mystery in this double life of ours, dividing our +time into sleeping and waking hours, which is often apt to make our +dreams themselves omens of importance. She had never dreamed of Roland +as she did of those belonging to her who had already passed into the +invisible world about us. His spirit was not free, perhaps, from its +earthly fetters so as to be able to visit her, and haunt her sleeping +fancies. But now she began to dream of him frequently, and often in the +daytime flashes of memory darted vividly across her brain, lighting up +the dark forgotten past, and recalling to her some word of his, or a +glance merely. It was an inward persecution from which she could not +escape, but it seemed to her to indicate that her persecutor was no more +a denizen of this world. + +To get rid of these haunting memories as much as possible, she made such +a change in her mode of life as astonished all about her. She no longer +shut herself up in her library; as she had told Phebe, she resolved to +write no more, nor attempt to write, until she had been to Engelberg. +She seemed wishful to attract friends to her, and she renewed old +acquaintanceships with members of her own family which she had allowed +to drop during these many years. No sooner was it evident that Felicita +Sefton was willing to come out of the extremely quiet and solitary life +she had led hitherto, and take her place in society both as Lord +Riversdale's daughter and as the author of many popular books, than the +current of fashion set towards her. She was still a remarkably lovely +woman, possessing irresistible attractions in her refined face and soft +yet distant manners, as of one walking in a trance, and seeing and +hearing things invisible and inaudible to less favored mortals. Quite +unconsciously to herself she became the lion of the season, when the +next season opened. She had been so difficult to know, that as soon as +she was willing to be known invitations poured in upon her, and her +house was invaded by a throng of visitors, many of them more or less +distantly related to her. + +To Hilda this new life was one of unexpected and exquisite delight. +Phebe, also, with her genuine interest in her fellow-creatures, and her +warm sympathy in all human joys and sorrows, enjoyed the change, though +it perplexed her, and caused her to watch Felicita with anxiety. Felix +saw less of it than any one, for he was down in Essex, leading the +tranquil and not very laborious life of a country curate, chafing a +little now and then at his inactivity, yet blissful beyond words in the +close daily intercourse with Alice. There was no talk of their marriage, +but they were young and together. Their happiness was untroubled. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +THE VOICE OF THE DEAD. + + +In his lonely garret in the East End, Jean Merle was living in an +isolation more complete even than that of Engelberg. There he had known +at least the names of those about him, and their faces had grown +familiar to him. More than once he had been asked to help when help was +sorely needed, and he had felt, though not quite consciously, that there +was still a link or two binding him to his fellow-men. But here, an unit +among millions, who hustled him at every step, breathed the same air, +and shared the common light with him, he was utterly alone. "Isolation +is the sum total of wretchedness to man," and no man could be more +completely isolated than he. + +Strangely enough, his Swiss proclivities seemed to have fallen from him +like a worn-out garment. The narrow, humble existence of his peasant +forefathers, to which he had so readily adapted himself, was no longer +tolerable in his eyes. He felt all the force and energy of the life of +the great city which surrounded him. His birthright as an Englishman +presented itself to his imagination with a splendor and importance that +it had never possessed before, even in those palmy days when it was no +unthought-of honor that he might some day take his place in the House +of Commons. He called himself Jean Merle, for no other name belonged to +him; but he felt himself to be an Englishman again, to whom the life of +a Swiss peasant would be a purgatory. + +Other natural instincts were asserting themselves. He had been a man of +genial, social habits, glad to gather round him smiling faces and +friendly voices; and this bias of his was stirring into life and shaking +off its long stupor. He longed, with intense longing, for some mortal +ear into which he could pour the story of his sins and sufferings, and +for some human tongue to utter friendly words of counsel to him. It was +not enough to pour out his confessions before God in agonizing prayer; +that he had done, and was doing daily. But it was not all. The natural +yearning for man's forgiveness, spoken in living human speech, grew +stronger within him. There was no longer a chance for him to make even a +partial reparation of the wrong he had committed; he felt himself +without courage to begin the long conflict again. What his soul hungered +for now was to see his life through another man's eyes. + +But his money, economize it as he might, was slowly melting away. Unless +he could get work--and all his efforts to find it failed--it would not +do to remain in England. At Engelberg had secured a position as a wood +carver, and his livelihood was assured. There, too, he possessed a +scanty knowledge of the neighbors, and they of him. It would be his +wisest course to return there, to forget what he had been, and to draw +nearer to him the simple and ignorant people, who might yet be won over +to regard him with good-will. This must be done before he found himself +penniless as well as friendless. He set aside a certain sum, when that +was spent he must once more be an exile. + +Until then, it was his life to pace to and fro along the streets of +London. Somewhere in this vast labyrinth there was a home to which he +had a right; a hearth where he could plant himself and claim it for his +own. He was master of it, and of a wife, and children; he, the lonely, +almost penniless man. It would be a small thing to him to pay the +penalty the law could demand of him. A few years more or less in +Dartmoor Prison would be nothing to him, if at the end of them he saw a +home waiting for him to return to it. But he never sought to look at the +exterior even of that spot to which he had a right. He made no effort to +see Felicita. + +He stayed till he touched his last shilling. It was already winter, and +the short, dark days, with their thick fogs, made the wintry months +little better than one long night. To-morrow he must leave England, +never to return to it. He strayed aimlessly about the gloomy streets, +letting his feet bear him whither they would, until he found himself +looking down through the iron railings upon the deserted yard in front +of the Houses of Parliament. The dark mass of the building loomed +heavily through the yellow fog, but beyond it came the sound of bells +ringing in the invisible Abbey. It was the hour for morning prayer, and +Jean Merle sauntered listlessly onwards until he reached the northern +entrance and turned into the transept. The dim daylight scarcely lit up +the lofty arches in the roof or the farther end of the long aisles, but +he gave no heed to either. He sank down on a chair and bent his gray +head on the back of the chair before him; the sweet solemn chanting of +the white-robed choristers echoed under the roof, and the sacred and +soothing tones of prayer floated pest him. But he did not move or lift +his head. He sat there absorbed in his own thoughts, and the hours +seemed only as floating minutes to him. Visitors came and went, chatting +close beside him, and the vergers, with their quiet footsteps, came one +by one to look at this motionless, poverty-stricken form, whose face no +man could see, but nobody disturbed him. He had a right to be there, as +still, and as solitary, and as silent as he pleased. + +But when Canon Pascal came up the long aisle to evening prayers and saw +again the same gray head bowed down in the same despondent attitude as +he had left it in the morning, he could scarcely refrain himself from +pausing then and there, before the evening service proceeded, to speak +to this man. He had caught a momentary glimpse of his face, and it had +haunted him in his study in the interval, until he had half reproached +himself for not answering to that silent appeal its wretchedness had +made. But he had had no expectation of seeing it again. + +It was dark by the time the evening service was over, and Canon Pascal +hastily divested himself of his surplice, that he might not seem to +approach the stranger as a clergyman, but rather as an equal. The Abbey +was being cleared of its visitors, and the lights were being put out one +by one, when he sat down on the seat next to Jean Merle's, and laid his +hand with a gentle pressure on his arm. Jean Merle started and lifted up +his head. It was too dark for them to see each other well; but Canon +Pascal's voice was full of friendly urgency. + +"They are going to close the Abbey," he said; "and you've been here all +day, without food, my friend. Is there any special reason why you should +pass a long, dark winter's day in such a manner? I would be glad to +serve you if I can. Perhaps you are a stranger in London?" + +"I have been seeking the guidance of God," answered Jean Merle, in a +bewildered yet unutterably sorrowful voice. + +"That is good," replied Canon Pascal; "that is the best. But it is good +also at times to seek man's guidance. It is God, doubtless, who has sent +me to you. As His servant, I earnestly desire to serve you." + +"If you would listen to me under a solemn seal of secrecy!" cried Jean +Merle. + +"Are you a Catholic?" asked Canon Pascal. "Is it a confessor you want?" + +"I am not a Catholic," he answered; "but there is a strong desire in my +soul to confess. My burden would be lighter if any man would share it, +so far as to keep my secret." + +"Does it touch the life of any fellow-creature?" inquired Canon Pascal; +"is there any great crime in it?" + +"No; not what you are thinking," he said; "there is sin in it; ay, and +crime; but not a crime like that." + +"Then I will listen to it under a solemn promise of secrecy, whatever it +may be," replied Canon Pascal. "But the vergers are waiting to close the +Abbey. Come with me; my home is close by, within the precincts." + +Jean Merle had risen obediently as he spoke, but, exhausted and weary, +he staggered as he stood upon his feet. Canon Pascal drew his arm within +his own. This simple action was to him full of a friendliness to which +he had been long a stranger. To clasp another man's hand, to walk +arm-in-arm with him, he felt keenly how much of implied brotherhood was +in them. He was ready to go anywhere with Canon Pascal, almost as a +child guided and cared for by an older and wiser brother. + +They passed out of the Abbey into the cloisters, dimly lighted by the +lamps, which had been lit in good time this dark November evening. The +low, black-browed arches, which had echoed to the footsteps of +sorrow-stricken men for more than eight hundred years, resounded to +their tread as they walked beneath them in silence. Jean Merle suffered +himself to be led without a question, like one in a dream. There seemed +some faint reminiscence from the past of this man, with his harsh +features, and kindly, genial expression, the deep-set eyes, beaming with +a benign light from under the rugged eyebrows, and the firm yet friendly +pressure of his guiding arm; and his mind was groping about the dark +labyrinth of memory to seize his former knowledge of him, if there had +ever been any. There was a vague apprehension about him lest he should +discover that this friend was no stranger, and his tongue must be tied, +even though what he was about to say would be under the inviolable seal +of secrecy. + +They had not far to go, for Canon Pascal turned aside into a little +square, open to the black November sky, and stopping at a door in the +gray, old walls, opened it with a latch-key. They entered a narrow +passage, and Canon Pascal turned at once to his study, which was close +by. As he pushed open the door, he said, "Go in, my friend; I will be +with you in a moment." + +Jean Merle saw before him an old-fashioned room with a low ceiling. +There was no light besides the warm, red glow of a fire, which was no +longer burning with yellow flame, but which lit up sufficiently the +figure of a woman seated on a low stool on the hearth, with her head +resting on the hand that shaded her eyes. It was a figure familiar to +him in his old life--that life which lay on the other side of Roland +Sefton's grave. He had seen the same well-shaped head, with its soft +brown hair, and the round outline of the averted cheek and chin, a +thousand times in old Marlowe's cottage on the uplands, sitting in the +red firelight as she was sitting now. All the intervening years were +swept away in an instant--his bitter anguish and unavailing +repentance--the long solitude and gnawing remorse--all was swept clean +away from his mind. He felt the strength and freshness of his boyhood +come back to him, as if the breeze of the uplands was blowing softly yet +keenly across his throbbing and fevered temples. Even his voice caught +back for the moment the ring of his early youth as he stood on the +threshold, forgetting all else but the sight that filled his eyes. +"Phebe!" he cried; "little Phebe Marlowe!" + +The cry startled Phebe, but she did not move. It was the voice of one +long since dead that rang in her ears--dead, and faithfully mourned +over; and every nerve tingled, and her heart seemed to stay its +beating. Roland Sefton's voice! She did not doubt it or mistake it. The +call had been too real. She had answered to it too many times to be +mistaken now. In those days of utter silence, when dumb signs only had +passed between her and her father, Roland's pleasant voice had sounded +too gladly in her ears ever to be forgotten or confounded with another. +But how could she hear it now? The voice of the dead! how could it reach +her? A strange pang of mingled joy and terror paralyzed her. She sat +motionless and bewildered, with a thrill of passionate expectation +quivering through her. Let Roland speak again; she could not answer his +first call! + +"Phebe!" She heard the cry again; but this time the voice was low, and +lamentable, and despairing. For in the few seconds he had been standing, +arrested on the threshold, the whole past had flitted through his brain +in dismal procession. She lifted herself up slowly and mechanically from +her low seat, and turned her face reluctantly towards the spot from +which the startling call had come. In the dusky, red light stood the +form of the one friend to whom she had been faithful with the utter +faithfulness of her nature. Whence he came she knew not--she was afraid +of knowing. But he was there, himself, and not another like him. There +was a change, she could see that dimly; but not such a change as could +disguise him from her. Of late, whilst she had been painting his +portrait from memory, every recollection of him had been revived with +keener vividness. Yet the terror of beholding him again on this side of +death struck her dumb. She stretched out her hands towards him, but she +could not speak. + +"I must speak to Phebe Marlowe alone," said Jean Merle to Canon Pascal, +and speaking in a tone of irresistible earnestness. "I have that to say +to her which no one else can hear. She is God's messenger to me." + +"Shall I leave you with this stranger, Phebe?" asked Canon Pascal. + +She made a gesture simply; her lips were too parched to open. + +"My dear girl, I will stay, if you please," he said again. + +"No," she breathed, in a voice scarcely audible. + +"There is a bell close at your hand," he went on, "and I shall be within +hearing of it. I will come myself if you ring it however faintly. You +know this man?" + +"Yes," she answered. + +She saw him look across at her with an encouraging smile; and then the +door was shut, and she was alone with her mysterious visitor. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. + + +They stood silent for a few moments;--moments which seemed hours to +Phebe. The stranger--for who could be so great a stranger as one who +had been many years dead?--had advanced only a step or two from the +threshold, and paused as if some invisible barrier was set up between +them. She had shrunk back, and stood leaning against the wall for the +support her trembling limbs needed. It was with a vehement effort that +at last she spoke. + +"Roland Sefton!" she faltered. + +"Yes!" he answered, "I am that most miserable man." + +"But you died," she said with quivering lips, "fourteen years ago." + +"No, Phebe, no," he replied; "would to God I had died then." + +Once more an agony of mingled fear and joy overwhelmed her. This dear +voice, so lamentable and hopeless, so well remembered in all its tones, +told her that he was still living, whom she had mourned over so many +years. But what could this mystery mean? What had he passed through? +What was about to happen now? A tumult of thoughts thronged to her +brain. But clearest of all came the assurance that he was alive, +standing there, desolate, changed, and friendless. She ran to him and +clasped his hands in hers; stooping down and kissing them, those hard +worn hands, which he left unresistingly in her grasp. These loving, and +deferential caresses belonged to the time when she was a humble country +girl, and he the friend very far above her. + +"Come closer to the fire, your hands are cold, Mr. Roland," she said, +speaking in the old long-disused accent of her early days, as she might +have spoken to him while she was yet a child. She threw a few logs on +the fire, and drew up Canon Pascal's chair to the hearth for him. She +felt spell-bound; and as if she had been suddenly thrust back upon those +old times. + +"I am no longer Roland Sefton," he said, sinking down into the chair; +"he died, as you say, many a long year ago. Do not light the lamp, +Phebe; let us talk by the firelight." + +The flicker of the flames creeping round the dry wood played upon his +face, and her eyes were fastened on it. Could this man really be Roland +Sefton, or was she being tricked by her fancy? Here was a scarred and +wrinkled face, blistered and burnt by the summer's sun, and cut and +frost-bitten by the winter's cold; the hair was gray and ragged, and the +eyes far sunk in the head met her gaze with a despairing and uneasy +glance, as if he shrank from her close scrutiny. His bowed shoulders and +hands roughened by toil, and worn-out mechanic's dress, were such a +change, that perhaps, she acknowledged it reluctantly to herself, if he +had not spoken as he did she might have passed him by undiscovered. + +"I am Jean Merle," he said, "not Roland Sefton." + +"Jean Merle?" she repeated in a low, bewildered tone, "not Roland +Sefton, but Jean Merle?" + +But she could not be bewildered or in doubt much longer. This was Roland +indeed, the hero of her life, come back to her a broken-down, desolate, +and hopeless man. She knelt down on the hearth beside him, and laid her +hand compassionately on his. + +"But you are Roland himself to me!" she cried. "Oh! be quick, and tell +me all about it. Why did we ever think you were dead?" + +"It was best for them all," he answered. "God knows I believed it was +best. But it was a second sin, worse than the first, Phebe. I did the +man who died no wrong, for he told me as he lay dying that he had no +friends to grieve for him, and no property to leave. All he wanted was a +decent grave; and he has it, and my name with it. The grave at Engelberg +contains a stranger. And I, Jean Merle, have taken charge of it." + +"Oh!" cried Phebe, with a pang of dread, "how will Felicita bear it?" + +"Felicita has known it; she consented to it," said Jean Merle. "If she +had uttered one word against my desperate plan, I should have recoiled +from it. To be dead whilst you are yet in the body; to have eyes to see +and ears to hear with, and a thinking brain and a hungry heart, whilst +there is no sign, or sound, or memory, or love from your former life; +you cannot conceive what that is, Phebe. I was dead, yet I was too +keenly alive in Jean Merle, the poor wood-carver and miser. They thought +I was imbecile; and I was almost a madman. I could not tear myself away +from the grave where Roland Sefton was buried; but oh! what I have +suffered!" + +He ended with a long shuddering sigh, which pierced Phebe to the heart. +The joy of seeing him again was vanishing in the sight of his suffering; +but the thought uppermost in her mind was of Felicita. + +"And she has known all along that you were not dead?" she said, in a +tone of awe. + +"Yes, Felicita knew," he answered. + +"And has she never seen you, never written to you?" she asked. + +"She knows nothing of me," he replied. "I was to be dead to her, and to +every one else. We parted forever in Engelberg fourteen years ago this +very month. Perhaps she believes me to be dead in reality. But I could +live no longer without knowing something of you all, of Felix and Hilda; +and I came over to England in August. I have seen all of you, except +Felicita." + +"Oh! it was wicked! it was cruel!" sobbed Phebe, shivering. "Your mother +died, believing she was going to rejoin you; and I, oh! how I have +mourned for you!" + +"Have you, Phebe?" he said sorrowfully; "but Felicita has been saved +from shame, and has been successful. She is too famous now for me to +retrace my steps, and get back into truthfulness. I can find no place +for repentance, let me