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diff --git a/old/63387-0.txt b/old/63387-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index c181580..0000000 --- a/old/63387-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5241 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Alone on a Wide Wide Sea, Vol. III (of 3), by -W. Clark Russell - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Alone on a Wide Wide Sea, Vol. III (of 3) - -Author: W. Clark Russell - -Release Date: October 6, 2020 [EBook #63387] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALONE ON A WIDE WIDE SEA, VOL 3 *** - - - - -Produced by Charlie Howard and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - -NEW NOVELS. - - - THE DUCHESS OF POWYSLAND. By GRANT ALLEN. 3 vols. - - CORINTHIA MARAZION. By CECIL GRIFFITH. 3 vols. - - A SONG OF SIXPENCE. By HENRY MURRAY. 1 vol. - - SANTA BARBARA, &c. By OUIDA. 1 vol. - - IN THE MIDST OF LIFE. By AMBROSE BIERCE. 1 vol. - - TRACKED TO DOOM. By DICK DONOVAN. 1 vol. - - COLONEL STARBOTTLE’S CLIENT, AND SOME OTHER PEOPLE. By BRET - HARTE. 1 vol. - - ADVENTURES OF A FAIR REBEL. By MATT. CRIM. 1 vol. - - IN A STEAMER CHAIR. By ROBERT BARR. 1 vol. - - THE FOSSICKER: a Romance of Mashonaland. By ERNEST GLANVILLE. - 1 vol. - - -London: CHATTO & WINDUS, 214 Piccadilly, W. - - - - - ALONE - ON A WIDE WIDE SEA - - VOL. III. - - - - - PRINTED BY - SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW STREET SQUARE - LONDON - - - - - ALONE ON A WIDE WIDE SEA - - BY - W. CLARK RUSSELL - - AUTHOR OF - ‘MY SHIPMATE LOUISE’ ‘THE ROMANCE OF JENNY HARLOWE’ ETC. - - [Illustration] - - IN THREE VOLUMES - VOL. III. - - London - CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY - 1892 - - - - -CONTENTS - -OF - -THE THIRD VOLUME - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - XVIII. A STRANGE OFFER 1 - - XIX. I CONVERSE WITH THE GIPSY 37 - - XX. THE DEATH OF ALICE LEE 66 - - XXI. I RETURN TO ENGLAND 106 - - XXII. MEMORY 141 - - XXIII. GENERAL RAMSAY’S LETTER 172 - - XXIV. AT BATH 208 - - XXV. MARY 241 - - XXVI. THE END 273 - - - - -ALONE ON A WIDE WIDE SEA - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -A STRANGE OFFER - - -Small is the world of ship board, yet at sea there often happen -contrasts in life not less violent and remarkable than those which -one meets with in the crowded world ashore. This same day, after my -conversation with Alice Lee, I quitted her cabin shortly before the -luncheon hour, as she seemed drowsy, and sleep was all important to her -whose slumbers were cruelly broken and short throughout the night. Mrs. -Lee stole in upon her child, and finding her asleep came to her place -by my side at the luncheon table. - -The passengers understood that Alice was resting, and the conversation -was subdued along the whole line of the table. I said nothing to Mrs. -Lee as to what had passed between her daughter and myself. Though the -mother knew that her daughter’s condition was hopeless, she could -not bear any reference to the girl’s dying state. That is to say, -she would speak of it herself, but with eyes that wistfully sought a -contradiction of her fears. - -Now, whilst I sat at table I observed that Mr. Harris regarded me with -more than usual attention. There was an expression of speculation in -his face, as though I were some singular problem which he was wearying -his brains to solve. His air was also one of abstraction, and direct -questions put to him by passengers sitting near were unheeded. - -Shortly before lunch was over Mrs. Lee withdrew to her berth. I -remained at table, having for the moment nothing else or better to do. -Mrs. Webber, remarking that I was alone, left her seat and took Mrs. -Lee’s chair at my side. - -‘It is really too bad,’ said she, ‘that those wretched men’--referring -to Mr. Clack and Mr. Wedmold--‘should be arguing on their eternal -subject of literature when they know that poor Alice Lee is sleeping, -and that their voices might awaken her.’ - -‘I have not been listening,’ said I. ‘They have not been talking very -loudly, I think.’ - -I looked towards the two gentlemen, and my attention being directed to -them, I discovered that they were arguing, and, as usual, on literary -matters. But their voices were somewhat sunk, as though they recognised -the obligation of speaking low. - -‘My simple contention is,’ said Mr. Wedmold, ‘that criticism as we now -have it is absolutely worthless. If I were a publisher I would not -send a book of mine to the press. I would content myself with making -it known to the public by advertisements. A man writes a review and -it is published in a newspaper. Just before he sat down to write the -review he was disturbed by a double knock, and his servant handed him -a manuscript which he sent six weeks before to a firm of publishers. -The manuscript is declined with thanks. What sort of a review will that -man write? Or he may dislike the author of the book he is to review -because he thinks him too successful; or he may personally know him -and have reason to hate him; or he may not know him and yet have a -literary prejudice against him; or, before he writes the review the -tax-collector may call; or he may have had a quarrel with his wife over -the weekly bills. But by the publication of his review he commits the -aggregate intellect of the paper in which it appears to his opinion. -For reviews are not quoted as the opinions of Jones or Smith, but as -the verdict of the journal in which they write. On the other hand, -there may be reasons why the reviewer should extravagantly praise a -book which, were it written by you, Clack, or by me, he would probably -dismiss in a couple of lines of contempt. Nevertheless, the aggregate -intellect of the journal is as much committed to this gross lie of -approval as it was to the equally gross lie of depreciation. The name -of a newspaper should never be quoted in a publisher’s advertisement, -unless it be understood that everybody connected with the newspaper -sat in judgment upon the book. A book should be served as a defendant -is served. The paper that reviews a book should convert itself into -a jury. If one juror alone is to decide the question, then his name -should be given. My argument is, why should publishers go on subjecting -their wares to twopenny individual caprice?’ - -‘You will never get rid of criticism,’ said Mr. Clack, ‘until authors -lose their desire of hearing people’s opinions on their books. Every -man who produces his poor little novel, every woman who produces her -poor little volume of poems, pesters his or her friends for their -candid opinion. Now if that candid opinion is published in a newspaper -and it happens to be _rather_ opposed to the author’s own judgment of -his book, the natural thirst of the author is for the extinction of all -criticism.’ - -‘Did you ever hear two men talk such utter bosh in all your life?’ said -Mrs. Webber. - -‘I will go on deck for a turn,’ said I, observing that the saloon was -fast emptying. - -‘Those two men,’ continued she, looking at Mr. Clack somewhat -spitefully, ‘remind me of a very old story. A Frenchman and an American -made a bet that one would out-talk the other. In the morning they were -found in bed, the American dead and the Frenchman feebly whispering in -his ear.’ - -‘If you please, ma’m,’ said the captain’s servant, coming up to me, -‘Captain Ladmore’s compliments, and he will be glad to see you in his -cabin if you can spare him five minutes.’ - -I arose and nervously followed the man to the captain’s cabin, -wondering what could be the object of this message. Captain Ladmore -made me a grave bow, placed a chair for me, and seated himself at the -table at which I had found him reading. - -‘I hope,’ said he, ‘you will not think me troublesome in desiring these -visits. I have, not had an opportunity of conversing with you lately. -You are very much taken up with poor Miss Lee. How does she do?’ - -‘She is very poorly,’ said I. ‘The malady seems to have rapidly gained -upon her within the last few days.’ - -‘It is too often so,’ he exclaimed. ‘These poor consumptive people -embark when it is too late. Mr. McEwan gives me no hope. I fear we -shall lose the poor young lady--and lose her soon, too.’ He directed -his eyes at the deck and his face grew unusually thoughtful and grave. -‘And how are you feeling?’ said he, after a pause. ‘Does this heat try -you?’ - -‘No, Captain Ladmore; I feel very well, a different being, indeed, -since I came into your kind hands.’ - -‘Your memory is still dormant?’ - -‘I am unable to remember anything previous to my awaking to -consciousness on board the French vessel.’ - -‘It is truly wonderful,’ said he. ‘Had I not witnessed such a thing I -should not have believed it. That is to say, I could understand _total_ -failure of memory, for I have heard of instances of that sort of -affliction; but I should not have credited that recollection can lie -dead down to a certain point and be bright and active afterwards, as it -is in you. I have been talking to Mr. McEwan about you, and though we -need lay no emphasis upon his opinion, it is right I should tell you -that he fears your condition may continue for a considerable time.’ - -‘For a considerable time!’ I cried; ‘what can he mean by a considerable -time, Captain Ladmore?’ - -‘Do not be agitated. I mention this merely for a reason you will -presently understand. McEwan’s judgment may signify nothing. Doctors -are a very fallible lot, and they talk blindfolded when they speak of -the mind. But that my meaning in inviting you to visit me may be clear, -I wish you to suppose that McEwan is right. In that case, what is your -future to be?’ - -I gazed at his grave, earnest face, but made him no answer. - -‘Let me repeat,’ said he, ‘that you are very welcome to the hospitality -of this ship whilst she keeps the sea; but on our arrival in the Thames -it will be necessary for you to find another asylum. What can be done -for you, madam, shall be done for you, always supposing that your -memory continues to prevent you from directing us. But it is a cold -world----’ He paused abruptly. - -‘Oh, Captain Ladmore! I hope my memory will have returned to me before -we arrive in England--before we arrive in Australia.’ - -‘I hope so too, indeed,’ said he, ‘but if it should not---- You appear -to have found a very warm friend in Mrs. Lee. Yet, from my experiences -as a shipmaster, I would counsel you not to lodge too much hope in -friends and acquaintances made upon the ocean. People are warm-hearted -at sea; they are always full of good intentions; but a change comes -when they step ashore.’ - -‘Captain Ladmore,’ I exclaimed, ‘if I am not to find a friend when I -leave your ship, then indeed I shall not know _what_ to do.’ - -‘That brings me,’ said he, ‘to my motive for inviting you to my cabin; -and I will say at once that you appear to have found a very warm friend -on board this ship.’ I imagined that he would name Mrs. Webber, but the -notion vanished at his next utterance. ‘He appears to entertain a very -great admiration for you. It is not,’ continued he, with a slow smile, -‘usual for men occupying our relative positions to confer on such a -matter as he has in his mind, but I consider that he exhibited a proper -delicacy of feeling in approaching me first. You are temporarily my -ward, so to speak, and there are other considerations which induced him -to confer with me on the subject.’ - -‘Of whom are you speaking?’ I asked. - -‘I am speaking of Mr. Harris, my chief officer,’ he replied. - -‘And what does Mr. Harris want?’ said I, feeling the blood forsake my -cheeks. - -‘Well, madam,’ said he gravely, ‘he desired me to sound you as regards -your feelings towards him. It is his urgent request alone that makes -me interfere, nor should I venture to move in the matter but for your -present lonely, and I may say helpless, condition. You necessarily -need a friend and an adviser, and it certainly is my duty as a master -of this ship to befriend and counsel you. Mr. Harris is a man who, in -the course of a year or two, ought certainly to obtain command. In -the profession of the sea a man must be a prawn before he can become -a lobster. His pay at present is comparatively small, yet it should -suffice, with great care, to maintain a home. Long before I rose to be -a captain I contrived to support a home out of my wages. Mr. Harris is -a very respectable, honest man, and a good officer, and I believe his -connections are rather superior to the average relatives of merchant -mates.’ - -I listened whilst I stared at him; indeed, the confusion of my mind -was so great that I scarcely grasped his meaning. He observed my -bewilderment, and said, ‘The matter may be thus simply put: Mr. -Harris is willing to offer you his hand in marriage. He is capable of -supporting you, and will, I am convinced, prove an excellent husband. -By making you his wife he secures you against that future which looks -at present dark and hopeless. He is willing to waive all considerations -of your antecedents. In that, Miss C., he tells me he hopes for the -best.’ He added, after a pause, after viewing me steadfastly, ‘I have -fulfilled my promise, and desire to do no more. In Mr. Harris you have -met with a man who is willing and anxious in the most honourable way -to provide for your future.’ - -‘I will not marry Mr. Harris,’ said I. - -‘It is a question for your own decision alone,’ he answered. - -‘I would sooner die in one of the miserable asylums he talked about -than marry Mr. Harris,’ I cried. - -Captain Ladmore arched his eyebrows and made me a grave bow, as though -he would say, ‘There is an end of the matter.’ - -‘I am sure the man means kindly,’ said I, my eyes beginning to smart -with tears which I could not suppress, ‘but it renders my situation -truly awful to understand that you and Mr. Harris consider I stand in -need of the sort of assistance your first mate offers.’ - -‘Remember, madam,’ said Captain Ladmore gently, ‘that on your arrival -in England you will need a friend if you are still unable by that time -to tell us who your friends are, and to what part of the world you -belong.’ - -‘I would far rather die than accept Mr. Harris’s offer,’ said I, with a -shudder. - -‘Let us then allow the matter to rest,’ said the captain; ‘no harm has -been done.’ - -‘How dare he make such a proposal through you?’ cried I. ‘He may mean -well, but how does he know who I am?’ - -‘He is willing to take all risks,’ said the captain; ‘but you do not -entertain his proposal, and the matter therefore ends.’ - -We both rose at once from our chairs. - -‘You have shown me the greatest kindness since I have been on board,’ -said I, ‘and some further great kindness yet I will ask of you. It is -that as the master of this ship you will command Mr. Harris not to -speak to me about marriage.’ - -‘I will do so,’ said he. - -‘I will beg you to command him to hold aloof from me, for I wish to -have nothing to say to him.’ - -The captain bowed his head affirmatively. - -‘And will you also command him, Captain Ladmore,’ I exclaimed, ‘not to -whisper a syllable of what has passed?’ - -‘You may trust him to hold his tongue,’ said he smiling. - -‘Were the news of his having made me this offer through you to reach -the passengers I could never hold up my head again; I could never bear -to quit my berth.’ - -‘The secret shall be entirely ours,’ said the captain. - -I hurriedly made my way through the saloon, entered my berth in the -steerage, closed and bolted the door, and flung myself into my bunk. -I had wept in the captain’s cabin, but I was now too angry, too -confounded to shed tears, though I longed for the relief of them. There -was a sort of horror too upon me, such a feeling as might possess a -woman who had met with a shocking insult; and yet I knew that no insult -had been offered to me, so that the horror which was upon me was as -inscrutable as ever the emotion had been at other times. - -There is no occasion for me to refine upon my condition. The -psychologist might well laugh at my speculations; yet I will venture to -say this, that when I look back and recollect my feelings at this time, -then, knowing that I was without memory to excite in me the detestation -with which I had listened to Captain Ladmore’s communication of Mr. -Harris’s offer, I cannot doubt that the wild antagonism of my heart to -it must have been owing to the _memory of instinct_--a memory that may -have no more to do with the brain than a deep-rooted habit has to do -with consciousness. - -But not to dwell upon this. I sat motionless on my bed for I know -not how long a time, thinking and thinking; I then bathed my face and -cooled my hands in water, and stood at the open window to let the -draught caused by the rolling of the ship breathe upon me, and thus I -passed the afternoon. - -Shortly before the first dinner-bell rang Mrs. Richards knocked on my -door. I bade her enter. She tried the handle, and found the bolt shot. -This was unusual, and on entering she gazed at me with attention. She -asked me what the matter was, and I answered that the heat had caused -my head to ache, and that I had been lying down. No doubt she perceived -an expression on my face which told her that something more than a -headache ailed me, but she did not press her questions. She had come to -say that Mrs. Lee sent her love, and wished to know what had become of -me during the afternoon. - -‘I hope to sit with Miss Lee this evening,’ said I; ‘but I shall not -dine at the dinner table.’ - -‘Then I will bring you some dinner here,’ said she, and after we had -conversed a little while about the heat of the weather, and about Alice -Lee, the kind, motherly little woman left me. - -I could not rally my spirits. The mere thought of what Captain Ladmore -had said to me induced a feeling of crushing humiliation; and then -there was that deep, mysterious, impenetrable emotion of loathing -which I have before mentioned. Oh! it was shocking to think that my -condition should be so cruelly forlorn as to challenge an offer of -marriage from such a man as Mr. Harris. Nothing could have made me more -bitterly understand how helpless I was, how hopeless, how lonely. I -sought comfort in the recollection of Alice’s words; but not only did -it miserably dispirit me to think that the dear girl must die before -the wish she had expressed could take effect; I was haunted by the -captain’s language--that the world was cold--that the kindly intentions -of shipboard acquaintances were not often very lasting--that when -people stepped ashore after a voyage the memories they carried with -them speedily perished out of their minds. - -I ate a little of the dinner that Mrs. Richards brought me, but I had -not the heart to leave my cabin. I felt as though I had been terribly -degraded and outraged, and my inability to understand why I should thus -feel when all the while I was saying to myself, nothing but kindness -was meant, no insult could possibly be intended--I say my inability to -understand the dark, subtle protest and loathing and sense of having -been wronged that was in my mind half crazed me. - -Twice Mrs. Richards arrived with a message, first from Mrs. Lee and -then from Alice, inviting me to their cabin; but I answered that my -head ached, that I did not feel well; and when the door was closed I -stood with my face at the port-hole breathing the air that floated -warm off the dark stagnant waters, and watching the stars reel to the -sluggish motions of the vessel. - -Presently I heard the sound of a bell. I counted the chimes--they were -eight; and so I knew the hour to be eight. Just then someone gently -knocked on the door; it was not the stewardess’s familiar rap. I said, -‘Come in,’ and the door was opened. - -‘All in the dark, Agnes?’ exclaimed the voice of Mrs. Lee, ‘what is the -matter with you, my dear? Why have you not come to Alice, who has been -expecting to see you all the evening?’ - -‘I am so low-spirited, dear Mrs. Lee, that I am not fit company for -Alice,’ I answered. - -‘Will you light the lamp,’ said she, ‘that we may see each other?’ - -I lighted the lamp and she closed the door and seated herself, viewing -me steadily, and taking no notice of the interior of the berth, though -this was her first visit to these steerage quarters. - -‘You look pale,’ said she, ‘pale and worried. Are you really ill or is -it the mind? Tell me, my dear. The mind might be making a great effort -that affects you like physical sickness would, but it may be the very -effort to pray for.’ - -I had felt that nothing could induce me to confess what had passed; -but the tenderness of her voice and manner broke me down. Her sudden -presence made me acutely feel the need of sympathy. But my heart was -too full for speech. I took her hand and bowing my head upon it wept. -She did not speak whilst I sobbed, but soothingly caressed my hair -with a touch soft and comforting as her daughter’s. - -After awhile I grew composed, and then, with my face averted, I told -her that the captain had sent for me after lunch, and I repeated to -her the offer Mr. Harris had requested him to make to me. She listened -attentively and on my ending exclaimed: - -‘Well, my dear, it is a proposal of marriage as extraordinary in its -manner of reaching you as the whole character of the man who made it. -But what is there in it to cause you to fret and keep yourself locked -up in this dark place?’ - -‘It affects me as a dreadful insult.’ - -‘But why? It is not meant as an insult. Captain Ladmore is not a man to -suffer one of his officers to insult you through him.’ - -‘I cannot explain, Mrs. Lee. This offer of marriage has shocked me as -though it had been some horrid outrage, and I do not know why.’ - -She sat silently regarding me. - -‘But that is not all,’ I continued. ‘The loathing, the horror the offer -has caused is too deep; I feel that it is too deep to be owing _merely_ -to the offer. Some sense lying in blackness within me has been shocked -and outraged. But that is not all: the offer has made me feel how -lonely I am, how utterly hopeless my future must be if my memory does -not return to me.’ - -‘It is very strange,’ said she, ‘that you should feel that this -extraordinary recoil as of loathing comes not from Mr. Harris himself -as it were, but from his offer.’ - -‘You exactly express it,’ I exclaimed; ‘it is not the man but the offer -which fills me with loathing.’ - -‘And you do not understand why this should be?’ said she. - -‘No, because the man means kindly. He approached me even with delicacy -through the captain. There is nothing in him which should make me -loathe him.’ - -‘And still his offer fills you with horror and disgust?’ - -‘Yes.’ - -She surveyed me for awhile, lightly running her eye over me with an -expression of inquiry. She then said, ‘Do you remember what that gipsy -woman told you?’ - -I reflected and answered, ‘She told me much that I remember.’ - -‘She told you,’ said she, ‘that you were a married woman. What else she -said matters not. But she told you, Agnes, that you were married, and -that you have left a husband who wonders and grieves over your absence.’ - -I drew a deep tremulous breath not knowing what meaning she had in her -mind. - -‘From what you have now told me,’ she continued, ‘I am disposed--mind, -my dear, I only say disposed--to believe that the gipsy woman may be -right.’ - -‘From what I have now told you!’ I echoed. - -‘What can cause this deep recoil in you from Mr. Harris’s offer? What -can occasion your detestation of it and the bitter feeling of shame? -His offer reached you in the most inoffensive manner possible. There -is hardly a woman who would not find something in such an offer of -marriage made by such a man under such conditions to laugh at. No -honourable offer of marriage can fill a woman with loathing. A man can -pay a woman no higher compliment than to ask her to be his wife, and no -woman therefore is to be unutterably outraged, as you tell me you are, -by the highest compliment our sex can receive. Nor is it as though Mr. -Harris were a monster of a figure and face to justify the abhorrence -his offer has excited. What, then, is the reason of this abhorrence?’ - -She sank into a little reverie during which I watched her almost -breathlessly. ‘I shall not be at all surprised, Agnes,’ said she -presently, ‘if you prove to be a married woman in spite of your not -wearing a wedding ring. There must be a reason for your not wearing a -wedding-ring, and some of these days, please God, you will be able to -account for its missing from your finger. I believe--yes, I earnestly -believe’--she went on looking me eagerly in the eyes--‘that your -antipathy to this offer, the sense of insult that has attended this -offer, arises from a rebellion of the instincts which possess the -truth, though they are unable to communicate it to the intelligence. -The impression of marriage--the great momentous step of every woman’s -life--is too deep to perish. Your secret horror, your unaccountable -loathing, is the subtle and unintelligible revolt of your chastity as -a wife against an offer that is an insult to that chastity. I believe -this, my dear, I do indeed.’ - -‘Oh God!’ I cried, and my bursting heart could find no other vent than -that cry of ‘Oh God!’ - -‘You must not be distressed,’ continued the dear little woman, clasping -my hand, ‘because our speculations should be tending the right way. -Suppose we are able to satisfy ourselves that you are a wife; the -knowledge will be a distinct gain, something to employ with profit on -our return to England. But to be able to form no ideas whatever about -you, my dear----And now I wish to say a word about your future. Can -you believe that after our association on board this ship, after the -friendship between you and my darling child, I could bear to lose sight -of you on our return home?----But you have been so much upset by what -has happened to-day that I will not talk to you now about the future. -Come with me to Alice,’ said she rising; ‘it is not long after eight; -she has been wanting you all the afternoon and evening, and will be -glad if you will sit with her for an hour.’ - - * * * * * - -And now happened another interval of shipboard life, during which -there occurred nothing of interest enough to trouble you with. That -Captain Ladmore had delivered my answer to Mr. Harris, and that he -had also requested, perhaps commanded, his first officer to trouble -me no further with his attentions, I could not doubt, for when, next -morning, I met Mr. Harris at the breakfast table, I never once caught -him looking my way. The twist of his mouth seemed a little dryer than -usual, and his countenance might generally express a slight increase of -acidity of feeling; nevertheless, he talked somewhat more freely than -was commonly his custom, was attentive to what was said, and appeared -to direct his eyes at everybody but at me. - -His behaviour made me easy, the more so since I was sure he would -not talk of what had passed, so that the ridiculous, and to me the -humiliating incident, would be known to nobody on board excepting the -Lees and the captain of the ship. - -And here I may as well say--for it is time that I should dismiss the -few shadowy figures which flit between this part of my story and the -sequel--that ever after, whilst I remained on board the _Deal Castle_, -the behaviour of Mr. Harris remained the same; that is to say, he -never looked at me and never accosted me. If I approached that part of -the deck where he was standing, he instantly walked away. For a day or -two after I had received his ‘offer’ I would briefly salute him with a -‘Good-morning,’ or some such phrase, if we had not before met in the -day, but he never turned his eyes to my face, nor answered me, nor -took any notice of me; for which behaviour in him, as you may suppose, -I was truly thankful. And yet somehow he so contrived his manner that -his downright cutting of me, if I may so express it, was much less -noticeable than his conduct had been whilst, as I may suppose, he was -making up his mind to offer me marriage. Nobody remarked upon his -behaviour; I never, indeed, heard a whisper about it. - -He was, indeed, an extraordinary person in his way. I suffer my memory -to dwell briefly upon him before he stalks ghost-like off the little -stage of my dark and memorable experience. I have, I may say, no doubt -whatever he was in earnest in his desire to marry me; and I have since -understood that it was in the power of Captain Ladmore to have united -us, for it seems that amongst the privileges enjoyed by the master of -a merchant vessel is the right to solemnise holy matrimony, and to -make two people one as effectually as though they were tied together -by a clergyman on shore. I often recall the poor man and speculate on -his motive. It would be ridiculous to feign that he had fallen in love -with me; my face and thin, white hair must have preserved him from that -passion. He might, indeed, have imagined in me certain intellectual -graces and qualities, and fallen in love with his own ideal. Was it -pure goodness of heart that caused him to take pity on my lonely and -helpless condition? or--the notion having been put into his head by -Sir Frederick Thompson--did he secretly believe that I belonged to a -fine old family, that his marriage to me would connect him with people -of title and wealth, and that, for all he knew, when my memory returned -I would be able to tell him that he had married a fortune, or enough -money, at all events, to release him from a calling which he appeared -to hate? - -His strange offer of marriage, however, resulted in persuading me that -I was a married woman. It would never have entered my head to imagine -such a thing but for Mrs. Lee; and then when I came to think over her -words, and to reason upon the horror that had visited me whilst I -listened to Captain Ladmore, there grew up in my mind a strong secret -conviction that I was a wife. It was not a discovery. Indeed, as a -surmise, it was no more helpful to my memory than the little City -knight’s assurance that I was a member of the house of Calthorpe; -and yet it could not have affected me more had it been a discovery. -I would lie awake for hours during the night thinking of it. When I -was with Alice my mind would wander from the book I read aloud to her -from, or my attention would stray from her language, whilst my whole -intellectual being sank as it were into the black chasm of memory, -where the mind with sightless vision would go on fruitlessly groping -until the useless quest grew at times into so keen a torment that often -I was convinced I should go mad. - -Again and again when alone in my berth I took down the little mirror, -as I had been used to do in the earlier passages of this experience, -and sitting with it in my hands in a posture that brought the light -flowing through the port-hole on to my face, so that the reflection -of my countenance lay brilliantly in the mirror, I would peruse my -lineaments, search mine own eyes, dwell upon the turn of my lips, and -all the while I would be asking myself with a soft whisper, but with a -heart racked with the anguish of hopeless inquiry--‘Who am I? Can it -be that I am a wife? Oh God! what is it which seems to assure me that -Mrs. Lee’s belief that I am a wife is true?’ And then I would say to -myself, whilst I sat gazing at my face in the mirror, ‘If I am a wife I -may have children. Can it be that there are children of my own in the -unknown home in the unknown country from which God has banished me in -blindness--that there are children there whose mother I am, who call -me mother, who have cried for me in the day and in the night as their -mother who has gone from them? Can it be so?’ I would ask myself. And -then I would bend the ear of my mind to the mute lips of my dead or -sleeping memory, and imagination would strain within me to catch some -echo of a child’s voice, of a child’s cry or laugh, that would remind -me and give me back the image of what, since I now believed myself a -wife, I imagined that I had lost. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -I CONVERSE WITH THE GIPSY - - -A few days of sultry oppressive calm were followed by a violent storm. -I was sitting with Alice Lee in her cabin when her mother entered and -said: - -‘Such a marvellous sunset everybody declares never was seen. Go and -look at it, Agnes; I will sit with Alice.’ - -‘I will go with Agnes,’ said her daughter. - -She arose, but her cough obliged her to sit. When her cough had ceased -she arose again, but slowly and painfully, with a heart-rending -suggestion of weakness and exhaustion in her whole manner. - -‘Do not go on deck, dearest,’ said her mother; ‘the cabin steps will -try you.’ - -‘Oh, mother! let me go and let me go quickly,’ exclaimed Alice. ‘I love -to look at a glorious sunset, and the sunsets here are soon gone.’ - -Mrs. Lee gazed at her child with a pleading face, but made no further -objection, and the three of us went on deck, the girl supported by her -mother and me. Twice whilst ascending the short flight of cabin stairs -Alice paused for breath. There is much that I have cause to remember -in this time, but nothing do I see after all these years more clearly -than the anguish in the mother’s eyes, as she looked at me on her child -pausing for a second time during the ascent of that short flight of -steps. - -The sunset was indeed a magnificent spectacle. The western sky seemed -in flames. Deep purple lines of cloud barred the fiery splendour, and -the heavens resembled a mighty furnace burning in a grate that half -filled the sky. In the immediate neighbourhood of the sun the light -round about was blood red, but on either hand were vast lovely spaces -resembling lagoons of silver and gold; spikes of glory shot up to the -zenith, and the countless lines of them resembled giant javelins of -flame arrested in their flight, with their barbed ends glowing like -golden stars in the dimly crimsoned blue over our ship’s mast-heads. -The ship’s sails reflected the light, and she seemed to be clothed -in cloth of gold. Her rigging and masts were veined with gold, and -our glass and brass-work blazed with rubies. The swell of the sea was -flowing from the west, and the distant glory came running to us from -brow to brow, steeping in splendour to the ship and washing the side -of her with liquid crimson