seek it ever so carefully and with tears." + +"But you have repented?" she whispered. + +"Before God? yes!" he answered, "and I believe He has forgiven me. But +there is no way by which I can retrieve the past. I have forfeited +everything, and I am now shut out even from the duties of life. What +ought I to have done, Phebe? There was this way to save my mother, and +my children, and Felicita; and I took it. It has prospered for all of +them; they hold a different position in the world this day than they +could have done if I had lived." + +"In this world, yes!" answered Phebe, with a touch of scorn in her +voice; "but cannot you see what you have done for Felicita? Oh! it would +have been better for her to have endured the shame of your first sin, +than bear such a burden of guilt. And you might have outlived the +disgrace. There are Christian people in the world who can forgive sin, +even as Christ forgives it. Even my poor father forgave it; and Mr. +Clifford, he is repenting now that he did not forgive you; it weighs him +down in his old age. It would have been better for you and Felicita if +you had borne the penalty of your crime." + +"And our children, Phebe?" he said. + +"Could not God have made it up to them?" she asked. "Did He make it +necessary for you to sin again on their account? Oh! if you had only +trusted Him! If you had only waited to see how Christ could turn even +the sins of the father into blessings for his children! They have missed +you; it may be, I cannot see clearly, they must miss you now all their +lives. It would break their hearts to learn all this. Whether they must +know it, I cannot tell." + +"To what end should they know it?" he said. "Don't you see, Phebe, that +the distinction Felicita has won binds us to keep this secret? It cannot +be disclosed either to her or to them. I came to tell it to the man who +brought me here under a seal of secrecy." + +"To Canon Pascal?" she exclaimed. + +"Pascal?" he repeated, "ay? I remember him now. It would have been +terrible to have told it to him." + +"Let me think about it," said Phebe, "it has come too suddenly upon me. +There must be something we ought to do, but I cannot see it yet. I must +have time to recollect it all. And yet I am afraid to let you go, lest +you should disappear again, and all this should seem like a dreadful +dream." + +"You care for me still, Phebe?" he answered mournfully. "No, I shall not +disappear from you; I shall hold fast by you, now you have seen me +again. If that poor wretch in hell who lifted up his eyes, being in +torments, had caught sight of some pitying angel, who would now and then +dip the tip of her finger in water and cool his tongue, would he have +disappeared from her vision? Wouldn't he rather have had a horrible +dread lest she should disappear? But you will not forsake me, Phebe?" + +"Never!" replied Phebe, with an intense and mournful earnestness. + +"Then I will go," he said, rising reluctantly to his feet. The deep +tones of the Abbey clock were striking for the second time since he had +entered Canon Pascal's study, and they had been left in uninterrupted +conversation. It was time for him to go; yet it seemed to him as if he +had still so much to pour into Phebe's ear, that many hours would not +give him time enough. Unconstrained speech had proved a source of +ineffable solace and strength to him. He had been dying of thirst, and +he had found a spring of living waters. To Phebe, and to her alone, he +was still a living man, unless sometimes Felicita thought of him. + +"If you are still my friend, knowing all," he said, "I shall no longer +despair. When will you see me again?" + +"I will come to morning service in the Abbey to-morrow," she answered. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +WITHIN AND WITHOUT. + + +After speaking to Canon Pascal for a few minutes, with an agitation and +a reserve which he could not but observe, Phebe left the house to go +home. In one of the darkest corners of the cloisters she caught sight of +the figure of Jean Merle, watching for her to come out. For an instant +Phebe paused, as if to speak to him once more; but her heart was +over-fraught with conflicting emotions, whilst bewildering thoughts +oppressed her brain. She longed for a solitary walk homewards, along the +two or three miles of a crowded thoroughfare, where she could how feel +as much alone as she had ever done on the solitary uplands about her +birth-place. She had always delighted to ramble about the streets alone +after nightfall, catching brief glimpses of the great out-door +population, who were content if they could get a shelter for their heads +during the few, short hours they could give to sleep, without indulging +in the luxury of a home. When talking to them she could return to the +rustic and homely dialect of her childhood; and from her own early +experience she could understand their wants, and look at them from their +stand-point, whilst feeling for them a sympathy and pity intensified by +the education which had lifted her above them. + +But to-night she passed along the busy streets both deaf and dumb, +mechanically choosing the right way between the Abbey and her home, +nearly three miles away. There was only one circumstance of which she +was conscious--that Jean Merle was following her. Possibly he was afraid +in the depths of his heart that she would fail him when she came to +deliberately consider all he had told her. He wronged her, she said to +herself indignantly. Still, whenever she turned her head she caught +sight of his tall, bent figure and gray head, stealing after her at some +distance, but never losing her. So mournful was it to Phebe, to see her +oldest and her dearest friend thus dogging her footsteps, that once or +twice she paused at a street corner to give him time to overtake her; +but he kept aloof. He wished only to see where she lived, for there also +lived Felicita and Hilda. + +She turned at last into the square where their house was. It was +brilliantly lighted up, for Felicita was having one of her rare +receptions that evening, and in another hour or two the rooms would be +filled with guests. It was too early yet, and Hilda was playing on her +piano in the drawing-room, the merry notes ringing out into the quiet +night. There was a side door to Phebe's studio, by which she could go in +and out at pleasure, and she stood at it trying to fit her latch-key +into the lock with her trembling hands. Looking back she saw Jean Merle +some little distance away, leaning against the railings that enclosed +the Square garden. + +"Oh! I must run back to him! I must speak to him again!" she cried to +her own heart. In another instant she was at his side, with her hands +clasping his. + +"Oh!" she sobbed, "what can I do for you? This is too miserable for you; +and for me as well. Tell me what I can do." + +"Nothing," he answered. "Why, you make me feel as if I had sinned again +in telling you all this. I ought not to have troubled your happy heart +with my sorrow." + +"It was not you," she said, "you did not even come to tell me; God +brought you. I can bear it. But oh! to see you shut out, and inside, +yonder, Hilda is playing, and Felix, perhaps, is there. They will be +singing by-and-by, and never know who is standing outside, in the foggy +night, listening to them." + +Her voice broke into sobs, but Jean Merle did not notice them. + +"And Felicita?" he said. + +Phebe could not answer him for weeping. Just yet she could hardly bring +herself to think distinctly of Felicita; though in fact her thoughts +were full of her. She ran back to her private door, and this time opened +it readily. There was a low light in the studio from a shaded lamp +standing on the chimney-piece, which made the hearth bright, but left +all the rest of the room in shadow. Phebe threw off her bonnet and cloak +with a very heavy and troubled sigh. + +"What can make you sigh, Phebe?" asked a low-toned and plaintive voice. +In the chair by the fire-place, pushed out of the circle of the light, +she saw Felicita leaning back, and looking up at her. The beauty of her +face had never struck harshly upon Phebe until now; at this moment it +was absolutely painful to her. The rich folds of her velvet dress, and +the soft and costly lace of her head-dress, distinct from though +resembling a widow's cap, set off both her face and figure to the utmost +advantage. Phebe's eyes seemed to behold her more distinctly and vividly +than they had done for some years past; for she was looking through them +with a dark background for what she saw in her own brain. She was a +strikingly beautiful woman; but the thought of what anguish and dread +had been concealed under her reserved and stately air, so cold yet so +gentle, filled Phebe's soul with a sudden terror. What an awful life of +self-approved, stoical falsehood she had been living! She could see the +man, from whom she had just parted, standing without, homeless and +friendless, on the verge of pennilessness; a dead man in a living world, +cut off from all the ties and duties of the home and the society he +loved. But to Phebe he did not appear so wretched as Felicita was. + +She sank down on a seat near Felicita, with such a feeling of +heart-sickness and heart-faintness as she had never experienced before. +The dreariness and perplexity of the present stretched before her into +the coming years. For almost the first time in her life she felt +worn-out; physically weary and exhausted, as if her strength had been +overtaxed. Her childhood on the fresh, breezy uplands, and her happy, +tranquil temperament had hitherto kept her in perfect health. But now +she felt as if the sins of those whom she had loved so tenderly and +loyally touched the very springs of her life. She could have shared any +other burden with them, and borne it with an unbroken spirit and an +uncrushed heart. But such a sin as this, so full of woe and bewilderment +to them all, entangled her soul also in its poisonous web. + +"Why did you sigh so bitterly?" asked Felicita again. + +"The world is so full of misery," she answered, in a tremulous and +troubled voice; "its happiness is such a mockery!" + +"Have you found that out at last, dear Phebe?" said Felicita. "I have +been telling you so for years. The Son of Man fainting under the +Cross--that is the true emblem of human life. Even He had not strength +enough to bear His cross to the place called Golgotha. Whenever I think +of what most truly represents our life here, I see Jesus, faltering +along the rough road, with Simon behind Him, whom they compelled to bear +His cross." + +"He fainted under the sins of the world," murmured Phebe. "It is +possible to bear the sorrows of others; but oh! it is hard to carry +their sins." + +"We all find that out," said Felicita, her face growing wan and white +even to the lips. "Can one man do evil without the whole world suffering +for it? Does the effect of a sin ever die out? What is done cannot be +undone through all eternity. There is the wretchedness of it, Phebe." + +"I never felt it as I do now," she answered. + +"Because you have kept yourself free from earthly ties," said Felicita +mournfully; "you have neither husband nor child to increase your power +of suffering a hundred-fold. I am entering upon another term of +tribulation in Felix and Hilda. If I had only been like you, dear Phebe, +I could have passed through life as happily as you do; but my life has +never belonged to myself; it has been forced to run in channels made by +others." + +Somewhere in the house behind them a door was left open accidentally, +and the sound of Hilda's piano and of voices singing broke in upon the +quiet studio. Phebe listened to them, and thought of the desolate, +broken-hearted man without, who was listening too. The clear young +voices of their children fell upon his ears as upon Felicita's; so near +they were to one another, yet so far apart. She shivered and drew nearer +to the fire. + +"I feel as cold as if I was a poor outcast in the streets," she said. + +"And I, too," responded Felicita; "but oh! Phebe, do not you lose heart +and courage, like me. You have always seemed in the sunshine, and I have +looked up to you and felt cheered. Don't come down into the darkness to +me." + +Phebe could not answer, for the darkness was closing round her. Until +now there had happened no perplexity in her life which made it difficult +to decide upon the right or the wrong. But here was come a coil. The +long years had reconciled her to Roland's death, and made the memory of +him sacred and sorrowfully sweet, to be brooded over in solitary hours +in the silent depths of her loyal heart. But he was alive again, with +no right to be alive, having no explanation to give which could +reinstate him in his old position. And Felicita? Oh! what a cruel, +unwomanly wrong Felicita had been guilty of! She could not command her +voice to speak again. + +"I must go," said Felicita, at last. "I wish I had not invited visitors +for to-night." + +"I cannot come in this evening," Phebe answered; "but Felix is there, +and Canon Pascal is coming. You will do very well without me." + +She breathed more freely when Felicita was gone. The dimly-lighted +studio, with the canvases she was at work upon, and the pictures she had +painted hanging on the walls, and her easels standing as she had left +them three or four hours ago, when the early dusk came on, soothed her +agitated spirit now she was alone. She moved slowly about, putting +everything into its place, and feeling as if her thoughts grew more +orderly as she did so. When all was done she opened the outer door +stealthily, and peeped out. Yes; he was there, leaning against the +railings, and looking up at the brilliantly-lighted windows. Carriages +were driving up and setting down Felicita's guests. Phebe's heart cried +out against the contrast between the lives of these two. She longed to +run out and stand beside him in the darkness and dampness of the +November night. But what good could she do? she asked bitterly. She did +not dare even to ask him in to sit beside her studio fire. The same roof +could not cover him and Felicita, without unspeakable pain to him. + +It was late before the house was quiet, and long after midnight when the +last light was put out. That was in Phebe's bedroom, and once again she +looked out, and saw the motionless figure, looking black amidst the +general darkness, as if it had never stirred since she had seen it +first. But whilst she was gazing, with quivering mouth and tear-dimmed +eyes, a policeman came up and spoke to Jean Merle, giving him an +authoritative shake, which seemed to arouse him. He moved gently away, +closely followed by the policeman till he passed out of her sight. + +There was no sleep for Phebe; she did not want to sleep. All night long +her brain was awake and busy; but it found no way out of the coil. Who +can make a crooked thing straight? or undo that which has been done? + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE. + + +When Phebe entered Westminster Abbey the next day the morning service +was already begun. Upon the bench nearest the door sat a working-man, +in worn-out clothes, whose gray hair was long and ragged, and whose +whole appearance was one of poverty and suffering. She was passing by, +when a gleam of recognition in the dark and sunken eyes of this poor man +arrested her. Could he possibly be Roland Sefton? The night before she +had seen him only in a friendly obscurity, which concealed the ravages +time, and sorrow, and labor had effected; but now the daylight, in +revealing them, cast a chill shadow of doubt into her heart. It was his +voice she had known and acknowledged the night before; but now he was +silent, and, revealed by the daylight, she felt troubled and +distrustful. Such a man she might have met a thousand times without once +recalling to her memory the handsome, manly presence and prosperous +bearing of Roland Sefton. + +Yet she sat down beside him in answer to that appealing gleam in his +eyes, and as his well-known voice joined hers in the responses to the +prayers, she acknowledged him again in her heart of hearts. And now all +thought of the sacred place, and of the worship she was engaged in, fled +from her mind. She was a girl at home again, dwelling in the silent +society of her dumb father, with this voice of Roland Sefton's coming to +break the stillness from time to time, and to fill it with that sweetest +music, the sound of human speech. If he had lost every vestige of +resemblance to his former self, his voice only, calling "Phebe" as he +had done the evening before, must have betrayed him to her. Not an +accent of it had been forgotten. + +To Jean Merle Phebe Marlowe was little altered, save that she had grown +from a simple rustic maiden into a cultivated and refined woman. The +sweet and gentle face beside him, with the deep peaceful blue of her +eyes, and the sensitive mouth so ready to break into a smile, was the +same he had seen when, on that terrible evening so many years ago, he +had craved her help to escape from his dreaded punishment. "I will help +you, even to dying for you and yours," she had said. He remembered +vividly how mournfully the girlish fervor of her manner had impressed +him. Even now he had no one else to help him; this woman's little hand +alone could reach him in the gulf where he lay; only the simple, pitiful +wisdom of her faithful heart could find a way for him out of this misery +of his into some place of safety and peace. He was willing to follow +wherever she might guide him. + +"I can see only one duty before us," she said, when the service was +over, and they stood together before one of the monuments in the Abbey; +"I think Mr. Clifford ought to know." + +"What will he do, Phebe?" asked Jean Merle. "God knows if I had only +myself to think of I would go into a convict-prison as thankfully as if +it was the gate of heaven. It would be as the gate of heaven to me if I +could pay the penalty of my crime. But there are Felicita and my +children; and the greater shock and shame to them of my conviction now." + +"Yet if Mr. Clifford demanded the penalty it must even now be paid," +answered Phebe; "but he will not. One reason why he ought to know is +that he mourns over you still, day and night, as if he had been the +chief cause of your death. He reproaches himself with his implacability +both towards you and his son. But even if the old resentment should +awaken, it is right you should run the risk. Why need it be known to any +one but us two that Felicita knew you were still alive?" + +"If we could save her and the children I should be satisfied," said Jean +Merle. + +"It would kill her to know you were here," answered Phebe, looking round +her with a terrified glance, as if she expected to see Felicita; "she is +not strong, and a sudden agitation and distress might cause her death +instantly. No, she must never know. And I am not afraid of Mr. Clifford; +he will forgive you with all his heart; and he will be made glad in his +old age. I will go down with you this evening. There is a train at four +o'clock, and we shall reach Riversborough at eight. Be at the station to +meet me." + +"You know," said Jean Merle, "that the lapse of years does not free one +from trial and conviction? Mr. Clifford can give me into the hands of +the police at once; and to-night may see me lodged in Riversborough +jail, as if I had been arrested fourteen years ago. You know this, +Phebe?" + +"Yes, I know it, but I am not afraid of it," she answered. + +She had not the slightest fear of old Mr. Clifford's vindictiveness. As +she travelled down to Riversborough, with Jean Merle in a third-class +carriage of the same train, her mind was very busy with troubled +thoughts. There was an unquiet joy stirring in the secret depths of her +heart, but she was too full of anxiety and bewilderment to be altogether +aware of it. Though it was not more than twenty-four hours since she had +known otherwise, it seemed to her as if she had never believed that +Roland Sefton was dead, and it appeared incredible that the report of +his death should have received such full acceptance as it had everywhere +done. Yet though he had come back, there could be no welcome for him. To +her and to old Mr. Clifford only could this return from the grave +contain any gladness. And was she glad? she asked herself, after a long +deliberation over the difficulties surrounding this strange +reappearance. She had sorrowed for him and comforted his mother in her +mourning, and talked of him as one talks fondly of the dead to his +children; and all the sacred healing of time had softened the grief she +once felt into a tranquil and grateful memory of him, as of the friend +she had loved most, and whose care for her had most widely influenced +her life. But she could not own yet that she was glad. + +Old Mr. Clifford was sitting in the wainscoted dining-room, his favorite +room, when Phebe opened the door silently, and looked in with a pale and +anxious face. His sight was dim, and a blaze of light fell upon the +dark, old panels, and the old-fashioned silver tankards and bright brass +salvers on the carved sideboard. Two or three of Phebe's sunniest +pictures hung against the oaken panels. There was a blazing fire on the +hearth, and the old man, with his elbows resting on the arms of his +chair, and his hands clasped lightly, was watching the play and dance of +the flames as they shot up the chimney. Some new books lay on a table +beside him, but he was not reading. He was sitting there in utter +loneliness, with no companionship except that of his own fading +memories. Phebe's tenderness for the old man was very great; and she +paused on the threshold gazing at him pitifully; whilst Jean Merle, +standing in the hall behind her, caught a glimpse of the hearth so +crowded with memories for him, but occupied now by one desolate old man, +before the door was closed, and he was left without. + +"Why, it's little Phebe Marlowe!" cried Mr. Clifford gladly, looking +round at the light sound of a footstep, very different from Mrs. Nixey's +heavy tread; "my dear child, you can't tell what a pleasure this is to +me." + +He had risen up, and stood holding both her hands and looking fondly +into her face. + +"This moment I was thinking of you, my dear," he said; "I was inditing a +long letter to you in my head, which these lazy old fingers of mine +would have refused to write. Sandon, the bookseller, has been in here, +bringing these books; and he told me a queer story enough. He says that +in August last a relation of Madame Sefton's was here, in Riversborough; +and told him who he was, in his shop, where he bought one of Felicita's +books. Why didn't Sandon come here at once and tell us then, so that you +could have found him out, Phebe? You and Felix and Hilda were here. He +was a poor man, and seemed badly off; and I guess he came to inquire +after Madame. Sandon says he reminded him of Roland--poor Roland! Why, +I'd have given the poor fellow a welcome for the sake of that +resemblance; and I was just thinking how Phebe's tender heart would have +been touched by even so faint a likeness." + +"Yes," she murmured. + +"And we could have lifted him up a little; quite a poor man, Sandon +says," continued Mr. Clifford; "but sit down, my dear. There is no one +in the wide world would be so welcome to me as little Phebe Marlowe, who +refused to be my adopted daughter." + +He had drawn a chair close beside his own, for he would not loose her +hand, but kept it closely grasped by his thin and crooked fingers. + +"You have altogether forgiven Roland?" she said tremulously. + +"Altogether, my dear," he answered. + +"As Christ forgives us, bearing away our sins Himself?" she said. + +"As Christ forgave us," he replied, bowing his head solemnly. + +"And if it was possible--think it possible," she went on, "that he could +come back again, that the grave in Engelberg could give up its dead, he +would be welcome to you?" + +"If my old friend Sefton's son, could come back again," he said, "he +would be more welcome to me than you are, Phebe. How often do I fancy +him sitting yonder in Sefton's chair, watching me with his dear eyes!" + +"But suppose he had deceived us all," she continued, "if he had escaped +from your anger by another fraud; a worse fraud! If he had managed so as +to bury some one else in his name, and go on living under a false one! +Could you forgive that?" + +"If Roland could come back a repentant man, I would forgive him every +sin," answered Mr. Clifford, "and rejoice that I had not driven him to +seek death. But what do you mean, Phebe? why do you ask?" + +"Because," she answered, speaking almost in a whisper, with her face +close to his, "Roland did not die. That man, who was here in August, and +called himself Jean Merle, is Roland himself. He saw you, and all of us, +and did not dare to make himself known. I can tell you all about it. +But, oh! he has bitterly repented; and there is no place of repentance +for him in this world. He cannot come back amongst us, and be Roland +Sefton again." + +"Where is he?" asked the old man, trembling. + +"He is here; he came with me. I will go and fetch him," she answered. + +Mr. Clifford leaned back in his arm-chair, and gazed towards the +half-open door. His memory had gone back twenty years, to the last time +he had seen Roland Sefton, in the prime of his youth, handsome, erect, +and happy, who had made his heart ache as he thought of his own +abandoned son, lying buried in a common grave in Paris. The man whom he +saw entering slowly and reluctantly into the room behind Phebe, was +gray-headed, bent, and abject. This man paused just within the doorway, +looking not at him but round the room, with a glance full of grief and +remembrance. The eager, questioning eyes of old Mr. Clifford did not +arrest his attention, or divert it from the aspect of the old familiar +place. + +"No, no, Phebe!" exclaimed Mr. Clifford, "he's an impostor, my dear. +That's not my old friend's son Roland." + +"Would to God I were not!" cried Jean Merle bitterly, "would to God I +stood in this room as a stranger! Phebe Marlowe, this is very hard; my +punishment is greater than I can bear. All my life comes back to me +here. This place, of all other places in the world, brings my sin and +folly to remembrance." + +He sank down on a chair, and buried his face in his hands, to shut out +the hateful sight of the old home. He was inside his Paradise again; and +behold, it was a place of torment. There was no room in his thoughts for +Mr. Clifford, it was nothing to him that he should be called an +impostor. He came to claim nothing, not even his own name. But the +avenging memories of the past claimed him and held him fast bound. Even +last night, when in the chill darkness of the November night he had +watched the house which held Felicita and their children, his pain had +been less poignant than now, within these walls, where all his happy +life had been passed. He was unconscious of everything but his pain. He +could not hear Phebe's voice speaking for him to Mr. Clifford. He saw +and felt nothing, until a gentle and trembling hand pressing on his +shoulder feebly and as tenderly as his mother's made him look up into +the gray and agitated face of Mr. Clifford bending over him. + +"Roland! Roland!" he said, in a voice broken by sobs, "my old friend's +son, forgive me as I forgive you. God be thanked, you have come back +again in time for me to see you and bid you welcome. I bless God with +all my heart. It is your own home, Roland, your own home." + +With his feeble but eager old hands he drew him to the hearth, and +placed him in the chair close beside his own, where Phebe had been +sitting, and kept his hand upon his arm, lest he should vanish out of +his sight. + +"You shall tell me nothing more to-night," he said; "I am old, and this +is enough for me. It is enough that to-night you and I have pardoned +one another from 'the low depths of our hearts.' Tell me nothing else +to-night." + +Phebe had slipped away from them to help Mrs. Nixey to prepare a room +for Jean Merle. It was the one that had been Roland Sefton's nursery, +and the nursery of his children, and it was still occupied by Felix, +when he visited his old home. The homely hospitable occupation was a +relief to her; but in the room that she had left the two men sat side by +side in unbroken silence. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +AS A HIRED SERVANT. + + +From a profound and dreamless sleep Jean Merle awoke early the next +morning, with the blessed feeling of being at home again in his +father's house. The heavy cross-beams of black oak dividing the ceiling +into panels; the low broad lattice window with a few upper panes of old +stained glass; the faded familiar pictures on the wall; these all awoke +in him memories of his earliest years. In the corner of the room, hardly +to be distinguished from the wainscot, was the high narrow door +communicating with his mother's chamber, through which he had often, how +often! seen her come in softly, on tiptoe, to take a look at him. His +own children, too, had slept there; and it was here that he had last +seen his little son and daughter before fleeing from his home a +self-accused criminal. All the happy, prosperous life of Roland Sefton +had been encompassed round by these walls. + +But the dead past must bury the dead. If there had ever been a deep, +buried, hidden hope, that a possible return to something of the old life +lay in the unknown future, it was now utterly uprooted. Such a return +was only possible over the ruined lives and broken hearts of Felicita +and his children. If he made himself known, though he was secure against +prosecution, the story of his former crime would revive, and spread +wider, joined with the fair name of Felicita, than it would have done +when he was merely a fraudulent banker in a country town. However true +it might be what Phebe maintained, that he might have suffered the +penalty of his sin, and afterwards retrieved the past, whilst his +children were too young to feel the full bitterness of the shame, it was +too late to do it now. The name he had dishonored was forever forfeited. +His return to his former life was hedged up on every hand. + +But a new courage was awaking in him, which helped him to grapple with +his despair. He would bury the dead past, and go on into the future +making the best of his life, maimed and marred as it was by his own +folly. He was still in the prime of his age, thirty years younger than +Mr. Clifford, whose intellect was as keen and clear as ever; there was a +long span of time stretching before him, to be used or misused. + +"Come unto Me all ye that be weary, and heavy laden, and I will give +you rest." He seemed to see the words in the quaint upright characters +in which old Marlowe had carved them under the crucifix. He had fancied +he knew what coming to Christ meant in those old days of his, when he +was reputed a religious man, and was first and foremost in all religious +and philanthropic schemes, making his trespass more terrible and +pernicious than if it had been the transgression of a worldly man. But +it was not so when he came to Christ this morning. He was a +broken-hearted man, who had cut himself off from all human ties and +affections, and who was longing to feel that he was not forsaken of the +universal Brother and Saviour. His cry was, "My soul thirsteth for thee; +my flesh longeth for thee, in a dry and weary land, where no water is." +It was his own fault that he was in the dry and weary wilderness; but +oh! if Christ would not forsake him then, would dwell with him, even in +this desert made desolate by himself, then at last he might find peace +to his soul. + +There was a deep inner consciousness, the forgotten but not obliterated +faith of his boyhood and youth, before the world with its pomps and +ambitions had laid its iron hand upon him, that Christ was with him, +leading him day by day, if he would but follow nearer to God. Was it +impossible to follow His guidance now? Could he not, even yet, take up +his cross, and be willing to fill any place which he could yet fill +worthily and humbly; expiating his sins against his fellow-men by truer +devotion to their service, as Jean Merle, the working-man; not as Roland +Sefton, the prosperous and fraudulent banker? + +This return to his father's house, and all its associations, solemn and +sacred with a peculiar sacredness and solemnity, seemed to him a pledge +that he could once more be admitted into the great brotherhood and home +of Christ's disciples. Every object on which his eye rested smote him, +but it was with the stroke of a friend. A clear and sweet light from the +past shed its penetrating rays into the darkest corners of his soul. +Forgiven! God had forgiven him; and man had forgiven him. Before him lay +an obscure and humble path; but the heaviest part of his burden was +gone. He must go heavy-laden to the end of his days, treading in rough +paths; but despair had fled, and with it the sense of being separated +from God and man. + +He heard the feeble yet deep old voice of Mr. Clifford outside his door +inquiring from Mrs. Nixey if Mr. Merle was gone down-stairs yet. He made +haste to go down, treading the old staircase with something of the +alacrity of former days. Phebe was in the dining-room, and the servants +came in to prayer as they had been used to do forty years ago when he +was a child. An old-world tranquillity and peacefulness was in the +familiar scene which breathed a deep calm over his tempest-tossed +spirit. + +"Phebe has been telling me all," said Mr. Clifford, when breakfast was +over; "tell me what can be done to save Felicita and the children." + +"I am Jean Merle," he answered with a melancholy smile, "Jean Merle, and +no one else. I come back with no claims, and they must never know me. +Why should I cross their path and blight it? I cannot atone for the +past in any way, except by keeping away forever from them. I shall +injure no one by continuing to be Jean Merle." + +"No," said Phebe, "it is too late now, and it would kill Felicita." + +"This morning a thought struck me," he continued, "a project for my +future life, which you can help me to put into execution, Phebe. I have +an intolerable dread of losing sight of you all again; let me be at +least somewhere in England, when you can now and then give me tidings of +my children and Felicita." + +"I will do anything in the world to help you," cried Phebe eagerly. + +"Then let me go to your little farm," he answered, "and take up your +father's life, at least for a time, until I can see how to make myself +of greater use to my fellow-men. I will till the fields as he did, and +finish the carvings he has left undone, and live his simple, silent +life. It will be good for me, and I shall not be banished from my own +country. I shall be a happier man then than I have any right to be." + +"Have you no fear of being recognized?" she asked. + +"None," he replied. "Look at me, Phebe. Should you have known me again +if I had not betrayed myself to you?" + +"I should have known you again anywhere," she exclaimed. But it was her +heart that cried out that no change could have concealed him from her; +there was a dread lying deep down in her conscience that she might have +passed him by with no suspicion. He shook his head in answer to her +assertion. + +"I will go out into the town," he continued, "and speak to half-a-dozen +men who knew me best, and there will be no gleam of recognition in their +eyes. Recollect Roland Sefton is dead, and has been dead so long that +there will be no clear memory left of him as he was then to compare with +me. And any dim resemblance to him will be fully accounted for by my +relationship to Madame Sefton. No, I am not afraid of the keenest eyes." + +He went out as he had said, and met his old townsmen, many of whom were +themselves so changed that he could barely recognize them. The memory of +Roland Sefton was blotted out, he was utterly forgotten as a dead man +out of mind. + +As Jean Merle strayed through the streets crowded with market-people +come in from the country, his new scheme grew stronger and brighter to +him. It would keep him in England, within reach of all he had loved and +had lost. The little place was dear to him, and the laborious, secluded +peasant life had a charm for him who had so long lived as a Swiss +peasant. By-and-by, he thought, the chance resemblance in the names +would merge that of Merle into the more familiar name of Marlowe; and +the identity of his pursuits with those of the deaf and dumb old man +would hasten such a change. So the years to come would pass by in labor +and obscurity; and an obscure grave in the little churchyard, where all +the Marlowes lay, would shelter him at last. A quiet haven after many +storms; but oh! what a shipwreck had he made of his life! + +All the morning Mr. Clifford sat in his arm-chair lost in thought, only +looking up sometimes to ply Phebe with questions. When Jean Merle +returned, his gray, meditative face grew bright, with a faint smile +shining through his dim eyes. + +"You are no phantom then!" he said. "I've been so used to your company +as a ghost that when you are out of sight I fancy myself dreaming. I +could not let Phebe go away lest I should feel that all this is not +real. Did any one know you again?" + +"Not a soul," he answered; "how could they? Mrs. Nixey herself has no +remembrance of me. There is no fear of my being known." + +"Then I want you to stay with me," said old Mr. Clifford eagerly; "I'm a +lonely man, seventy-seven years old, with neither kith nor kin, and it +seems a long and dreary road to the grave. I want one to sit beside me +in these long evenings, and to take care of me as a son takes care of +his old father. Could you do it, Jean Merle? I beseech you, if it is +possible, give me your services in my old age." + +"It will be hard for you," pleaded Phebe in a low voice, "harder than +going out alone to my little home. But you would do more good here; you +could save us from anxiety, for we are often very anxious and sorrowful +about Mr. Clifford. I can take care that you should always know before +Felix and Hilda come down. Felicita never comes." + +How much harder it would be for him even Phebe could not guess. To dwell +within reach of his old home was altogether different from living in it, +with its countless memories, and the unremitting stings of conscience. +To have about him all that he had lost and made desolate; the empty +home, from which all the familiar faces and beloved voices had vanished; +this lot surely was harder than the humble, laborious life of old +Marlowe on the hills. Yet if any one living had a claim upon him for +such self-sacrifice, it was this feeble, tottering old man, who was +gazing up into his face with urgent and imploring eyes. + +"I will stay here and be your servant," he answered, "if there appears +no reason against it when we have given it more thought." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +PHEBE'S SECRET. + + +For the first time in her life those who were about Phebe Marlowe felt +that she was under a cloud. The sweet sunny atmosphere, as of a clear +and peaceful day, which seemed to surround her, had fled. She was absent +and depressed, and avoided society, even that of Hilda, who had been +like her own child to her. Towards Felicita there was a subtle change in +Phebe's manner, which could not fail to impress deeply her sensitive +temperament. She felt that Phebe shrank from her, and that she was no +longer welcome to the studio, which of all places in the world had been +to her a place of repose, and of brief cessation of troubled thought. +Phebe's direct and simple nature, free from all guile and worldliness, +had made her a perfect sympathizer with any true feeling. And Felicita's +feeling with regard to her past most sorrowful life had been absolutely +real; if only Phebe had known all the circumstances of it as she had +always supposed she did. + +Phebe was, moreover, fearful of some accident betraying to Felicita the +circumstance of Jean Merle living at Riversborough. There had never +been any direct correspondence between Felicita and Mr. Clifford, except +on purely business matters; and Felix was too much engrossed with his +own affairs to find time to run down to Riversborough, or to keep up an +animated interchange of letters with his old friend there. The +intercourse between them had been chiefly carried on through Phebe +herself, who was the old man's prime favorite. Neither was he a man +likely to let out anything he might wish to conceal. But still she was +nervous and afraid. How far from improbable it was that through some +unthought-of channel Felicita might hear that a stranger, related to +Madame Sefton, had entered the household of Mr. Clifford as his +confidential attendant, and that this stranger's name was Jean Merle. +What would happen then? + +She was burdened with a secret, and her nature abhorred a secret. There +was gladness, almost utterly pure, to her in the belief that there was +One being who could read the inmost recesses of her heart, and see, with +the loving-kindness of an Allwise Father, its secret faults, the errors +which she did not herself understand. That she had nothing to tell to +God, which He did not know of her already, was one of the deepest +foundations of her spiritual life. And in some measure, in all possible +measure, she would have had it so with those whom she loved. She did not +shrink from showing to them her thoughts, and motives, and emotions. It +was the limit of expression, so quickly reached, so impassable, that +chafed her; and she was always searching for fresh modes of conveying +her own feeling to other souls. Possibly the enforced speechlessness in +which she had passed her early years had aided in creating this +passionate desire to impart herself to those about her in unfettered +communion, and she ardently delighted in the same unreserved confidence +in those who conversed with her. But now she was doomed to bear the +burden of a secret fraught with strange and painful consequences to +those whom she loved, if time should ever divulge it. + +The winter months passed away cheerlessly, though she worked with more +persistent energy than ever before, partly to drive away the thoughts +that troubled her. She heard from Mr. Clifford, but not more frequently +than usual, and Jean Merle did not venture upon sending her a line of +his hand-writing. Mr. Clifford spoke in guarded terms of the comfort he +found in the companionship of his attendant, in spite of his being a sad +and moody man. Now and then he told Phebe that this attendant of his had +gone for a day or two to her solitary little house on the uplands, of +which Mr. Clifford kept the key, and that he stayed there a day or two, +finishing the half-carved blocks of oak her father had left incomplete. +It would have been a happier existence, she knew, for himself, if Jean +Merle had gone to dwell there altogether; but it was along this path of +self-sacrifice and devotion alone lay the road back to a Christian life. + +One point troubled Phebe's conscience more than any other. Ought she not +at least to tell Canon Pascal what she knew? She could not help feeling +that this second fraud would seem worse in his estimation than the first +one. And Felicita, the very soul of truth and honor, had connived at it! +It seemed immeasurably more terrible in Phebe's own eyes. To her money +had so small a value, it lay on so low a level in the scale of life, +that a crime in connection with it had far less guilt than one against +the affections. And how unutterable a sin against all who loved him had +Roland and Felicita fallen into! She recalled his mother's mourning for +him through many long years, and her belief in death that she was going +soon to rejoin the beloved son whom she had lost. Her own grief she put +aside, but there was the deep, boyish sorrow of Felix, and even little +Hilda's fatherlessness, as the children had grown up through the various +stages of childhood. It might have been bad for them to bear the stigma +of their father's shame, but still Phebe believed it would have been +better for every one of them to have gone bravely forward to bear the +just consequences of sin. + +She went down into Essex to spend a day or two at Christmas, carrying +with her the fitful spirit so foreign to her. The perfect health that +had been hers hitherto was broken; and Mrs. Pascal, a confirmed invalid, +to whom Phebe's physical vigor and evenness of temper had been a +constant source of delight and invigoration, felt the change in her +keenly. + +"She has something on her mind," she said to her husband; "you must try +and find it out, or she will be ill." + +"I know she has a secret," he answered, "but it is not her own. Phebe +Marlowe is as open as the day; she will never have a secret of her own." + +But he made no effort to find out her secret. His searching, kindly eyes +met hers with the trustfulness of a frank and open nature that +recognized a nature akin to its own, and Phebe never shrank from his +gaze, though her lips remained closed. If it was right for her to tell +him anything of the stranger who had been about to make him his +confessor, she would do it. Canon Pascal would not ask any questions. + +"Felix and Alice are growing more and more deeply in love with each +other," he said to her; "there is something beautiful and pleasant in +being a spectator of these palmy days of theirs. Felicita even felt +something of their happiness when she was here last, and she will not +withhold her full approbation much longer." + +"And you," answered Phebe, with an eager flush on her face, "you do not +repent of giving Alice to the son of a man who might have been a +convict?" + +"I believe Alice would marry Felix if his father had been a murderer," +replied Canon Pascal; "it is too late to alter it now. Besides, I know +Felix through and through, he is himself; he is no longer the son of any +person, but a true man, one of the sons of God." + +The strong and emphatic tone of Canon Pascal's words brought great +consolation to Phebe's troubled mind. She might keep silence with a good +conscience, for the duty of disclosing all to Canon Pascal arose simply +from the possibility that his conduct would be altered by this further +knowledge of Roland and Felicita. + +"But this easy country life is not good for Felix," she said in a more +cheerful tone; "he needs a difficult parish to develop his energies. It +is not among your people he will become a second Felix Merle." + +"Patience! Phebe," he answered, "there is a probability in the future, +a bare probability, and dimly distant, which may change all that. He may +have as much to do as Felix Merle by and by." + +Phebe returned to her work in London with a somewhat lighter heart. Yet +the work was painful to her; work which a few months before would have +been a delight. For Felicita, yielding to the urgent entreaties of Felix +and Hilda, had consented to sit for her portrait. She was engaged in no +writing, and had ample leisure. Until now she had resisted all +importunity, and no likeness of her existed. She disliked photographs, +and had only had one taken for Roland alone when they were married, and +she could never bring herself to sit for an artist comparatively a +stranger to her. It was opposed to her reserved and somewhat haughty +temperament that any eye should scan too freely and too curiously the +lineaments of her beautiful face, with its singularly expressive +individuality. But now that Phebe's skill had been so highly cultivated, +and commanded an increasing reputation, she could no longer oppose her +children's reiterated entreaties. + +Felicita was groping blindly for the reason of the change in Phebe's +feeling towards her, for she was conscious of some vague, mysterious +barrier that had arisen between her and the tender, simple soul which +had been always full of lowly sympathy for her. But Phebe silently +shrank from her in a terror mingled with profound, unutterable pity. For +here was a secret misery of a solitary human spirit, ice-bound in a +self-chosen isolation, which was an utter mystery to her. All the old +love and reverence, amounting almost to adoration, which she had, +offered up as incense to some being far above her had died away; gone +also was the child-like simplicity with which she could always talk to +Felicita. She could read the pride and sadness of the lovely face before +her with a clear understanding now, but the lines which reproduced it on +her canvas were harder and sterner than they would have been if she had +known less of Felicita's heart. The painting grew into a likeness, but +it was a painful one, full of hidden sadness, bitterness, and +infelicity. Felix and Hilda gazed at it in silence, almost as solemn and +mournful as if they were looking on the face of their dead mother. She +herself turned from it with a feeling of dread. + +"How much do you know of me?" she cried; "how deep can you look into my +heart, Phebe?" Phebe glanced from her to the finished portrait, and only +answered by tears. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +NEAR THE END. + + +Felicita had followed the urgent advice of her physicians in giving up +writing for a season. There was no longer any necessity for her work, +as some time since the money which Roland Sefton had fraudulently +appropriated, had been paid back with full interest, and she began to +feel justified in accepting the income from her marriage settlement. +During the winter and spring she spent her days much as other women of +her class and station, in a monotonous round of shopping, driving in the +parks, visiting, and being visited, partly for Hilda's sake, and partly +driven to it for want of occupation; but short as the time was which she +gave to this life, she grew inexpressibly weary of it. Early, in May she +turned into Phebe's studio, which she had seldom entered since her +portrait was finished. This portrait was in the Academy Exhibition, and +she was constantly receiving empty compliments about it. + +"Dear Phebe!" she exclaimed, "I have tried fashionable life to see how +much it is worth, and oh! it is altogether hollow and inane. I did not +expect much from it, but it is utter weariness to me." + +"And you will go back to your writing?" said Phebe. + +Felicita hesitated for a moment. There was a worn and harassed +expression on her pale face, as if she had not slept or rested well for +a long time, which touched Phebe's heart. + +"Not yet," she answered; "I am going on a journey. I shall start for +Switzerland to-night." + +"To Switzerland! To-night!" echoed Phebe. "Oh, no! you must not, you +cannot. And alone? How can you think of going alone?" + +"I went alone once," she answered, smiling with her lips, though her +dark eyes grew no brighter, "and I can go again. I shall manage very +well. I fancied you would not care to go with me," she added, sighing. + +"But I must go with you!" cried Phebe; "did I not promise long ago? Only +don't go to-night, stay a day or two." + +"No, no," she said with feverish impatience, "I have made all my +arrangements. Nobody must know, and Hilda is gone down into Essex for a +week, and my cousins fancy I am going to the sea-side for a few days' +rest. I must start to-night, in less than four hours, Phebe. You cannot +be ready in time?" + +But she spoke wistfully, as if it would be pleasant to hear Phebe say +she would go with her. For a few minutes Phebe was lost in bewildered +thought. Felicita had told her some months ago that she must go to +Engelberg before she could give her consent to Felix marrying Alice, but +it had escaped her memory, pushed out by more immediate and more present +cares. And now she could not tell what Jean Merle would have her do. To +discover suddenly that he was alive, and in England, nay, at +Riversborough itself, under their old roof, would be too great a shock +for Felicita. Phebe dared not tell her. Yet, to let her start off alone +on this fruitless errand, to find only an empty hut at Engelberg, with +no trace of its occupant left behind, was heartless, and might prove +equally injurious to Felicita. There was no time to communicate with +Riversborough, she must come to a decision for herself, and at once. The +white, worn face, with its air of sad determination, filled her with +deep and eager pity. + +"Oh! I will go with you," she cried. "I could never bear you to go +alone. But is there nothing you can tell me? Only trust me. What trouble +carries you there? Why must you go to Engelberg before Felix marries?" + +She had caught Felicita's small cold hand between her own and looked up +beseechingly into her face. Oh! if she would but now, at last, throw off +the burden which had so long bowed her down, and tell her secret, she +could let her know that this painful pilgrimage was utterly needless. +But the sweet, sad, proud lips were closed, and the dark eyes looking +down steadily into Phebe's, betrayed no wavering of her determined +reticence. + +"You shall come with me as far as Lucerne, dear Phebe," she answered, +stooping down to kiss her uplifted face, "but I must go alone to +Engelberg." + +There was barely time enough for Phebe to make any arrangements, there +was not a moment for deliberation. She wrote a few hurried words to Jean +Merle, imploring him to follow them at once, and promising to detain +Felicita on their way, if possible. Felicita's own preparations were +complete, and her route marked out, with the time of steamers and trains +set down. Through Paris, Mulhausen, and Basle she hastened on to +Lucerne. Now she had set out on this dreary and dolorous path there +could be no rest for her until she reached the end. Phebe recognized +this as soon as they had started. It would be impossible to detain +Felicita on the way. + +But Jean Merle could not be far behind them, a few hours would bring him +to them after they had reached Lucerne. Felicita was very silent as they +travelled on by the swiftest trains, and Phebe was glad of it. For what +could she say to her? She was herself lost in a whirl of bewilderment, +and of mingled hope and fear. Could it possibly be that Felicita would +learn that Jean Merle was still living, and the mode and manner of his +life through this long separation, and yet stand aloof from him, afar +off, as one on whom he had no claim, claim for pity and love? But if she +could relent towards him, how must it be in the future? It could never +be that she would own the wrong she had committed openly in the face of +the world. What was to happen now? Phebe was hardly less feverishly +agitated than Felicita herself. + +It was evening when they arrived at Lucerne, and Felicita was forced to +rest until the morning. They sat together in a small balcony opening out +of her chamber, which overlooked the Lake, where the moonbeams were +playing in glistening curves over the quiet ripples of the water. All +the mountains round it looked black in the dim light, and the rugged +summit of Pilatus, still slightly sprinkled with snow, frowned down upon +them; but southward, behind the dark range of lower hills, there stood +out against the almost black-blue of the sky a broken line of pale, +mysterious peaks, which might have been merely pallid clouds lying along +the horizon but for their stedfast, unaltering immobility. They were the +Engelberg Alps, with the snowy Titlis gleaming highest among them; and +Felicita's face, wan and pallid as themselves, was set towards them. + +"You will let me come with you to-morrow?" said Phebe, in a tone of +painful entreaty. + +"No, no," she answered. "I could not bear to have even you at Engelberg +with me. I must visit that grave alone. And yet I know you love me, dear +Phebe." + +"Dearly!" she sobbed. + +"Yes, you love me dearly," she repeated sorrowfully, "but not as you +once did; even your heart is changed towards me. If you went with me +to-morrow I might lose all the love that is left. I cannot afford to +lose that, my dear." + +"You could never lose it!" answered Phebe. "I love you differently? Yes, +but not less. I love you now as Christ loves us all, more for God's sake +than our own; and that is the deepest, most faithful love. That can +never be worn out or repulsed. As Christ has loved me, so I love you, my +Felicita." + +Her voice had fallen into an almost inaudible whisper, as she knelt down +beside her, pressing her lips upon the thin, cold hands lying listlessly +on Felicita's lap. It had been as an impulsive girl, worshipping her +from a lowly inferiority, that Phebe had been used long ago to kiss +Felicita's hand. But this was the humility of a great love, willing to +help, and seeking to save her. Felicita felt it through every fibre of +her sensitive nature. For an instant she thought it might be possible +that Phebe had caught some glimmer of the truth. With her weary and dim +eyes lifted up to the pale crests of the mountains, beneath which lay +the miserable secret of her life, she hesitated as to whether she could +tell Phebe all. But the effort to admit any human soul into the inner +recesses of her own was too great for her. + +"Christ loves me, you say," she murmured, "I don't know; I never felt +it. But I have felt sure of your love; and next to Felix and Hilda you +have stood nearest to me. Love me always, and in spite of all, my dear." + +She lifted up her bowed head and kissed her lips with a long and +lingering kiss. Then Phebe knew that she was bent upon going alone and +immediately to Engelberg. + + * * * * * + +The icy air of the morning, blowing down from the mountains where the +winter's snow was but partially melted, made Felicita shiver, though her +mind was too busy to notice why. Phebe had seen that she was warmly +clad, and had come down to the boat with her to start her on this last +day's journey; but Felicita had scarcely opened her pale lips to say +good-by. She stood on the quay, watching the boat as long as the white +steam from the funnel was in sight, and then she turned away, blind to +all the scenery about her, in the heaviness of heart she felt for the +sorrowful soul going out on so sad and vain a quest. There had been no +time for Jean Merle to overtake them, and now Felicita was gone when a +few words from her would have stopped her. But Phebe had not dared to +utter them. + +Felicita too had not seen either the sunlit hills lying about her, or +Phebe watching her departure. She had no thought for anything but what +there might be lying before her, in that lonely mountain village, to +which, after fourteen years, her reluctant feet were turned. Possibly +she might find no trace of the man who had been so long dead to her and +to all the world, and thus be baffled and defeated, yet relieved, at the +first stage of her search. For she did not desire to find him. Her heart +would be lightened of its miserable load, if she should discover that +Jean Merle was dead, and buried in the same quiet cemetery where the +granite cross marked the grave of Roland Sefton. That was a thing to be +hoped for. If Jean Merle was living still, and living there, what should +she say to him? Wild hopes and desires would be awakened within him if +he found her seeking after him? Nay, it might possibly be that he would +insist upon making their mutual sin known to the world, by claiming to +return to her and her children. It seemed a desperate thing to have +done; and for the first time since she left London she repented of +having done it. Was she not sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind? There +was still time for her to retrace her steps and go back home, the home +she owed altogether to herself; yet one which this man, whom she had not +seen for so long a time, had a right to enter as the master of it. What +fatal impulse had driven her to leave it on so wild and fruitless an +errand? + +Yet she felt she could no longer live without knowing the fate of Jean +Merle. Her heart had been gnawing itself ever since they parted with +vague remorses and self-accusations, slumbering often, but now aroused +into an activity that could not be laid to rest. This morning, for the +first time, beneath all her perplexity and fear and hope to find him +dead, there came to her a strange, undefined, scarcely conscious +tenderness towards the miserable man, whom she had last seen standing in +her presence, an uncouth, ragged, weather-beaten peasant. The man had +been her husband, the father of her children, and a deep, keen pain was +stirring in her soul, partly of the old love, for she had once loved +him, and partly of the pity she felt for him, as she began to realize +the difference there had existed between her lot and his. + +She scarcely felt how worn out she was, how dangerously fatigued with +this rapid travelling and the resistless current of agitation which had +possessed her. As she journeyed onwards she was altogether unconscious +of the roads she traversed, only arousing herself when any change of +conveyance made it necessary. Her brain was busy over the opinion, more +than once expressed by Phebe, that every man could live down the evil +consequences of his sin, if he had courage and faith enough. "If God +forgives us, man will forgive us," said Phebe. But Felicita pondered +over the possibility of Roland having paid the penalty of his crime, and +going back again to take up his life, walking more humbly in it +evermore, with no claim to preeminence save that of most diligently +serving his fellow-men. She endeavored to picture herself receiving him +back again from the convict prison, with all its shameful memories +branded on him, and looking upon him again as her husband and the father +of her children; and she found herself crying out to her own heart that +it would have been impossible to her. Phebe might have done it, but +she--never! + +The journey, though not more than fourteen miles from Stans to +Engelberg, occupied several hours, so broken up the narrow road was by +the winter's rains and the melting snow. The steep ascent between +Grafenort and Engelberg was dangerous, the more so as a heavy +thunderstorm broke over it; but Felicita remained insensible to any +peril. At length the long, narrow valley lay before her, stretching +upwards to the feet of the rocky hills. The thunderstorm that had met +them on the road had been raging fiercely in this mountain caldron, and +was but just passing away in long, low mutterings, echoed and prolonged +amid the precipitous walls of rock. Tall, trailing, spectre-like clouds +slowly followed each other in solemn and stately procession up the +valley, as though amid their light yet impenetrable folds of vapor they +bore the invisible form of some mysterious being; whether in triumph or +in sorrow it was impossible to tell. The sun caught their gray crests +and tinged them with rainbow colors; and as they floated unhastingly +along, the valley behind them seemed to spring into a new life of +sunshine and mirth. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +THE MOST MISERABLE. + + +It was past noon when Felicita was driven up to the hotel in the +village, where, when she had last been at Engelberg, she had gone to +look upon the dead face of the stranger, who was to carry away the sin +of Roland Sefton, with the shame it would bring upon her, and bury it +forever in his grave. It seemed but a few days ago, and she felt +reluctant to enter the house again. In two or three hours when the +horses were rested, she said to the driver, she would be ready to return +to Stans. Then she wandered out into the village street, thinking she +might come across some peasant at work alone, or some woman standing +idly at her door, with whom she could fall into a casual conversation, +and learn what she had come to ascertain. But she met with no solitary +villager; and she strayed onward, almost unwittingly in the direction of +the cemetery. In passing by the church, she pushed open one of the +heavy, swinging doors, and cast a glance around; there was no one in +sight, but the gabble of boys' voices in some vestry close by reached +her ear, and a laugh rang after it, which echoed noisily in the quiet +aisles. The high altar was lit up by a light from a side-window and her +eye was arrested by it. Still, whether she saw and heard, or was deaf +and blind, she scarcely knew. Her feet were drawn by some irresistible +attraction towards the grave where her husband was not buried. + +She did not know in what corner of the graveyard it was to be found; and +when she entered the small enclosure, with its wooden cross at the head +of every narrow mound, she stood still for a minute or two, +hesitatingly, and looking before her with a bewildered and reluctant +air, as if engaged in an enterprise she recoiled from. A young priest, +the cure of the nearest mountain parish, who visiting the grave of one +of his parishioners lately buried at Engelberg, was passing to and fro +among the grassy mounds with his breviary in his hands, and his lips +moving as if in prayer; but at the unexpected sight of a traveller thus +early in the season, his curiosity was aroused, and he bent his steps +towards her. When he was sufficiently near to catch her wandering eye, +he spoke in a quiet and courteous manner-- + +"Is madame seeking for any special spot?" he inquired. + +"Yes," answered Felicita, fastening upon him her large; sad eyes, which +had dark rings below them, intensifying the mournfulness of their +expression, "I am looking for a grave. The grave of a stranger; Roland +Sefton. I have come from England to find it." + +Her voice was constrained and low; and the words came in brief, panting +syllables, which sounded almost like sobs. The black-robed priest looked +closely and scrutinizingly into the pallid face turned towards him, +which was as rigid as marble, except for the gleam of the dark eyes. + +"Madame is suffering; she is ill!" he said. + +"No, not ill," answered Felicita, in an absent manner, as if she was +speaking in a dream, "but of all women the most miserable." + +It seemed to the young cure that the English lady was not aware of what +words she uttered. He felt embarrassed and perplexed: all the English +were heretics, and how heretics could be comforted or counselled he did +not know. But the dreamy sadness of her face appealed to his compassion. +The only thing he could do for her was to guide her to the grave she +was seeking. + +For the last nine months no hand had cleared away the weeds from around +it, or the moss from gathering upon it. The little pathway trodden by +Jean Merle's feet was overgrown, though still perceptible, and the +priest walked along it, with Felicita following him. Little threads of +grass were filling up the deep clear-cut lettering on the cross; and the +gray and yellow lichens were creeping over the granite. Since the snow +had melted and the sun had shone hotly into the high-lying valley there +had been a rapid growth of vegetation here, as everywhere else, and the +weeds and grass had flourished luxuriantly; but amongst them Alice's +slip of ivy had thrown out new buds and tendrils. The priest paused +before the grave, with Felicita standing beside him silent and +spell-bound. She did not weep or cry, or fling herself upon the ground +beside it, as he had expected. When he looked askance at her marble face +there was no trace of emotion upon it, excepting that her lips moved +very slightly, as if they formed the words inscribed upon the cross. + +"It is not in good order just at present," he said, breaking the +oppressive silence; "the peasant who took charge of it, Jean Merle, +disappeared from Engelberg last summer, and has never since been seen or +heard of. They say he was paid to take care of this grave; and truly +when he was here there was no weed, no soil, no little speck of moss +upon it. There was no other grave kept like this. Was Roland Sefton a +relation of Madame?" + +"Yes," she whispered, or he thought she whispered it from the motion of +her lips. + +"Madame is not a Catholic?" he asked. + +Felicita shook her head. + +"What a pity! what a pity!" he continued, in a tone of mild regret, "or +I could console her. Yet I will pray for her this night to the good God, +and the Mother of Sorrows, to give her comfort. If she only knew the +solace of opening her heart; even to a fellow-mortal!" + +"Does no one know where Jean Merle is?" she asked, in a low but clear +penetrating voice, which startled him, he said afterwards, almost as +much as if the image of the blessed Virgin had spoken to him. With the +effort to speak, a slight color flushed across the pale wan face, and +her eyes fastened eagerly upon him. + +"No one, Madame," he replied; "the poor man was a misanthrope, and lived +quite alone, in misery. He came neither to confession nor to mass; but +whether he was a heretic or an atheist no man knew. Where he came from +or where he went to was known only to himself. But they think that he +must have perished on the mountains, for he disappeared suddenly last +August. His little hut is falling into ruins; it was too poor a place +for anybody but him." + +"I must go there; where is it?" she inquired, turning abruptly away from +the grave, without a tear or a prayer, he observed. The spell that had +bound her seemed broken; and she looked agitated and hurried. There was +more vigor and decision in her face and manner than he could have +believed possible a few moments before. She was no longer a marble image +of despair. + +"If Madame will go quite through the village," he answered, "it is the +last house on the way to Stans. But it cannot be called a house; it is +a ruin. It stands apart from all the rest, like an accursed spot; for no +person will go near it. If Madame goes, she will find no one there." + +With a quick yet stately gesture of farewell, Felicita turned away, and +walked swiftly down the little path, not running, but moving so rapidly +that she was soon out of sight. By and by, when he had had time to think +over the interview and to recover from his surprise, he followed her, +but he saw nothing of her; only the miserable hovel where poor Jean +Merle had lived, into which she had probably found an entrance. + +Felicita had learned something of what she had come to discover. Jean +Merle had been living in Engelberg until the last summer, though now he +had disappeared. Perished on the mountains! oh! could that be true? It +was likely to be true. He had always been a daring mountaineer when +there was every motive to make him careful of his life; and now what +could make it precious to him? There was no other reason for suddenly +breaking off the thread of his life here in Engelberg; for Felicita had +never imagined it possible that he would return to England. If he had +disappeared he must have perished on the mountains. + +Yet there was no relief to her in the thought. If she had heard in +England that he was dead there would have been a sense of deliverance, +and a secret consciousness of real freedom, which would have made her +future course lie before her in brighter and more tranquil light. She +would at least be what she seemed to be. But here, amid the scenes of +his past life, there was a deep compunction in her heart, and a profound +pity for the miserable man, whose neighbors knew nothing about him but +that he had disappeared out of their sight. That she should come to seek +him, and find not even his grave, oppressed her with anguish as she +passed along the village street, till she saw the deserted hut standing +apart like an accursed place, the fit dwelling of an outcast. + +The short ladder that led to it was half broken, but she could climb it +easily; and the upper part of the door was partly open, and swinging +lazily to and fro in the light breeze that was astir after the storm. +There was no difficulty in unfastening the bolt which held the lower +half; and Felicita stepped into the low room. She stood for awhile, how +long she did not know, gazing forward with wide open motionless eyes, +the brain scarcely conscious of seeing through them, though the sight +before her was reflected on their dark and glistening surface. A corner +of the roof had fallen in during the winter, and a stream of bright +light shone through it, irradiating the dim and desolate interior. The +abject poverty of her husband's dwelling-place was set in broad +daylight. The windowless walls, the bare black rafters overhead, the +rude bed of juniper branches and ferns, the log-seat, rough as it had +come out of the forest--she saw them all as if she saw them not, so busy +was her brain that it could take no notice of them just now. + +So busy was it that all her life seemed to be hurrying and crowding and +whirling through it, with swift pictures starting into momentary +distinctness and dying suddenly to give place to others. It was a +terrifying and enthralling phantasmagoria which held her spell-bound on +the threshold of this ruined hovel, her husband's last shelter. + +At last she roused herself, and stepped forward hesitatingly. Her eyes +had fallen upon a book or two at the end of a shelf as black as the +walls; and books had always called to her with a voice that could not be +resisted. She crept slowly and feebly across the mouldering planks of +the floor, through which she could see the grass springing on the turf +below the hut. But when she lifted up the mildewed and dust-covered +volume lying uppermost and opened it, her eyes fell first upon her own +portrait, stained, faded, nearly blotted out; yet herself as she was +when she became Roland Sefton's wife. + +She sank down, faint and trembling, on the rough block of wood, and +leaned back against the mouldy walls, with the photograph in her hand, +and her eyes fastened upon it. His mother's portrait, and his +children's, he had given up as evidence of his death; but he had never +parted with hers. Oh! how he had loved her! Would to God she had loved +him as dearly! But she had forsaken him, had separated him from her as +one who was accursed, and whose very name was a malediction. She had +exacted the uttermost farthing from him; his mother, his children, his +home, his very life, to save her name from dishonor. It seemed as if +this tarnished, discolored picture of herself, cherished through all his +misery and desolation, spoke more deeply and poignantly to her than +anything else could do. She fancied she could see him, the way-worn, +haggard, weather-beaten peasant, as she had seen him last, sitting here, +with the black walls shutting him out from all the world, but holding +this portrait in his hands, and looking at it as she did now. And he had +perished on the mountains! + +Suddenly all the whirl of her brain grew quiet; the swift thoughts +ceased to rush across it. She felt dull and benumbed as if she could no +longer exert herself to remember or to know anything. Her eyes were +weary of seeing, and the lids drooped over them. The light had become +dim as if the sun had already set. Her ears were growing heavy as though +no sound could ever disturb her again; when a bitter and piercing cry, +such as is seldom drawn from the heart of man, penetrated through all +the lethargy creeping over her. Looking up, with eyes that opened +slowly and painfully, she saw her husband's face bending over her. A +smile of exceeding sweetness and tenderness flitted across her face, and +she tried to stretch out both her hands towards him. But the effort was +the last faint token of life. They had found one another too late. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +FOR ONE MOMENT + + +She had not uttered a word to him; but her smile and the tender gesture +of her dying hands had spoken more than words. He stood motionless, +gazing down upon her, and upon Phebe, who had thrown herself beside her, +encircling her with her arms, as if she would snatch her away from the +relentless grasp of death. A single cry of anguish had escaped him; but +he was dumb now, and no sound was heard in the silent hut, except those +that entered it from without. Phebe did not know what had happened, but +he knew. Quite clearly, without any hope or self-deception, he knew that +Felicita was dead. + +The dread of it had haunted him from the moment that he had heard of her +hurried departure in quest of him. When he read Phebe's words, imploring +him to follow them, the recollection had flashed across him of how the +thread of Lord Riversdale's life had snapped under the strain of unusual +anxiety and fatigue. Felicita's own delicate health had been failing for +some months past. As swiftly as he could follow he had pursued them; but +her impatient and feverish haste had prevented him from overtaking them +in time. What might have been the result if he had reached her sooner +he could not tell. That there could ever have been any knitting together +again of the tie that had ever united them seemed impossible. Death +alone, either hers or his, could have touched her heart to the +tenderness of her farewell smile and gesture. + +In after life Jean Merle never spoke of that hour of agony. But there +was nothing in the past which dwelt so deeply or lived again so often in +his memory. He had suffered before; but it seemed as nothing to the +intensity of the anguish that had befallen him now. The image of +Felicita's white and dying face lying against the darkened walls of the +hovel where she had gone to seek him, was indelibly printed on his +brain. He would see it till the hour of his own death. + +He lifted her up, holding her once more in his arms, and clasping her to +his heart, as he carried her through the village street to the hotel. +Phebe walked beside him, as yet only thinking that Felicita had fainted. +His old neighbors crowded out of their houses, scarcely recognizing Jean +Merle in this Monsieur in his good English dress, but with redoubled +curiosity when they saw who it was thus bearing the strange English lady +in his arms. When he had carried her to the hotel, and up-stairs to the +room where he had watched beside the stranger who had borne his name, he +broke through the gathering crowd of onlookers, and fled to his familiar +solitudes among the mountains. + +He had always told himself that Felicita was dead to him. There had not +been in his heart the faintest hope that she could ever again be +anything more to him than a memory and a dream. When he was in England, +though he had not been content until he had seen his children and his +old home, he had never sought to get a glimpse of her, so far beyond him +and above him. But now that she was indeed dead, those beloved eyes +closed forever more from the light of the sun, and the familiar earth +never again to be trodden by her feet, the awful chasm set between them +made him feel as if he was for the first time separated from her. Only +an hour ago and his voice could have reached her in words of entreaty +and of passionate repentance and humble self-renunciation. They could +have spoken face to face, and he might have had a brief interval for +pouring out his heart to her. But there had been no word uttered between +them. There had been only that one moment in which her soul looked back +upon him with a glance of tenderness, before she was gone from him +beyond recall. He came to himself, out of the confused agony of his +grief, as the sun was setting. He found himself in a wild and barren +wilderness of savage rocks, with a small black tarn lying at his feet, +which just caught the glimmer of the setting sun on its lurid surface. +The silence about him was intense. Gray clouds stretched across the +mountains, out of which a few sad peaks of rock rose against the gray +sky. The snowy dome of the Titlis towering above the rest looked down on +him out of the shadow of the clouded heavens with a ghostly paleness. +All the world about him was cold and wan, and solemn as the face of the +dead. There was death up here and in the valley yonder; but down in the +valley it bore too dear and too sorrowful a form. + +As the twilight deepened, the recollection of Phebe's loneliness and her +distress at his absence at last roused him. He could no longer leave +her, bewildered by this new trouble, and with slow and reluctant steps +he retraced his path through the deep gloom of the forests to the +village. There was much to be turned over in his mind and to be decided +upon before he reached the bustling hotel and the gaping throng of +spectators, marvelling at Jean Merle's reappearance under circumstances +so unaccountable. He had met with Phebe as she returned from starting +Felicita in the first boat, and they had waited for the next. At +Grafenort they had dismissed their carriage, thinking they could enter +the valleys with less observation on foot; and perhaps meet with +Felicita in such a manner as to avoid making his return known in +Engelberg. He had turned aside to take shelter in his old hut, whilst +Phebe went on to find Felicita, when his bitter cry of pain had called +her back to him. The villagers would probably take him for a courier in +attendance upon these ladies, if he acted as one when he reached the +hotel. But how was he to act? + +Two courses were open to him. There was no longer any reason to dread a +public trial and conviction for the crime he had committed so many years +ago. It was quite practicable to return to England, account plausibly +for his disappearance and the mistake as to identity which had caused a +stranger to be buried in his name, and take up his life again as Roland +Sefton. It was improbable that any searching investigation should be +made into his statements. Who would be interested in doing it? But the +old memories and suspicions would be awakened and strengthened a +hundred-fold by the mystery surrounding his return. No one could compel +him to reveal his secret, he had simply to keep his lips closed in +impenetrable silence. True he would be a suspected man, with a +disgraceful secrecy hanging like a cloud about him. He could not live so +at Riversborough, among his old towns-people, of whom he had once been a +leader. He must find some new sphere and dwell in it, always dreading +the tongue of rumor. + +And his son and daughter? How would they regard him if he maintained an +obstinate and ambiguous silence towards them? They were no longer little +children, scarcely separate from their father, seeing through his eyes, +and touching life only through him. They were separate individuals, +living souls, with a personality of their own, the more free from his +influence because of his long absence and supposed death. It was a young +man he must meet in Felix, a critic and a judge like other men; but with +a known interest in the criticism and the judgment he had to pass upon +his father, and less apt to pass it lightly. His son would ponder deeply +over any account he might give of himself. Hilda, too, was at a +sensitive and delicate point of girlhood, when she would inevitably +shrink from any contact with the suspicion and doubt that would surround +this strange return after so many years of disappearance. + +Yet how could he let them know the terrible fraud he had committed for +their mother's sake and with her connivance? Felix knew of his other +defalcations; but Hilda was still ignorant of them. If he returned to +them with the truth in his lips, they would lose the happy memory of +their mother and their pride in her fame. He understood only too well +how dominant must have been her influence over them, not merely by the +tender common ties of motherhood, but by the fascinating charm of her +whole nature, reserved and stately as it had been. He must betray her +and lessen her memory in their sorrowful esteem. To them, if not to the +world, he must disclose all, or resolve to remain a stranger to them +forever. During the last six months it had seemed to him that a humble +path lay before him, following which he might again live a life of lowly +discipleship. He had repented with a bitter repentance, and out of the +depths into which he had fallen he had cried unto God and been +delivered. He believed that he had received God's forgiveness, as he +knew that he had received men's forgiveness. Out of the wreck of his +former life he had constructed a little raft and trusted to it bearing +him safely through what remained of the storm of life. If Felicita had +lived he would have remained in the service of his father's old friend, +proving himself of use in numberless ways; not merely as an attendant, +but in assisting him with the affairs of the bank, with which he was +more conversant, from his early acquaintanceship with the families +transacting business with it, than the stranger who was acting manager +could be. He had not been long enough in Riversborough to gain any +influence in the town as a poor foreigner, but there had been a hope +dawning within that he might again do some good in his native place, the +dearer to him because of his long and dreary banishment. In time he +might perform some work worthy of his forefathers, though under another +name. If he could so live as to leave behind him the memory of a sincere +and simple Christian, who had denied himself daily to live a righteous, +sober, and godly life, and had cheerfully taken up his cross to follow +Christ, he would in some measure atone for the disgrace Roland Sefton's +defalcations had brought upon the name of Christ. + +This humble, ambitious career was still before him if he could forego +the joy of making himself known to his children--a doubtful joy. For +had he not cut himself from them by his reckless and despairing +abandonment of them in their childhood? He could bring them nothing now +but sorrow and shame. The sacrifice would be on their side, not his. It +needs all the links of all the years to bind parents and children in an +indestructible chain; and if he attempted to unite the broken links it +could only be by a knowledge of their mother's error as well as his. Let +him sacrifice himself for the last and final time to Felicita and the +fair name she had made for herself. + +He was stumbling along in the dense darkness of the forest with no gleam +of light to guide him on his way, and his feet were constantly snared in +the knotted roots of the trees intersecting the path. So must he stumble +along a dark and rugged track through the rest of his years. There was +no cheering gleam beckoning him to a happy future. But though it was +thorny and obscure it was not an ignoble path, and it might end at last +even for him in the welcome words, "Well done, good and faithful +servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." + +His mind was made up before he reached the valley. He could not unravel +the warp and woof of his life. The gossamer threads of the webs he had +begun to weave about himself so lightly in the heyday of his youth and +prosperity and happiness had thickened into cables and petrified; it was +impossible to break through the coil of them or find a way out of it. +Roland Sefton had died many years ago. Let him remain dead. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +THE FINAL RESOLVE. + + +It was dark, with the pitchy darkness of a village street, where the +greater part of the population were gone to bed, when he passed through +Engelberg towards the hotel, where Phebe must be awaiting his return +anxiously. In carrying out his project it would be well for him to have +as little as possible to do with the inmates of the hotel, and he +approached it cautiously. All the ground-floor was dark, except for a +glimmer of light in a little room at the end of a long passage; but the +windows of the _salon_ on the floor above were lit up, and Jean Merle +stepped quietly up the staircase unheard and unseen. + +Phebe was sitting by a table, her head buried in her arms, which rested +upon it--a forlorn and despondent attitude. She lifted up her face as he +entered and gazed pitifully into his; but for a minute or two neither of +them spoke. He stood just within the door, looking towards her as he had +done on the fateful night when Felicita had told him that she chose his +death rather than her share of the disgrace attaching to his crime. This +day just drawn to a close had been the bitterest fruit of the seed then +sown. Jean Merle's face, on which there was stamped an expression of +intense but patient suffering, steadfastly met Phebe's aching eyes. + +"She is dead!" she murmured. + +"I knew it," he answered. + +"I did not know what to do," she went on after a slight pause, and +speaking in a pitiful and deprecating tone. + +"Poor Phebe!" he said; "but I am come to tell you what I have resolved +to do--what seems best for us all to do. We must act as if I was only +what I seem to be, a stranger to you, a passing guide, who has no more +to do with these things than any other stranger. We will do what I +believe she would have desired; her name shall be as dear to us as it +was to her; no disgrace shall stain it now." + +"But can you never throw off your disguise?" she asked, weeping. "Must +you always be what you seem to be now?" + +"I must always be Jean Merle," he replied. "Roland Sefton cannot return +to life; it is impossible. Let us leave her children at least the tender +memory of their mother; I can bear being unknown to them for what +remains to me of life. And we do no one any harm, you and I, by keeping +this secret." + +"No, we wrong no one," she answered. "I have been thinking of it ever +since I was sure she was dead, and I counted upon you doing this. It +will save Felix and Hilda from bitter sorrow, and it would keep her +memory fair and true for them. But you--there will be so much to give +up. They will never know that you are their father; for if we do not +tell them now, we must never, never betray it. Can you do it?" + +"I gave them up long ago," he said; "and if there be any sacrifice I can +make for them, what should withhold me, Phebe? God only knows what an +unutterable relief it would be to me if I could lay bare my whole life +to the eyes of my fellow-men and henceforth walk in their sight in +simple honesty and truthfulness. But that is impossible. Not even you +can see my whole life as it has been. I must go softly all my days, +bearing my burden of secrecy." + +"I too shall have to bear it," she murmured almost inaudibly. + +"I shall start at once for Stans," he went on, "and go to Lucerne by the +first boat in the morning. You shall give me a telegram to send from +there to Canon Pascal, and Felix will be here in less than three days. I +must return direct to Riversborough. I must not perform the last duties +to the dead; even that is denied to me." + +"But Felicita must not be buried here," exclaimed Phebe, her voice +faltering, with an accent of horror at the thought of it. A shudder of +repugnance ran through him also. Roland Sefton's grave was here, and +what would be more natural than to bury Felicita beside it? + +"No, no," he cried, "you must save me from that, Phebe. She must be +brought home and buried among her own people. Promise to save her and me +from that." + +"Oh, I promise it," she said; "it shall never be. You shall not have +that grief." + +"If I stayed here myself," he continued, "it would make it more +difficult to take up my life in Riversborough unquestioned and +unsuspected. It can only be by a complete separation now that I can +effect my purpose. But I can hardly bear to go away, Phebe." + +The profound pitifulness of Phebe's heart was stirred to its inmost +depths by the sound of his voice and the expression of his hopeless +face. She left her seat and drew near to him. + +"Come and see her once more," she whispered. + +Silently he made a gesture of assent, and she led the way to the +adjoining room. He knew it better than she did; for it was here that he +had watched all the night long the death of the stranger who was buried +in Roland Sefton's grave. There was little change in it to his eyes. The +bare walls and the scanty homely furniture were the same now as then. +There was the glimmer of a little lamp falling on the tranquil figure on +the bed. The occupant of this chamber only was different, but oh! the +difference to him! + +"Do not leave me, Phebe!" he cried, stretching out his hand towards her, +as if blind and groping to be led. She stepped noiselessly across the +uncarpeted floor and looked down on the face lying on the pillow. The +smile that had been upon it in the last moment yet lingered about the +mouth, and added an inexpressible gentleness and tenderness to its +beauty. The long dark eyelashes shadowed the cheeks, which were suffused +with a faint flush. Felicita looked young again, with something of the +sweet shy grace of the girl whom he had first seen in this distant +mountain village so many years ago. He sank down on his knees, and shut +out the sight of her from his despairing eyes. The silent minutes crept +slowly away unheeded; he did not stir, or sob, or lift up his bowed +face. This kneeling figure at her feet was as rigid and as death-like as +the lifeless form lying on the bed; and Phebe grew frightened, yet dared +not break in upon his grief. At last a footstep came somewhat noisily up +the staircase, and she laid her hand softly on the gray head beneath +her. + +"Jean Merle," she said, "it is time for us to go." + +The sound of this name in Phebe's familiar voice aroused him. She had +never called him by it before; and its utterance was marked as a thing +irrevocably settled that his life henceforth was to be altogether +divorced from that of Roland Sefton. He had come to the last point which +connected him with it. When he turned away from this rigid form, in all +the awful loveliness of death, he would have cut himself off forever +from the past. He laid his hand upon the chilly forehead; but he dared +not stoop down to touch the sweet sad face with his lips. With no word +of farewell to Phebe, he rushed out into the dense darkness of the night +and made his way down the valley, and through the steep forest roads he +had traversed only a few hours ago with something like hope dawning in +his heart. For in the morning he had known that he should see Felicita +again, and there was expectation and a gleam of gladness in that; but +to-night his eyes had looked upon her for the last time. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +IN LUCERNE. + + +Phebe found herself alone, with the burden of Jean Merle's secret +resting on her unshared. It depended upon her sagacity and tact whether +he should escape being connected in a mysterious manner with the sad +event that had just transpired in Engelberg. The footstep she had heard +on the stairs was that of the landlady, who had gone into the salon and +had thus missed seeing Jean Merle as he left the house. Phebe met her in +the doorway. + +"I have sent a message by the guide who brought me here," she said in +slowly pronounced French; "he is gone to Lucerne, and he will telegraph +to England for me." + +"Is he gone--Jean Merle?" asked the landlady. + +"Certainly, yes," answered Phebe; "he is gone to Lucerne." + +"Will he return, then?" inquired the landlady. + +"No, I suppose not," she replied; "he has done all he had to do for me. +He will telegraph to England, and our friends will come to us +immediately. Good-night, Madame." + +"Good-night, Mademoiselle," was the response. "May you sleep well!" + +But sleep was far away from Phebe's agitated brain that night. She felt +herself alone in a strange land, with a great grief and a terrible +secret oppressing her. As the night wore on a feverish dread took +possession of her that she should be unable to prevent Felicita's burial +beside Roland Sefton's grave. Even Felix would decide that it ought to +be so. As soon as the dawn came she rose and went out into the icy +freshness of the morning air, blowing down from the snow-fields and the +glaciers around her. + +The village was beginning to arouse itself. The Abbey bells were +ringing, and at the sound of them, calling the laborers to a new day's +toil, here and there a shutter was thrown back or a door was opened, and +light volumes of gray wood-smoke stole upwards into the still air. There +was a breath of serenity and peace in this early hour which soothed +Phebe's fevered brain, as she slowly sauntered on with the purpose of +finding the cemetery, where the granite cross stood over the grave that +had occupied so much of her thoughts since she had heard of Roland +Sefton's death. She reached it at last and stood motionless before it, +looking back through all the years in which she had mourned with +Roland's mother his untimely death. He whom she had mourned for was not +lying here; but did not his life hold deeper cause for grief than his +death ever had? Standing there, so far from home, in the quiet morning, +with this grave at her feet, she answered to herself a question which +had been troubling her for many months. Yes, it was a right thing to do, +on the whole, to keep this secret--Felicita's secret as well as +Roland's--forever locked in her own heart. There was concealment in it +closely verging, as it must always do, on deception. Phebe's whole +nature revolted against concealment. She loved to live her life out in +the eye of day. But the story of Roland Sefton's crime, and the penance +done for it, in its completeness could never be given to the world; it +must always result in some measure in misleading the judgment of those +most interested in it. There was little to be gained and much to be +sacrificed by its disclosure. Felicita's death seemed to give a new +weight to every reason for keeping the secret; and it was safe in her +keeping and Mr. Clifford's: when a few years were gone it would be hers +alone. The cross most heavy for her to bear she must carry, hidden from +every eye; but she could bear it faithfully, even unto death. + +As her lips whispered the last three words, giving to her resolution a +definite form and utterance, a shadow beside her own fell upon the +cross. She turned quickly and met the kindly inquisitive gaze of the +mountain cure who had led Felicita to this spot yesterday. He had been +among the first who followed Jean Merle as he carried her lifeless form +through the village street; and he had run to the monastery to seek what +medical aid could be had there. The incident was one of great interest +to him. Phebe's frank yet sorrowful face, turned to him with its +expression of ready sympathy with any fellow-creature, won from the +young priest the cordial friendliness that everywhere greeted her. He +stood bareheaded before her, as he had done before Felicita, but he +spoke to her in a tone of more familiar intercourse. + +"Madame, pardon," he said, "but you are in grief, and I would offer you +my condolence. Behold! to me the lady who died yesterday spoke her last +words--here, on this spot. She said not a word afterwards to any human +creature. I come to communicate them to you. There is but little to +tell." + +It was so little that Phebe felt greatly disappointed; though her eyes +grew blind with tears as she thought of Felicita standing here before +this deceptive cross and calling herself of all women the most +miserable. The cross itself had had no message of peace to her troubled +heart. "Most miserable," repeated Phebe to herself, looking back upon +yesterday with a vain yearning that she had been there to tell Felicita +that she shared her misery, and could help her to bear it. + +"And now," continued the cure, "can I be of any service to Madame? You +are alone; and there are a few formalities to observe. It will be some +days before your friends can arrive. Command me, then, if I can be of +any service." + +"Can you help me to get away," she asked, in a tone of eager anxiety, +"down to Lucerne as quickly as possible? I have telegraphed to Madame's +son, and he will come immediately. Of course, I know in England when a +sudden death occurs there are inquiries made; and it is right and +necessary. But you see Madame died of a heart disease." + +"Without doubt," he interrupted; "she was ill here, and I followed her +down the village, and saw her enter Jean Merle's hut. I was about to +enter, for she had been there a long time, when you appeared with your +guide and went in. In a minute there was a cry, and I saw Jean Merle +bearing the poor lady out into the daylight and you following them. +Without doubt she died from natural causes." + +"There are formalities to observe," said Phebe earnestly, "and they take +much time. But I must leave Engelberg to-morrow, or the next day at the +latest, taking her with me. Can you help me to do this?" + +"But you will bury Madame here?" answered the cure, who felt deeply +what interest would attach to another English grave in the village +burial-ground; "she told me yesterday Roland Sefton was her relative, +and there will be many difficulties and great expenditure in taking her +away from this place." + +"Yes," answered Phebe, "but Madame belongs to a great family in England; +she was the daughter of Baron Riversborough, and she must be buried +among her own people. You shall telegraph to the consul at Geneva, and +he will say she must be buried among her own people, not here. It does +not signify about the expenditure." + +"Ah! that makes it more easy," replied the cure, "and if Madame is of an +illustrious family--I was about to return to my parish this morning; but +I will stay and arrange matters for you. This is my native place, and I +know all the people. If I cannot do everything, the abbot and the +brethren will. Be tranquil; you shall leave Engelberg as early as +possible." + +It was impossible for Phebe to telegraph to England her intention of +returning immediately to Lucerne; for Felix must have set off already, +and would be on his way to the far-off valley among the Swiss +mountains, where he believed his father's grave lay, and where his +mother had met her death. Phebe's heart was wrung for him, as she +thought of the overwhelming and instantaneous shock it would be to him +and Hilda, who did not even know that their mother had left home; but +her dread lest he should judge it right to lay his mother beside this +grave, which had possessed so large a share in his thoughts hitherto, +compelled her to hasten her departure before he could arrive, even at +the risk of missing him on the way. The few formalities to be observed +seemed complicated and tedious; but at last they were ended. The +friendly priest accompanied her on her sorrowful return down the rough +mountain-roads, preceded by the litter bearing Felicita's coffin; and at +every hamlet they passed through he left minute instructions that a +young English gentleman travelling up to Engelberg was to be informed of +the little funeral cavalcade that was gone down to Lucerne. + +Down the green valley, and through the solemn forests, Phebe followed +the rustic litter on foot with the priest beside her, now and then +reciting a prayer in a low tone. When they reached Grafenort carriages +were in waiting to convey them as far as the Lake. It was only a week +since she and Felicita had started on their secret and disastrous +journey, and now her face was set homewards, with no companion save this +coffin, which she followed with so heavy a spirit. She had come up the +valley as Jean Merle had done, with vague, dim hopes, stretching vainly +forward to some impossible good that might come to him when he and +Felicita stood face to face once again. But now all was over. + +A boat was ready at Stans, and here the friendly cure bade her farewell, +leaving her to go on her way alone. And now it seemed to Phebe, more +than ever before, that she had been living and acting for a long while +in a painful dream. Her usually clear and tranquil soul was troubled and +bewildered as she sat in the boat at the head of Felicita's coffin, with +her dear face so near to her, yet hidden from her eyes. All around her +lay the Lake, with a fine rapid ripple on the silvery blue of its +waters, as the rowers, with measured and rhythmical strokes of their +oars, carried the boat's sad freight on towards Lucerne. The evening sun +was shining aslant down the wooded slopes of the lower hills, and dark +blue shadows gathered where its rays no longer penetrated. That +half-consciousness, common to all of us, that she had gone through this +passage in her life before, and that this sorrow had already had its +counterpart in some other state of existence, took possession of her; +and with it came a feeling of resigning herself to fate. She was worn +out with anxiety and grief. What would come might come. She could exert +herself no longer. + +As they drew near to Lucerne, the clangor of military music and the +merry pealing of bells rang across the water, jarring upon her faint and +sorrowful heart. Some fete was going on, and all the populace was +active. Banners floated from all the windows, and a gay procession was +parading along the quay, marching under the echoing roof of the long +wooden bridge which crossed the green torrent of the river. Numberless +little boats were darting to and fro on the smooth surface of the Lake, +and through them all her own, bearing Felicita's coffin, sped swiftly on +its way to the landing-stage, on which, as if standing there amid the +hubbub to receive it, her sad eyes saw Canon Pascal and Felix. + +They had but just reached Lucerne, and were waiting for the next steamer +starting to Stans, when Felix had caught sight of the boat afar off, +with its long, narrow burden, covered by a black pall; and as it drew +nearer he had distinguished Phebe sitting beside it alone. Until this +moment it had seemed absolutely incredible that his mother could be +dead, though the telegram to Canon Pascal had said so distinctly. There +must be some mistake, he had constantly reiterated as they hurried +through France to Lucerne; Phebe had been frightened, and in her terror +had misled herself and them. No wonder his mother should be +ill--dangerously so, after the fatigue and agitation of a journey to +Engelberg; but she could not be dead. Phebe had had no opportunity of +telegraphing again; for they had set off at once, and from Basle they +had brought on with them an eminent physician. So confident was Felix +in his asseverations that Canon Pascal himself had begun to hope that he +was right, and but that the steamer was about to start in a few minutes, +they would have hired a boat to carry them on to Stans, in order to lose +no time in taking medical aid to Felicita. + +But as Felix stood there, only dimly conscious of the scene about them, +the sight of the boat bringing Phebe to the shore with the covered +coffin beside her, extinguished in his heart the last glimmering of the +hope which had been little more than a natural recoil from despair. He +was not taken by surprise, or hurried into any vehemence of grief. A +cold stupor, which made him almost insensible to his loss, crept over +him. Sorrow would assert itself by and by; but now he felt dull and +torpid. When the coffin was lifted out of the boat, by bearers who were +waiting at the landing-stage for the purpose, he took up his post +immediately behind it, as if it were already the funeral procession +carrying his mother to the grave; and with all the din and tumult of the +streets sounding in his ears, he followed unquestioningly wherever it +might go. Why it was there, or why his mother's coffin was there, he did +not ask; he only knew that she was there. + +"My poor Phebe," said Canon Pascal, as they followed closely behind him, +"why did you start homewards? Would it not have been best to bury her at +Engelberg, beside her husband? Did not Felicita forgive him, even in her +death?" + +"No, no, it was not that," answered Phebe; "she forgave him, but I could +not bear to leave her there. I was with her just as she died; but she +had gone up to Engelberg alone, and I followed her, only too late. She +never spoke to me or looked at me. I could not leave Felicita in +Engelberg," she added excitedly; "it has been a fatal place to her." + +"Is there anything we must not know?" he inquired. + +"Yes," she said, turning to him her pale and quivering face, "I have a +secret to keep all my life long. But the evil of it is spent now. It +seems to me as if it is a sin no longer; all the selfishness is gone +out of it, and Felix and Hilda were as clear of it as Alice herself; if +I could tell you all, you would say so too." + +"You need tell me no more, dear Phebe," he replied; "God bless you in +the keeping of their secret!" + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +HIS OWN CHILDREN. + + +The tidings of Felicita's death spread rapidly in England, and the +circumstances attending it, its suddenness, and the fact that it had +occurred at the same place that her husband had perished by accident +many years before, gave it more than ordinary interest and excited more +than ordinary publicity. It was a good deal talked of in literary +circles, and in the fashionable clique to which she belonged through her +relationship with the Riversford family. There were the usual kindly +notices of her life and works in the daily papers; and her publisher +seized the occasion to advertise her books more largely. But it was in +Riversborough that the deepest impression was made, and the keenest +curiosity aroused by the story of her death, obscure in some of its +details, but full of romantic interest to her old towns-people, who were +thus recalled to the circumstances attending Roland Sefton's +disappearance and subsequent death. The funeral also was to be in the +immediate neighborhood, in the church where all the Riversfords had been +buried time out of mind, long before a title had been conferred on the +head of the house. It appeared quite right that Felicita should be +buried beside her own people; and every one who could get away from +business went down to the little country churchyard to be present at the +funeral. + +But Phebe was not there: when she reached London she was so worn out +with fatigue and agitation that she was compelled to remain at home, +brooding over what she had come through. And Jean Merle had not trusted +himself to look into the open grave, about to close over all that +remained of the woman he had so passionately loved. The tolling of the +minute-bell, which began early in the day and struck its deep knell +through the tardy hours till late in the evening, smote upon his ear and +heart every time the solemn tone sounded through the quiet hours. He was +left alone in his old home, for Mr. Clifford was gone as one of the +mourners to follow Felicita to the grave; and all the servants had asked +to be present at the funeral. There was nothing to demand his attention +or to distract his thoughts. The house was as silent as if it had been +the house of death and he himself but a phantom in it. + +Though he had been six months in the house, he had never yet been in +Felicita's study--that quiet room shut out from the noise both of the +street and the household, which he had set apart and prepared for her +when she was coming, stepping down a little from her own level to be his +wife. It was dismantled, he knew; her books were gone, and all the +costly decorative fittings he had chosen with so much joyous anxiety. +But the panelled doors which he had worked at with his own hands were +there, and the window, with its delicately tinted lattice-frames, +through which the sun had shone in daintily upon her at her desk. He +went slowly up the long staircase, pausing now and then lost in thought; +and standing, at last before the door, which he had never opened without +asking permission to enter in, he hesitated for many minutes before he +went in. + +An empty room, swept clean of everything which made it a living +habitation. The sunshine fell in pencils of colored light upon the bare +walls and uncarpeted floor. It bore no trace of any occupant; yet to him +it seemed but yesterday that he had been in here, listening to the low +tones of Felicita's sweet voice, and gazing with silent pride on her +beautiful face. There had been unmeasured passion and ambition in his +love for her, which had fatally changed his whole life. But he knew now +that he had failed in winning her love and in making her happy; and the +secret dissatisfaction she had felt in her ill-considered marriage had +been fatal both to her and to him. The restless eagerness it had +developed in him to gain a position that could content her, had been a +seed of worldliness, which had borne deadly fruit. He opened the +casement, and looked out on the familiar landscape, on which her eyes +had so often rested--eyes that were closed forever. The past, so keenly +present to him this moment, was in reality altogether dead and buried. +She had ceased to be his wife years ago, when she had accepted the +sacrifice he proposed to her of his very existence. That old life was +blotted out; and he had no right to mourn openly for the dead, who was +being laid in the grave of her fathers at this hour. His children were +counting themselves orphans, and it was not in his power to comfort +them. He knelt down at the open window, and rested his bowed head on +the window-sill. The empty room behind him was but a symbol of his own +empty lot, swept clean of all its affections and aspirations. Two thirds +of his term of years were already spent; and he found himself bereft and +dispossessed of all that makes life worth having--all except the power +of service. Even at this late hour a voice within him called to him, "Go +work to-day in my vineyard." It was not too late to serve God who had +forgiven him and mankind whom he had wronged. There was time to make +some atonement; to work out some redemption for his fellow-men. To +Roland Sefton had arisen a vision of a public and honorable career, +cheered on by applause of men and crowned with popularity and renown for +all he might achieve. But Jean Merle must toil in silence and +difficulty, amid rebuffs and discouragements, and do humble service +which would remain unrecognized and unthanked. Yet there was work to do, +if it were no more than cheering the last days of an old man, or +teaching a class of the most ignorant of his townsfolk in a night +school. He rose from his knees after a while, and left the room, +closing the door as softly as he had been used to do when afraid of any +noise grating on his wife's sensitive brain. It seemed to him like the +closing up of the vault where she was buried. She was gone from him +forever, and there was nothing left but to forget the past if that were +possible. + +As he went lingeringly down the staircase, which would henceforth be +trodden seldom if ever by him, he heard the ringing of the house-bell, +which announced the return of Mr. Clifford and of Felix and Hilda, who +were coming to stay the night in their old home, before returning to +London on the morrow. He hastened down to open the door and help them to +alight from their carriage. It was the first time he had been thus +brought into close contact with them; but this must happen often in the +future, and he must learn to meet them as strangers, and to be looked +upon by them as little more than a hired servant. + +But the sight of Hilda's sad young face, so pale and tear-stained, and +the expression of deep grief that Felix wore, tried him sorely. What +would he not have given to be able to take this girl into his arms and +soothe her, and to comfort his son with comfort none but a father can +give? He stood outside the sphere of their sorrows, looking on them with +the eyes of a stranger; and the pain of seeing them so near yet so far +away from him was unutterable. The time might come when Jean Merle could +see them, and talk with them calmly as a friend, ready to serve them to +the utmost of his power; when there might be something of pleasure in +gaining their friendship and confidence. But so long as they were +mourning bitterly for their mother and could not conceal the sharpness +of their grief, the sight of them was a torture to him. It was a relief +to him and to Mr. Clifford when they left Riversborough the next +morning. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +AN EMIGRATION SCHEME. + + +Several months passed away, bringing no visitor to Riversborough, except +Phebe, who came down two or three times to see Mr. Clifford, whose +favorite she was. But Phebe never spoke of the past to Jean Merle. Since +they had determined what to do, it seemed wiser to her not to look back +so as to embitter the present. Jean Merle was gradually gaining a +footing in the town as Mr. Clifford's representative, and was in many +ways filling a post very few could fill. Now and then, some of the elder +townsmen, who had been contemporary with Roland Sefton, remarked upon +the resemblance between Jean Merle and their old comrade; but this was +satisfactorily accounted for by his relationship to Madame Sefton: for +Roland, they said, had always had a good deal of the foreigner about +him, much more than this quiet, melancholy, self-effacing man, who never +pushed himself forward, or courted attention, yet was always ready with +a good sound shrewd opinion if he was asked for it. It had been a lucky +thing for old Clifford that such a man had been found to take care of +him and his affairs in his extreme old age. + +Felix had gone back to his curacy, under Canon Pascal, in the parish +where he had spent his boyhood and where he was safe against any attack +upon his father's memory. But in spite of being able to see Alice every +day, and of enjoying Canon Pascal's constant companionship, he was ill +at ease, and Phebe was dissatisfied. This was exactly the life Felicita +had dreaded for him, an easy, half-occupied life in a small parish, +where there was little active employment for either mind or body. The +thought of it troubled and haunted Phebe. The magnificent physical +strength and active energy of Felix, and the strong bent to heroic +effort and Christian devotion given to him in his earliest years, were +thrown away in this tranquil English village, where there was clearly no +scope for heroism. How was it that Canon Pascal could not see it? His +curacy was a post to be occupied by some feebler man than Felix; a man +whose powers were only equal to the quiet work of carrying on the labors +begun by his rector. Besides, Felix would have recovered from the shock +of his mother's sudden death if his time and faculties had been more +fully occupied. She must give words to her discontent, and urge Canon +Pascal to banish him from a spot where he was leading too dull a life. + +Canon Pascal had been in residence at Westminster for some weeks, and +was about to return to his rectory, when Phebe went down to the Abbey +one day, bent upon putting her decision into action. The bitterness of +the early spring had come again; and strong easterly gales were blowing +steadily day after day, bringing disease and death to those who were +feeble and ailing, yet not more surely than the fogs of the city had +done. It had been a long and gloomy winter, and in this second month of +the year the death rates were high. As Phebe passed through the Abbey on +her way to his home in the cloisters, she saw Canon Pascal standing +still, with his head thrown back and his eyes uplifted to the noble +arches supporting the roof. He did not notice her till her clear, +pleasant voice addressed him. + +"Ah, Phebe!" he exclaimed, a swift smile transforming his grave, marked +face, "my dear, I was just asking myself how I could bear to say +farewell to all this." + +He glanced round him with an expression of unutterable love and pride +and of keen regret. The Abbey had grown dearer to him than any spot on +earth; and as he paced down the long aisle he lingered as if every step +he took was full of pain. + +"Bid farewell to it!" repeated Phebe; "but why?" + +"For a series of whys," he answered; "first and foremost, because the +doctors tell me, and I believe it, that my dear wife's days are numbered +if she stays another year in this climate. All our days are numbered by +God, I know; but man can number them also, if he pleases, and make them +longer or shorter by his obedience or disobedience. Secondly, Phebe, our +sons have gone on before us as pioneers, and they send us piteous +accounts of the spiritual needs of the colonists and the native +populations out yonder. I preach often on the evils of over-population +and its danger to our country, and I prescribe emigration to most of the +young people I come across. Why should not I, even I, take up the +standard and cry 'Follow me'? We should leave England with sad hearts, +it is true, but for her good and for the good of unborn generations, who +shall create a second England under other skies. And last, but not +altogether least, the colonial bishopric is vacant, and has been offered +to me. If I accept it I shall save the life most precious to me, and +find another home in the midst of my children and grand-children." + +"And Felix?" cried Phebe. + +"What could be better for Felix than to come with us?" he asked; "there +he will meet with the work he was born for, the work he is fretting his +soul for. He will be at last a gallant soldier of the Cross, unhampered +by any dread of his father's sin rising up against him. And we could +never part with Alice--her mother and I. You would be the last to say No +to that, Phebe?" + +"Oh, yes!" she answered, with tears standing in her eyes, "Felix must go +with you." + +"And Hilda, too," he went on; "for what would become of Hilda alone +here, with her only brother settled at the antipodes? And here we shall +want Phebe Marlowe's influence with old Mr. Clifford, who might prevent +his ward from quitting England. I am counting also on Phebe herself, as +my pearl of deaconesses, with no vow to bind her, if the happiness and +fuller life of marriage opened before her. Still, to secure all these +benefits I must give up all this." + +He paused for a minute or two, looking back up the narrow side aisle, +and then, as if he could not tear himself away, he retraced his steps +slowly and lingeringly; and Phebe caught the glistening of tears in his +eyes. + +"Never to see it again," he murmured, "or if I see it, not to belong to +it! To have no more right here than any other stranger! It feels like a +home to me, dear Phebe. I have had solemn glimpses of God here, as if it +were indeed the gate of heaven. To the last hour of my life, wherever I +go, my soul will cleave to these walls. But I shall give it up." + +"Yes," she said, sighing, "but there is no bitterness of repentance to +you in giving it up." + +"How sadly you spoke that," he went on, "as if a woman like you could +know the bitterness of repentance! You have only looked at it through +other men's eyes. Yes, we shall go. Felix and Hilda and you are free to +leave Mr. Clifford, now he is so admirably cared for by this Jean Merle. +I like all that I hear of him, though I never saw him; surely it was a +blessing from God that Madame Sefton's poor kinsman was brought to the +old man. Could we not leave him safely in Merle's charge?" + +"Quite safely," she answered. + +"I have a scheme for a new settlement in my head," he continued, "a +settlement of our own, and we will invite emigrants to it. I can reckon +on a few who will joyfully follow our lead, and it will not seem a +strange land if we carry those whom we love with us. This hour even I +have made up my mind to accept this bishopric. Go on, dear Phebe, and +tell my wife. I must stay here alone a little longer." + +But Phebe did not hasten with these tidings through the cloisters. She +walked to and fro, pondering them and finding in them a solution of many +difficulties. For Felix it would be well, and it was not to be expected +that Alice would leave her invalid mother to remain behind in England as +a curate's wife. Hilda, too, what could be better or happier for her +than to go with those who looked upon her as a daughter, who would take +Alice's place as soon as she was gone into a home of her own? There was +little to keep them in England. She could not refuse to let them go. + +But herself? The strong strain of faithfulness in Phebe's nature knitted +her as closely with the past as with the present; and with some touch of +pathetic clinging to the past which the present cannot possess. She +could not separate herself from it. The little home where she was born, +and the sterile fields surrounding it, with the wide moors encircling +them, were as dear to her as the Abbey was to Canon Pascal. In no other +place did she feel herself so truly at home. If she cut herself adrift +from it and all the subtly woven web of memories belonging to it, she +fancied she might pine away of home-sickness in a foreign land. There +was Mr. Clifford too, who depended so utterly upon her promise to be +near him when he was dying, and to hold his hand in hers as he went +down into the deep chill waters of death. And Jean Merle, whose terrible +secret she shared, and would be the only one to share it when Mr. +Clifford was gone. How was it possible for her to separate herself from +these two? She loved Felix and Hilda with all the might of her unselfish +heart; but Felix had Alice, and by and by Hilda would give herself to +some one who would claim most of her affection. She was not necessary to +either of them. But if she went away she must leave a blank, too dreary +to be thought of, in the clouded lives of Mr. Clifford and poor Merle. +For their sakes she must refuse to leave England. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +FAREWELL. + + +But it was more difficult than Phebe anticipated to resist the urgent +entreaties of Felix and Hilda not to sever the bond that had existed +between them so long. Her devotion to them in the past had made them +feel secure of its continuance, and to quit England, leaving her behind, +seemed impossible. But Mr. Clifford's reiterated supplications that she +would not forsake him in his old age drew her as powerfully the other +way. Scarcely a day passed without a few lines, written by his own +feeble and shaking hand, reaching her, beseeching and demanding of her a +solemn promise to stay in England as long as he lived. Jean Merle said +nothing, even when she went down to visit them, urged by Canon Pascal to +set before Mr. Clifford the strong reasons there were for her to +accompany the party of emigrants; but Phebe knew that Jean Merle's life, +with its unshared memories and secrets, would be still more dreary if +she went away. After she had seen these two she wavered no more. + +It was a larger party of emigrants than any one had foreseen; for it was +no sooner known that Canon Pascal was leaving England as a colonial +Bishop, than many men and women came forward anxious to go out and found +new homes under his auspices. He was a well-known advocate of +emigration, and it was rightly deemed a singular advantage to have him +as a leader as well as their spiritual chief. Canon Pascal threw himself +into the movement with ardor, and the five months elapsing before he set +sail were filled with incessant claims upon his time and thought, while +all about him were drawn into the strong current of his work. Phebe was +occupied from early morning till late at night, and a few hours of deep +sleep, which gave her no time for thinking of her own future, was all +the rest she could command. Even Felix, who had scarcely shaken off the +depression caused by his mother's sudden death, found a fresh +fountain-head of energy and gladness in sharing Canon Pascal's new +career, and in the immediate prospect of marrying Alice. + +For in addition to all the other constant calls upon her, Phebe was +plunged into the preparations needed for this marriage, which was to +take place before they left England. There was no longer any reason to +defer it for lack of means, as Felix had inherited his share of his +mother's settlement. But Phebe drew largely on her own resources to send +out for them the complete furnishing of a home as full of comfort, and +as far as possible, as full of real beauty, as their Essex rectory had +been. She almost stripped her studio of the sketches and the finished +pictures which Felix and Hilda had admired, sighing sometimes, and +smiling sometimes, as they vanished from her sight into the packing +cases, for the times that were gone by, and for the pleasant surprise +that would greet them, in that far-off land, when their eyes fell upon +the old favorites from home. + +Felix and Hilda spent a few days at Riversborough with Mr. Clifford, but +Phebe would not go with them, in spite of their earnest desire; and Jean +Merle, their kinsman, was absent, only coming home the night before they +bade their last farewell to their birth-place. He appeared to them a +very silent and melancholy man, keeping himself quite in the background, +and unwilling to talk much about his own country and his relationship +with their grandmother's family. But they had not time to pay much +attention to him; the engrossing interest of spending the few last hours +amid these familiar places, so often and so fondly to be remembered in +the coming years, made them less regardful of this stranger, who was +watching them with undivided and despairing interest. No word or look +escaped him, as he accompanied them from room to room, and about the +garden walks, unable to keep himself away from this unspeakable torture. +Mr. Clifford wept, as old men weep, when they bade him good-by; but +Felix was astonished by the fixed and mournful expression of inward +anguish in Jean Merle's eyes, as he held his hand in a grasp that would +not let him go. + +"I may never see you again," he said, "but I shall hear of you." + +"Yes," answered Felix, "we shall write frequently to Mr. Clifford, and +you will answer our letters for him." + +"God bless you!" said Jean Merle. "God grant that you may be a truer +and a happier man than your father was." + +Felix started. This man, then, knew of his father's crime; probably knew +more of it than he did. But there was no time to question him now; and +what good would it do to hear more than he knew already? Hilda was +standing near to him waiting to say good-by, and Jean Merle, turning to +her, took her into his arms, and pressed her closely to his heart. A +sudden impulse prompted her to put her arm round his neck as she had +done round old Mr. Clifford's, and to lift up her face for his kiss. He +held her in his embrace for a few moments, and then, without another +word spoken to them, he left them and they saw him no more. The marriage +was celebrated a few days after this visit, and not long before the time +fixed for the Bishop and his large band of emigrants to sail. Under +these circumstances the ceremony was a quiet one. The old rectory was in +disorder, littered with packing cases, and upset from cellar to garret. +Even when the wedding was over both Phebe and Hilda were too busy for +sentimental indulgence. The few remaining days were flying swiftly past +them all, and keeping them in constant fear that there would not be +time enough for all that had to be done. + +But the last morning came, when Phebe found herself standing amid those +who were so dear to her on the landing-stage, with but a few minutes +more before they parted from her for years, if not forever. Bishop +Pascal was already gone on board the steamer standing out in the river, +where the greater number of emigrants had assembled. But Felix and Alice +and Hilda lingered about Phebe till the last moment. Yet they said but +little to one another; what could they say which would tell half the +love or half the sorrow they felt? Phebe's heart was full. How gladly +would she have gone out with these dear children, even if she left +behind her her little birth-place on the hills, if it had not been for +Mr. Clifford and Jean Merle! + +"But they need me most," she said again and again to herself. "I stay, +and must stay, for their sakes." As at length they said farewell to one +another, Hilda clinging to her as a child clings to the mother it is +about to leave, Phebe saw at a little distance Jean Merle himself, +looking on. She could not be mistaken, though his sudden appearance +there startled her; and he did not approach them, nor even address her +when they were gone. For when her eyes, blinded with tears, lost sight +of the outward-bound vessel amid the number of other craft passing up +and down the river, and she turned to the spot where she had seen his +gray head and sorrowful face he was no longer there. Alone and sad at +heart, she made her way through the tumult of the landing-stage and +drove back to the desolate home she had shared so long with those who +were now altogether parted from her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +QUITE ALONE. + + +It was early in June, and the days were at the longest. Never before had +Phebe found the daylight too long, but now it shone upon dismantled and +disordered rooms, which reminded her too sharply of the separation and +departure they indicated. The place was no longer a home: everything was +gone which was made beautiful by association; and all that was left was +simply the bare framework of a living habitation, articles that could be +sold and scattered without regret. Her own studio was a scene of litter +and confusion, amid which it would be impossible to work; and it was +useless to set it in order, for at midsummer she would leave the house, +now far too large and costly for her occupation. + +What was she to do with herself? Quite close at hand was the day when +she would be absolutely homeless; but in the absorbing interest with +which she had thrown herself into the affairs of those who were gone she +had formed no plans for her own future. There was her profession, of +course: that would give her employment, and bring in a larger income +then she needed with her simple wants. But how was she to do without a +home--she who most needed to fill a home with all the sweet charities +of life? + +She had never felt before what it was to be altogether without ties of +kinship to any fellow-being. This incompleteness in her lot had been +perfectly filled up by her relationship with the whole family of the +Seftons. She had found in them all that was required for the full +development and exercise of her natural affections. But she had lost +them. Death and the chance changes of life had taken them from her, and +there was not one human creature in the world on whom she possessed the +claim of being of the same blood. + +Phebe could not dwell amid the crowds of London with such a thought +oppressing her. This heart-sickness and loneliness made the busy streets +utterly distasteful to her. To be here, with millions around her, all +strangers to her, was intolerable. There was her own little homestead, +surrounded by familiar scenes, where she would seek rest and quiet +before laying any plans for herself. She put her affairs into the hands +of a house-agent, and set out alone upon her yearly visit to her farm, +which until now Felix and Hilda had always shared. + +She stayed on her way to spend a night at Riversborough--her usual +custom, that she might reach the unprepared home on the moors early in +the day. But she would not prolong her stay; there was a fatigue and +depression about her which she said could only be dispelled by the sweet +fresh air of her native moorlands. + +"Felix and Hilda have been more to me than any words could tell," she +said to Mr. Clifford and Jean Merle, "and now I have lost them I feel as +if more than half my life was gone. I must get away by myself into my +old home, where I began my life, and readjust it as well as I can. I +shall do it best there with no one to distract me. You need not fear my +wishing to be too long alone." + +"We ought to have let you go," answered Mr. Clifford. "Jean Merle said +we ought to have let you go with them. But how could we part with you, +Phebe?" + +"I should not have been happy," she said, sighing, "as long as you need +me most--you two. And I owe all I am to Jean Merle himself." + +The little homely cottage with its thatched roof and small lattice +windows was more welcome to her than any other dwelling could have been. +Now her world had suffered such a change, it was pleasant to come here, +where nothing had been altered since her childhood. Both within and +without the old home was as unchanged as the beautiful outline of the +hills surrounding it and the vast hollow of the sky above. Here she +might live over again the past--the whole past. She was a woman, with a +woman's sad experience of life; but there was much of the girl, even of +the child, left in Phebe Marlowe still; and no spot on earth could have +brought back her youth to her as this inheritance of hers. There was an +unspoiled simplicity about her which neither time nor change could +destroy--the childlikeness of one who had entered into the kingdom of +heaven. + +It was a year since she had been here last, with Hilda in her first +grief for her mother's death; and everywhere she found traces of Jean +Merle's handiwork. The half-shaped blocks of wood, left unfinished for +years in her father's workshop, were completed. The hawk hovering over +its prey, which the dumb old wood-carver had begun as a symbol of the +feeling of vengeance he could not give utterance to when brooding over +Roland Sefton's crime, had been brought to a marvellous perfection by +Jean Merle's practised hand, and it had been placed by him under the +crucifix which old Marlowe had fastened in the window-frame, where the +last rays of daylight fell upon the bowed head hidden by the crown of +thorns. The first night that Phebe sat alone, on the old hearth, her +eyes rested upon these until the daylight faded away, and the darkness +shut them out from her sight. Had Jean Merle known what he did when he +laid this emblem of vengeance beneath this symbol of perfect love and +sacrifice? + +But after a few days, when she had visited every place of yearly +pilgrimage, knitting up the slackened threads of memory, Phebe began to +realize the terrible solitude of this isolated home of hers. To live +again where no step passed by and no voice spoke to her, where not even +the smoke of a household hearth floated up into the sky, was intolerable +to her genial nature, which was only satisfied in helpful and pleasant +human intercourse. The utter silence became irksome to her, as it had +been in her girlhood; but even then she had possessed the companionship +of her dumb father: now there was not only silence, but utter +loneliness. + +The necessity of forming some definite plan for her future life became +every day a more pressing obligation, whilst every day the needful +exertion grew more painful to her. Until now she had met with no +difficulty in deciding what she ought to do: her path of duty had been +clearly traced for her. But there was neither call of duty now nor any +strong inclination to lead her to choose one thing more than another. +All whom she loved had gone from London, and this small solitary home +had grown all too narrow in its occupations to satisfy her nature. Mr. +Clifford himself did not need her constant companionship as he would +have done if Jean Merle had not been living with him. She was perfectly +free to do what she pleased and go where she pleased, but to no human +being could such freedom be more oppressive than to Phebe Marlowe. She +had sauntered out one evening, ankle-deep among the heather, aimless in +her wanderings, and a little dejected in spirits. For the long summer +day had been hot even up here on the hills, and a dull film had hidden +the landscape from her eyes, shutting her in upon herself and her +disquieting thoughts. "We are always happy when we can see far enough," +says Emerson; but Phebe's horizon was all dim and overcast. She could +see no distant and clear sky-line. The sight of Jean Merle's figure +coming towards her through the dull haziness brought a quick throb to +her pulse, and she ran down the rough wagon track to meet him. + +"A letter from Felix," he called out before she reached him. "I came out +with it because you could not have it before post-time to-morrow, and I +am longing to have news of him and of Hilda." + +They walked slowly back to the cottage, side by side, reading the +letter together; for Felix could have nothing to say to Phebe which his +father might not see. There was nothing of importance in it; only a +brief journal dispatched by a homeward-bound vessel which had crossed +the path of their steamer, but every word was read with deep and silent +interest, neither of them speaking till they had read the last line. + +"And now you will have tea with me," said Phebe joyfully. + +He entered the little kitchen, so dark and cool to him after his sultry +walk up the steep, long lanes, and sat watching her absently, yet with a +pleasant consciousness of her presence, as she kindled her fire of dry +furze and wood, and hung a little kettle to it by a chain hooked to a +staple in the chimney, and arranged her curious old china, picked up +long years ago by her father at village sales, upon the quaintly carved +table set in the coolest spot of the dusky room. There was an air of +simple busy gladness in her face and in every quick yet graceful +movement that was inexpressibly charming to him. Maybe both of them +glanced back at the dark past when Roland Sefton had been watching her +with despairing eyes, yet neither of them spoke of it. That life was +dead and buried. The present was altogether different. + +Yet the meal was a silent one, and as soon as it was finished they went +out again on to the hazy moorland. + +"Are you quite rested yet, Phebe?" asked Jean Merle. + +"Quite," she answered, with unconscious emphasis. + +"And you have settled upon some plan for the future?" he said. + +"No," she replied; "I am altogether at a loss. There is no one in all +the world who has a claim upon me, or whom I have a claim upon; no one +to say to me 'Go' or 'Come.' When the world is all before you and it is +an empty world, it is difficult to choose which way you will take in +it." + +She had paused as she spoke; but now they walked on again in silence, +Jean Merle looking down on her sweet yet somewhat sad face with +attentive eyes. How little changed she was from the simple, +faithful-hearted girl he had known long ago! There was the same candid +and thoughtful expression on her face, and the same serene light in her +blue eyes, as when she stood beside him, a little girl, patiently yet +earnestly mastering the first difficulties of reading. There was no one +in the wide world whom he knew as perfectly as he knew her; no one in +the wide world who knew him as perfectly as she did. + +"Tell me, Phebe," he said gravely, "is it possible that you have lived +so long and that no man has found out what a priceless treasure you +might be to him?" + +"No one," she answered, with a little tremor in her voice; "only Simon +Nixey," she added, laughing, as she thought of his perseverance from +year to year. Jean Merle stopped and laid his hand on Phebe's arm. + +"Will you be my wife?" he asked. + +The brief question escaped him before he was aware of it. It was as +utterly new to him as it was to her; yet the moment it was uttered he +felt how much the happiness of his life depended upon it. Without her +all the future would be dreary and lonely for him. With her--Jean Merle +did not dare to think of the gladness that might yet be his. + +"No, no," cried Phebe, looking up into his face furrowed with deep +lines; "it is impossible! You ought not to ask me." + +"Why?" he said. + +She did not move or take away her eyes from his face. A rush of sad +memories and associations was sweeping across her troubled heart. She +saw him as he had been long ago, so far above her that it had seemed an +honor to her to do him the meanest service. She thought of Felicita in +her unapproachable loveliness and stateliness; and of their home, so +full to her of exquisite refinement and luxury. In the true humility of +her nature she had looked up to them as far above her, dwelling on a +height to which she made no claim. And this dethroned king of her early +days was a king yet, though he stood before her as Jean Merle, still +fast bound in the chains his sins had riveted about him. + +"I am utterly unworthy of you," he said; "but let me justify myself if I +can. I had no thought of asking you such a question when I came up +here. But you spoke mournfully of your loneliness; and I, too, am +lonely, with no human being on whom I have any claim. It is so by my own +sin. But you, at least, have friends; and in a year or two, when my last +friend, Mr. Clifford, dies, you will go out to them, to my children, +whom I have forfeited and lost forever. There is no tie to bind me +closely to my kind. I am older than you--poorer; a dishonor to my +father's house! Yet for an instant I fancied you might learn to love me, +and no one but you can ever know me for what I am; only your faithful +heart possesses my secret. Forgive me, Phebe, and forget it if you can." + +"I never can forget it," she answered, with a low sob. + +"Then I have done you a wrong," he went on; "for we were friends, were +we not? And you will never again be at home with me as you have hitherto +been. I was no more worthy of your friendship than of your love, and I +have lost both." + +"No, no," she cried, in a broken voice. "I never thought--it seems +impossible. But, oh! I love you. I have never loved any one like you. +Only it seems impossible that you should wish me to be your wife." + +"Cannot you see what you will be to me," he said passionately. "It will +be like reaching home after a weary exile; like finding a fountain of +living waters after crossing a burning wilderness. I ought not to ask it +of you, Phebe. But what man could doom himself to endless thirst and +exile! If you love me so much that you do not see how unworthy I am of +you, I cannot give you up again. You are all the world to me." + +"But I am only Phebe Marlowe," she said, still doubtfully. + +"And I am only Jean Merle," he replied. + +Phebe walked down the old familiar lanes with Jean Merle, and returned +to the moorlands alone whilst the sun was still above the horizon. But a +soft west wind had risen, and the hazy heat was gone. She could see the +sun sinking low behind Riversborough, and its tall spires glistened in +the level rays, while the fine cloud of smoke hanging over it this +summer evening was tinged with gold. Her future home lay there, under +the shadow of those spires, and beneath the soft, floating veil +ascending from a thousand hearths. The home Roland Sefton had forfeited +and Felicita had forsaken had become hers. There was deep sadness +mingled with the strange, unanticipated happiness of the present hour; +and Phebe did not seek to put it away from her heart. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +LAST WORDS. + + +Nothing could have delighted Mr. Clifford so much as a marriage between +Jean Merle and Phebe Marlowe. The thought of it had more than once +crossed his mind, but he had not dared to cherish it as a hope. When +Jean Merle told him that night how Phebe had consented to become his +wife, the old man's gladness knew no bounds. + +"She is as dear to me as my own daughter," he said, in tremulous +accents; "and now at last I shall have her under the same roof with me. +I shall never be awake in the night again, fearing lest I should miss +her on my death-bed. I should like Phebe to hold my hand in hers as long +as I am conscious of anything in this world. All the remaining years of +my life I shall have you and her with me as my children. God is very +good to me." + +But to Felix and Hilda it was a vexation and a surprise to hear that +their Phebe Marlowe, so exclusively their own, was no longer to belong +only to them. They could not tell, as none of us can tell with regard to +our friends' marriages, what she could see in that man to make her +willing to give herself to him. They never cordially forgave Jean +Merle, though in the course of the following years he lavished upon +them magnificent gifts. For once more he became a wealthy man, and stood +high in the estimation of his fellow-townsmen. Upon his marriage with +Phebe, at Mr. Clifford's request, he exchanged his foreign surname for +the old English name of Marlowe, and was made the manager of the Old +Bank. Some years later, when Mr. Clifford died, all his property, +including his interest in the banking business, was left to John +Marlowe. + +No parents could have been more watchful over the interests of absent +children than he and Phebe were in the welfare of Felix and Hilda. But +they could never quite reconcile themselves to this marriage. They had +quitted England with no intention of dwelling here again, but they felt +that Phebe's shortcoming in her attachment to them made their old +country less attractive to them. She had severed the last link that +bound them to it. Possibly, in the course of years, they might visit +their old home; but it would never seem the same to them. Canon Pascal +alone rejoiced cordially in the marriage, though feeling that there was +some secret and mystery in it, which was to be kept from him as from all +the world. + +Jean Merle, after his long and bitter exile, was at home again; after +crossing a thirsty and burning wilderness, he had found a spring of +living water. Yet whilst he thanked God and felt his love for Phebe +growing and strengthening daily, there were times when in brief +intervals of utter loneliness of spirit the long-buried past arose again +and cried to him with sorrowful voice amid the tranquil happiness of the +present. The children who called Phebe mother looked up into his face +with eyes like those of the little son and daughter whom he had once +forsaken, and their voices at play in the garden sounded like the echo +of those beloved voices that had first stirred his heart to its depths. +The quiet room where Felicita had been wont to shut herself in with her +books and her writings remained empty and desolate amid the joyous +occupancy of the old house, where little feet pattered everywhere except +across that sacred threshold. It was never crossed but by Phebe and +himself. Sometimes they entered it together, but oftener he went there +alone, when his heart was heavy and his trust in God darkened. For there +were times when Jean Merle had to pass through deep waters; when the +sense of forgiveness forsook him and the light of God's countenance was +withdrawn. He had sinned greatly and suffered greatly. He loved as he +might never otherwise have loved the Lord, whose disciple he professed +to be; yet still there were seasons of bitter remembrance for him, and +of vain regrets over the irrevocable past. + +It was no part of Phebe's nature to inquire jealously if her husband +loved her as much as she loved him. She knew that in this as in all +other things "it is more blessed to give than to receive." She felt for +him a perfectly unselfish and faithful tenderness, satisfied that she +made him happier than he could have been in any other way. No one else +in the world knew him as she knew him; Felicita herself could never have +been to him what she was. When she saw his grave face sadder than usual +she had but to sit beside him with her hand in his, bringing to him the +solace of her silent and tranquil sympathy; and by and by the sadness +fled. This true heart of hers, that knew all and loved him in spite of +all, was to him a sure token of the love of God. + + +THE END. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cobwebs and Cables, by Hesba Stretton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COBWEBS AND CABLES *** + +***** This file should be named 19802.txt or 19802.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/8/0/19802/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Mary Meehan and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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