light. The calm was as profound as ever it -had been; there was not a breath of air to be felt save the eddying -of draughts from the swinging of the lower sails. The sea floated in -undulations of quicksilver into the east, where, on the dark-blue -horizon, there hung a red gleam of sail, showing like a little tongue -of fire in the far ocean recess. I placed a chair for Alice, but she -refused to sit. - -‘We will return to the cabin in a few minutes,’ she exclaimed, and she -stood looking into the west, holding by her mother’s and my arm. - -She had put on a veil, but she lifted it to look at the sun, and -the western splendour lay full on her face as I gazed at her. Never -so painfully thin and white had she appeared as she now did in this -searching crimson glare. But an expression rested upon her countenance -that entirely dominated all physical features of it; it was, indeed, -to my mind then, and it still is as I think of it whilst I write, a -revelation of angelic spiritual beauty. You would have thought her -hallowed, empowered by Heaven to witness the invisible, for there was -a look in her gaze, whilst she directed her sight into the west, that -would have made you think she saw something beyond and behind those -flaming gates of the sinking sun, that filled her soul with joy. Her -expression was full of solemn delight, and her smile was like that -which glorifies the face of one who, in dying, has beheld a vision of -the Heaven of God and of the angels opening to him. Such a smile, I -have read, sweetened the mouth of the poet Pope in his dying hour. Many -who have stood beside the bed of death will know the entranced look. - -Captain Ladmore, who was walking the deck close by, approached us. - -‘That is a very noble sunset,’ said he. - -‘Noble indeed!’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee. ‘I have seen many splendid sunsets -in Newcastle, and there is no part of the world where you will witness -grander sunsets, but never did I see such a sublime picture as yon.’ - -‘Sunsets of that sort are rare in the Tropics,’ said the captain. ‘It -is noble, as I have said, but I do not like the look of it. It has a -peculiar, smoky, thunderous appearance, which in plain English means -change of weather.’ - -‘And I hope the change will soon come,’ said Mrs. Lee, looking from -her daughter to Captain Ladmore, as though she would have him read her -thoughts; ‘these prolonged calms are cruelly trying in this part of the -world.’ - -‘God knows I do not love prolonged calms in any part of the world,’ -said Captain Ladmore. - -‘The captains who visited my husband used to have much to tell about -the calms down here,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘They called them the Doldrums.’ -Captain Ladmore smiled. ‘I assure you,’ she continued, ‘I would rather -meet with a fierce hurricane, to drive us into cool weather at the risk -of our lives, than suffer a continuance of such a calm as this.’ - -Alice and I watched the sunset whilst Captain Ladmore and Mrs. Lee -discoursed upon the weather. Even whilst we looked dark smoke-like -masses of cloud had gathered about the huge rayless orb, and the -splendour went out on a sudden in a sort of dingy flare, that floated -in rusty streaks up into the darkling sky, and swiftly vanished as -though they had been the luminous trails of rockets. I looked at Alice. -The last faint gleam of red touched her face, and then the rapid tropic -twilight swept westward in an eclipse, and the girl in it grew wan as a -phantom. I felt her shiver. - -‘Let us return to the cabin,’ said I, and, supported by her mother and -me, she descended. It was the last time that Alice Lee was ever on deck. - -The night fulfilled the stormy threat of the sunset. It came on to blow -fresh shortly after the night had settled down upon the sea. The stars -were shrouded by flying clouds, but the moon glanced through the many -rifts of the winging shadows, and when I took a peep at the ocean at -half-past nine that night it was already a wild scene of stormy ocean -rolling in snow, the wilder for the flash of the darting moonbeam. - -At ten o’clock it was blowing very hard indeed, and by midnight the -gale had risen to half a hurricane, with much lightning and thunder. I -cannot remember whether or not the wind blew fair for our course; the -gale was so heavy that the captain was forced to heave the ship to, -and all through the night we lay in the trough rolling and pitching -furiously, with no more canvas set than served to keep the vessel in -the situation the captain had put her into. - -I got no sleep that night. The noises within and without were -distracting. The steerage passengers took fright, believed the ship was -going down, lighted the lantern and sat at the table--that is to say, -most of the men and two or three of the women; and then, by-and-by, -taking courage perhaps from the discovery that the ship continued to -swim, though still not being easy enough in their minds to return to -their beds, they produced a bottle of spirits and drank and made merry -after their fashion, and the noise of their singing was more dreadful -to hear than the sound of the storm. Nobody interfered with them; -probably nobody with power to control them knew that they were awake -and drinking and singing. - -So, as I have said, I got no sleep that night. As the ship lifted the -cabin window out of the foaming water the black interior in which I -lay would be dazzlingly illuminated by violet lightning striking on -the snow-like froth upon the glass of the port-hole. The sight was -beautiful and terrifying. The port-hole looked like a large violet eye -winking in the blackness. I could trace the crystals of the brine and -the froth upon the glass as the window came soaring out of the seething -foam into the fiery flash from the clouds. The flaming, blinking disk -was as if some huge sea monster clung to the side of the ship, trying -to peer into my cabin and unable to keep his eye steady at the aperture. - -It blew hard all next day; too hard to allow the ship to resume her -course. The captain said it was strange weather to encounter near the -equator. He had crossed the line I know not how many times; but, said -he, never had he fallen in with such weather hereabouts. We were all -willing, however, to endure the stormy buffeting for the sake of the -respite it gave us from the overpowering heat. The gale was a hot -wind, but the spray that clouded cooled it as the dew refreshes the -breath of the Indian night. The sensation of putting one’s head into -the companion-way and feeling the sweep of the spray-laden blast was -delicious after the motionless atmosphere that had pressed like hot -metal against the cheek and brow. - -Alice Lee seemed to rally. The saloon was full of air that rushed -through it in draughts purposely contrived by leaving open one of the -doors which conducted to the quarter-deck; the breeze filled the girl’s -berth, and she appeared to revive in it as a languishing flower lifts -its head and sweetens its fragrance when watered. - -‘Sometimes I think--sometimes I _dare_ believe, Agnes,’ poor Mrs. Lee -said to me, ‘that if Alice has strength enough to survive the ordeal -of the horrid equinoctial belt she will recover. Did not you fancy she -was looking much better this morning? Her eyes have not the bright, -glassy appearance which shocked me every time I looked at her. And did -not you notice that she breathed with less labour, and that the red of -her lips was more lifelike and healthy? Oh, my dear! God may yet hear -my prayers, and my heart is seldom silent. If this gale will blow us -to the south of the equator and drive us into cooler latitudes I shall -live in hope. But now we are stationary, the ship is merely tossing up -and down and making no real progress, and my dread is that when the -weather breaks the calm will come again and leave us roasting.’ - -These observations Mrs. Lee addressed to me in the saloon as I was -passing through it on my way from Alice’s cabin to my own berth; her -words were running in my head when, after having occupied myself for -a short time in my berth, I was returning to Alice. As I cautiously -passed through the steerage, carefully providing against a dangerous -fall by keeping my arms outstretched and touching or holding whatever -was nearest to me, I saw Mr. McEwan standing at the foot of the stairs -grasping the thick brass banisters, and peering about as though in -search of somebody. - -‘Seen Mrs. Richards?’ he asked. - -‘No,’ I answered. - -‘Mrs. Richards,’ said he, ‘answers to the descreeption of a -midshipman’s chest; everything is on top and nothing at bottom. She’s -always aboot--she’s to be seen everywhere--and is never to be found. -And how are you this roaring day?’ - -I told him that I was pretty well. - -‘D’ye know that you’ll be getting an eyebrow yet?’ said he. - -‘I hope so,’ I said. - -‘Gi’ us hold of your arm,’ said he; ‘I’ll take ye above.’ - -Without giving him hold of my arm, as he called it, I said, ‘The -improvement in Miss Lee has greatly heartened her poor mother. Her hope -is----’ and I told him what Mrs. Lee’s hope was. - -‘Ye’re no talker, I trust,’ said he. - -‘I can keep a secret,’ I replied. - -He put one hand on my shoulder, swinging by the other hand that grasped -the banister: ‘Your poor friend, Alice Lee,’ he exclaimed, ‘will not -live another fortnight.’ - -‘Oh, do not say so!’ I cried. - -‘One lung is useless; the other is so hampered that it scarcely enables -her to pump in air enough for life. How can she live? And why are -these puir creatures--men and women--girls and boys--brought to sea -to die, that they may be thrown overboard in mid-ocean? Of course -no cruelty is meant--not likely that any cruelty can be meant; but -what greater cruelty would ye have people guilty of than to wait till -a puir consumptive creature is past all hope, and then bring her to -sea in a ship that is never steady, with food that she may not fancy -but that they cannot replace by what she can eat, subjecting her to -twenty climates in a month when one climate may prove too much for -her? I am very sorry to say that medical men are much too much given -to recommending sea voyages for consumptive people when they know -that a sea voyage can do them no good. But the doctor comes to the -end of his tether: “I canna save this patient,” says he to himself, -and so he sends the puir thing on a voyage. Mark you now the rolling -of this ship. D’ye feel how she heaves and bounds, and d’ye hear how -the wind roars in the rigging, and how all those bulkheads yawl and -squall as though there was another massacre of the innocents going on -down here? Yes, ye hear it and ye feel it: ask yourself then if your -friend Alice Lee should be here instead of ashore--here instead of -lying in a pleasant room upon a steady couch, with every comfort which -her mother’s purse could command within reach of her? She’ll not live -another fortnight, I tell you. Where’s that d----d Mrs. Richards? No -matter. Gi’ us hold of your arm, that I may save ye a broken neck.’ - -His language so disquieted me that when I had gained the saloon I was -without heart to immediately enter Alice’s berth. Mr. McEwan was a -man of intelligence, and I might be sure he knew what he was talking -about. His roughness, amounting almost to brutality, seemed like the -strong language and violent demeanour of that fine creation Matthew -Bramble, assumed to conceal a thoroughly kind heart; and the note of -true sympathetic feeling which ran through his rough words and harsh -pronunciation accentuated his prediction to my fears and to my love for -Alice Lee. - -I seated myself on a sofa at the end of the saloon, where I found -a book, which I placed on my lap and feigned to read. A few of the -passengers sat here and there; most of the people were in their berths, -and those who were present were clearly in no humour for conversation. -Half an hour passed in this way, by which time I had somewhat settled -my spirits; and, walking with exceeding caution to the Lees’ berth, I -lightly tapped upon the door of it. - -The door was opened by Mrs. Lee, who put her finger upon her lip. The -gesture signified that Alice was sleeping, and, giving her a nod, I -passed on to the forward end of the saloon that I might obtain a view -of the rolling, straining ship, and the huge frothing sea rushing -from under her. I stepped out into a recess on the quarter-deck formed -by the projection of the cabin on either hand, and by the overshot -extremity of the poop-deck. This recess provided a shelter from the -gale which was howling over the bulwarks, and splitting in ringing, -piercing whistlings upon the complicated shrouds and gear; and in a -corner of it--of the recess I mean--squatted the gipsy woman. She was -smoking a little sooty clay pipe, the bowl of which was upside down. - -She was alone; a few of the emigrants were crouching on the lee or -sheltered side of the house, called the galley, in which the food -was cooked; otherwise the decks were deserted. As the ship rolled to -the wind the huge seas in masses of cloudy grey water charged at her -as though they must thunder in mighty falls over the rail; but the -noble fabric rose with dry decks and screaming rigging to the wash of -each foaming mountain, letting it run away from under her in a huge -streaming sheet of white, and the wild, expiring foam hissed into the -gale with the noise of an electric storm of wet and hail falling upon a -calm sea. - -The gipsy woman pulled the pipe out of her mouth and gave me a nod, -with a wide grin of her white, strong teeth. Though her appearance was -sufficiently fierce and disagreeable to occasion an instinctive recoil, -yet, remembering what she had told me, and how what she had told me -seemed confirmed by some strong secret instinct or feeling within me, -and by Mrs. Lee’s conjectures or suspicions, I resolved to talk with -her awhile; and, giving her a nod by way of returning her salutation, -I made my way to her side, motioning with my hand that she should keep -seated; and when I had drawn close enough to hear her speak I crouched -against the saloon front to prevent myself from being thrown. - -‘Do you want some more of your fortune told, my pretty lady?’ said the -woman, knocking the ashes out of her pipe and putting it in her pocket. - -‘No, I wish to hear no more of my fortune,’ I answered. - -‘I am glad of that,’ said she; ‘I have told you all I know, and if I -was to tell you more I should have to speak what is not the truth.’ - -‘I do not want any more of my fortune told,’ said I, ‘but I wish to -ask you certain questions, which I dare say you will answer,’ and as I -spoke I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my purse, from which I -extracted a shilling. - -She took the shilling, and looked at the purse and said, speaking -naturally--that is to say, without the drawling and whining tone which -she had employed when addressing the passengers: - -‘Is that your purse, lady?’ - -‘Yes,’ said I. - -‘Did it come with you into the ship?’ - -‘Yes.’ - -‘Let me look at it, lady.’ - -She turned it about, examined the money in it, looked at the purse -again, then returning it to me exclaimed, ‘This is English.’ - -‘How do you know?’ said I. - -‘I know many things,’ she answered, ‘and one thing I know is that that -purse was made in England.’ - -‘Well!’ said I, finding that she did not proceed in her speech. - -‘Well!’ she echoed. ‘What would you think, lady, if you was to meet -out upon the sea with a woman who did not know from what country she -came, and who had in her pocket a purse made in England with English -money in it, and who likewise had in her mouth good English such as you -speaks? What would you think?’ - -‘I would think that she was English,’ said I. - -‘And you are English,’ she exclaimed. - -‘It does not help me to know that,’ cried I. - -She stared into my eyes, but made no answer. - -‘When you told my fortune,’ said I, ‘you said that I was a married -woman. Since then feelings and fancies have visited me which make me -believe you to be right. Now I want to know how you guessed that I was -a married woman.’ - -‘We do not guess; we see,’ answered the gipsy. - -‘Pray do not talk nonsense, but converse with me without any idea of -fortune-telling. You looked at me, and knew me to be married woman. -Plenty of others had looked at me, but none declared me to be a married -woman, saving you. Tell me, then, what you saw in me to enable you to -decide that I was a married woman?’ - -‘You are not only a married woman,’ she answered; ‘you are also a -mother.’ - -‘How can you tell that by looking at me?’ I cried passionately. - -She smiled, but with nothing of her former cringing and fawning -expression. Her brilliant eyes seemed to flame into mine as she fixed -them upon me. - -‘Why should I teach you my art?’ said she. ‘But even if I was willing -to teach it I could not make you understand it. There are some who can -see clear writing upon what would be white paper to you, and to the -likes of you, lady. There is that in your face which makes me know what -I tell you. But look at yourself in a looking-glass whilst I stand -behind and point to what I see, and what will you behold? Nothing but -your face, just as it is.’ - -‘And you can read that I am a mother?’ - -‘Yes, yes,’ she answered, with such energy as made the nod she gave -fierce. - -‘Tell me all that you can read!’ said I, questioning her not, believe -me, because I was credulous enough to conceive that she was anything -more than a commonplace lying fortune-teller, but because I hoped she -would be able to say something to strengthen my own secret growing -fancies and feelings. - -‘You want me to tell you your fortune again, lady,’ said she; ‘but have -I not said I must invent if I speaks more?’ - -‘I do not want my fortune told. I wish you to make certain guesses. You -are shrewd, and a single guess of yours might throw a light upon my -mind; and if you can give me back my memory, whatever it may be in my -power to do for you shall be done.’ - -She glared at me as though she was used to promises and disdained them. - -‘What shall I _guess_, lady?’ she asked. - -‘If I have children, what will be their age?’ - -She stared close into my face with so fierce and piercing a gaze that -nothing but the _excitement_ of my curiosity hindered me from rising -and widening my distance from her. - -‘What will be their age? What will be their age?’ she muttered, passing -her hand over my face without touching it; ‘why, whether they are -living or dead, they will be young, and the youngest will be an infant -that is not eighteen months old, and the eldest will not yet be six. -You will find that right.’ - -She watched me with a surly smile whilst I turned my eyes inwards and -underwent one of my old terrible, dark conflicts. Presently I raised my -eyes to her face, and said, ‘How many children do you guess I have?’ - -‘Guess! Guess!’ she answered; then, once more advancing her face close -to mine, she looked at me, drew back, and said, ‘You have two children.’ - -‘If I am a married woman, why do I not wear a wedding ring?’ said I, -not choosing to venture the word _guess_ again. - -‘That was a part of the fortune I told you,’ said she. ‘There are -thieves at sea as there are thieves on land. Your rings were stolen.’ - -‘Why did the thieves leave my purse?’ - -‘Was I there to see?’ she exclaimed, hunching her shoulders. ‘Why did -they not steal your clothes? Why did not they take your life? You are a -married woman, I say, and you should wear a wedding ring according to -the custom of your country; and if you have not a ring it is because it -was stolen.’ - -She spoke with as much emphasis as though she positively _knew_ that -what she stated was the fact. I was influenced by her; I could not help -myself. Had she possessed a plain English face my good sense must have -ridiculed her pretensions as a sibyl, even though she spoke things -which seemed to find a dull, hollow echo in the dark recesses of my -mind; but her black, eastern eyes were full of fire, and eager and -piercing, with a sort of wild intelligence that was scarcely human; her -speech took weight and significance from the strange, fierce, repellent -expression of her face; there was a kind of fascination too in her very -adjacency, in her manner of staring into my eyes, in her way of passing -her hand over my face. - -‘If I have a husband and children, shall I ever see them again?’ said I. - -‘You forget what I said when I told you your fortune, lady,’ she -answered. - -‘You spoke without knowing,’ said I. ‘You have a set of tales by heart, -and you call them fortunes.’ - -‘I am a gipsy and can read _baji_,’ cried the woman, with her eyes -beginning to flash. ‘Many fortunes have I told in my time and many -prophecies have I uttered which have come to pass. Do not I read what -you are? When you were walking the deck with the lady and I was sitting -there,’ said she, pointing, ‘I looked at you and said to myself, “Let -me see into her eyes and let me look at her hand, and I will tell her -much that is not in her memory.”’ - -‘Are you a mother?’ said I. - -‘I have had my bantlings,’ she answered sullenly. ‘They went home long -ago.’ - -‘What do you mean?’ - -‘They lies dead and buried,’ said she. ‘What other homes have us poor -gipsies and our bantlings got but the grave? The likes of you goes to -Heaven, lady; the likes of us don’t carry our thoughts so high. I wish -I was at home with my bantlings, I do, instead of living to be a lone -woman crossing the seas----’ Her voice failed her; and, pulling her -little black pipe from her pocket, she dashed it on to the deck with a -face of fury, and then, with a harsh and hideous voice, began to sing -some strange gibberish, which, to judge by the expression in her eye, -might very well have been a string of curses. - -Her looks and behaviour alarmed me; and, without exchanging another -word with her, I rose and re-entered the saloon. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -THE DEATH OF ALICE LEE - - -The storm passed away in the night, and when the morning came there -was a breathless calm upon the sea. On my way from the steerage I -looked out through the saloon door for a minute or two. All sail was -set upon the ship, but there was no wind. The white canvas was pouring -in and out somewhat heavily, and as it beat the masts the thunderous, -crackling notes it rang through the motionless atmosphere were like the -noise of the wheels of artillery drawn at a gallop over a stony street. -The sea was breathing heavily after its conflict of the previous day, -and the ship was rolling majestically, but at the same time very -uncomfortably, upon the glass-white swell. - -The decks were crowded with emigrants. Children were tumbling and -sporting in the channel under the bulwarks, called the ‘scuppers,’ -as though their instincts directed them to find a playground in the -gutters of the ship. Some of the people appeared to be breakfasting. -With one hand they grasped tin mugs full of a steaming black liquid, -probably called tea by those who served it out to them, and in the -other hand they held a piece of flinty biscuit, and with this dry, -disgusting fare a number of the poor creatures were breaking their fast. - -There were some delicate faces amongst the women--two or three with -eyes of beauty, and two or three with rich auburn hair. I longed to go -amongst the poor people and ask them questions, and learn from what -parts of the country they came. I thought to myself, one of those many -men and women may have it in his or her power to give me back my memory -by saying something that might serve as a burning brand for the dark -galleries of my brain. But it was a desire which the rules of the ship -forbade me to satisfy. - -Presently I caught sight of the gipsy woman. She showed her teeth and -nodded demonstratively, as if she would have her fellow-passengers take -notice that she and I were friends. I coldly nodded in return, and -then, learning from the stewardess that Mrs. Lee had not yet left her -berth, I walked to the end of the saloon, where I could sit retired, -and there waited for the breakfast-bell to ring and for the passengers -to appear. - -The first to come out of her berth was Mrs. Lee. She immediately saw -and approached me. She looked as if she had been crying, and there was -an expression of deep and settled grief in her face. I asked after -Alice, but with a sinking heart, as I gazed at the poor, anxious, -devoted mother. - -‘She has been very ill in the night,’ she answered. ‘She is very low -this morning.’ - -‘But yesterday she seemed so much better.’ - -‘Oh! she is dying, Agnes, she is leaving me. God is fast withdrawing -her from me now,’ and she wept afresh. - -I hung my head. I could not look into the face of her grief and find -words. - -And now again the poor woman reproached herself for having brought her -child to sea when it was too late. She talked indeed as though she had -overheard what Mr. McEwan had said to me on the previous day, or as -though he had repeated his discourse to her. - -‘She would have been comfortable at home,’ she exclaimed amidst her -sobs. ‘Her rest is broken by the narrow bunk she lies in, and she -is distressed by the movements of the ship. At home she would lie -peacefully in her own bedroom, she would be surrounded by familiar -objects, friends would come and sit with her, and--oh, Agnes!’ She -stopped in her speech as though a spasm had wrenched her heart. - -I knew what was in her mind, and the tears sprang into my eyes. - -‘Her grave,’ continued Mrs. Lee in a whisper, ‘would not be far away -from me. I should be able to visit it, to see that it is tended as her -sister’s is: but----’ She stopped again in her speech and directed her -eyes at one of the large circular windows through which, as the ship -rolled, we could now and again catch a sight of the glassy volumes of -water. - -While she talked of her dying child the breakfast-bell rang. She rose -and said: ‘I cannot sit at the table. I cannot bear to be asked -questions about Alice, though they are kindly meant. Come to me when -you have breakfasted,’ and she returned to her berth. - -I felt, now that the mother was without hope, that there was no hope -indeed. My own grief was so keen that I was as unequal to the task of -sitting at the breakfast table as Mrs. Lee, and after drinking a cup -of tea, which one of the stewards brought to me before the passengers -assembled, I slipped downstairs to my cabin there to wait until it -should be time to visit Alice. My low spirits were not only owing to -the news which Mrs. Lee had given me: I had passed a miserable night -disturbed by many shapeless undeterminable dreams, and broken by long -passages of waking thought. The gipsy woman’s repeated deliberate -assurance that I was not only a wife but a mother also influenced me -as though her words were the truth itself. A secret voice within me -was for ever whispering, ‘It is so! It is so!’ and I cannot express -how dreadful was the anguish of my mind as I sought in the void within -for any, the least, stir of shadow to which I could give some form of -memory. - -And I was sensible too of a heartache as of yearning, though I knew not -what I yearned for. I sought to explain to myself this subtle craving -by saying, ‘I am a mother and I yearn for my children;’ and yet my -children were to me then as though they had never been born! What, -then, did this sense of yearning signify? Was it a desire put into my -head by the gipsy woman’s talk--first, the belief that I was a mother -as she had said, and then a craving to _know_ whether or not I had left -children behind me in my unknown home? Or was it the deep, unfailing, -deathless, maternal instinct whose accents were sounding to my heart -out of the darkness that was upon my mind, as the whisper of a spirit -falls upon the waking ear in the blackness of the night, serving as an -impulse and an inspiration, though the listener knows not whence the -sound proceeds nor what it is? - -It happened as Mrs. Lee had feared. As the wife of a shipowner she had -met many seafaring men in her time, and she talked of the sea with -something of the knowledge of an experienced ocean traveller. The calm -weather which she had dreaded happened. For many days, whose number my -memory does not carry, the sea stretched flat and lifeless round about -the ship, and the rim of it was dim with the faint blue haze of heat -whilst the central sky was a blaze of white light. Faint airs called -catspaws occasionally tarnished the table-flat plain of the ocean; but -so weak were these draughts that they expired long before they reached -the ship, and for hours and for days the _Deal Castle_ sat upright upon -the water without motion except a small swaying of her mast-heads, -and there was so perfect a reflection of her fabric of black sides and -star-white canvas under her that one might have believed on gazing over -the side that she rested on a sheet of looking-glass. - -No sail could heave into view in such stagnant weather. Never was the -hot, blurred edge of the ocean broken by the thread-like shadowing of -a steamer’s smoke. There was nothing to see but water, and there was -nothing for the passengers to do but to lounge and eat and sleep and -grumble. The heat told fearfully on Alice Lee. The saloon and berths -were unendurably hot, and the doctor ordered the girl to be carried on -deck on a couch. She begged not to be disturbed; her mother entreated -her to allow the people to carry her on deck, and then she consented; -but when they put their hands upon her she fainted, and so deep and -long was her swoon that we feared she had died. The doctor then -directed that she should be left as she was. - -Her mother and I nursed her between us. Mrs. Richards put a little -arm-chair in the dying girl’s berth, and I sat and watched whilst Mrs. -Lee slept; and then, when it came to Mrs. Lee’s turn to watch, I would -fall asleep in the chair, and thus we would pass the nights. Oh, it was -a bitter sad time! The mother fought with her grief in the sight of her -child that she might not witness the agony of her affliction; but often -at night, when she lay down after several hours of watching, instead of -sleeping she would weep, very silently indeed, but I could tell by the -breathing that her tears were flowing. - -Alice’s sufferings were not great. Time after time in the silent -watches of the night--and silent indeed were the watches of those -breathless nights of equatorial calm--I would rise on observing the -dear girl to move uneasily, bend over her, and ask if she suffered; and -regularly would she answer me in her sweet voice and with her sweet -smile that she was free from pain, that she desired but a little air, -but that she was not suffering, and then she would extend her thin, -damp, cold hand for me to hold, and ask me if her mother was sleeping, -and then whisper that she was happy, that she was dying, that she -knew she was dying, but that the holy peace of God which passes all -understanding was upon her heart, and that she was praying for the hour -to come when He would take her to Himself. - -Once she awoke uttering a cry as of rapture. I was at her side in an -instant. - -She looked a little strangely at me, then, as an expression of -recognition entered her eyes, she exclaimed; ‘I have been with my angel -sister. Can it have been a dream? How real, how real it was! We stood -together hand in hand--I do not know where--the light was that of the -moon. Our dear mother was coming and we waited for her. Can it have -been a dream?’ Her smile faded; she sighed, closed her eyes, and was -presently asleep again. - -I could tell you many sweet things of this beautiful character as she -lay dying in that little cabin, but it is my own, and not Alice Lee’s, -story that I have undertaken to relate. Yet the mystical part that she -played in the turning-point of my life is so truly wonderful that I -cannot but dwell upon her blessed memory. She was the good angel of my -life, and God afterwards sent her from Heaven to me, as you shall read -when you come to that part of my experiences. - -And though I had known her but for a few weeks, yet as she lay dying -on her bed my love could not have been deeper for her than had she -been flesh of my own flesh, had she been my sister or my child, had her -mother been mine, and we had grown together in years with never a day -of separation. - -It was the night of the eleventh day of the calm, but this night the -breathlessness of the atmosphere was broken by a faint air of wind. The -window of Alice’s berth was wide open, but though I put my hand into it -I felt no movement of air. Yet a small weak wind was blowing; it was -past midnight, and in the stillness of this hour I heard the noise of -waters faintly rippling, and the deep silence was unbroken by the notes -of flapping canvas, for there was wind enough to ‘put the sails to -sleep,’ as a pretty saying of the sea goes. - -Mrs. Lee had been lying down since ten o’clock, and was sleeping, but I -should awaken her presently, for it had been arranged that she should -watch from after midnight until three or four in the morning. I was -faint, and there was a feeling of nausea upon me. The atmosphere of the -cabin was oppressively close. In spite of the awning having been spread -throughout the day the heat of the sun was in the planks of the deck, -and this heat, though it was now the hour of midnight, was still in -the planks, and it struck through into the atmosphere of the cabin as -though a great oven rested on the ceiling of the little interior. - -There are many sorts of illness which are sad and afflicting to -nurse, but none so sad and afflicting, I think, as consumption in -its last stage. There was a weight upon my spirits; I panted for -the deck, and for the starlit freedom of the cool night. Alice had -been resting motionlessly for nearly an hour. I knew not whether she -slept or was awake, and would not look lest I should disturb her if -she was sleeping. Her eyes were closed, her thin hands were crossed -saint-like upon her breast, her face was as white as though the moon -shone upon it. Through the open window, that was somewhat above her -sleeping-shelf and near her head, I saw a large golden star shining: -the rolling of the ship was so slight that the star continued to shine -in the aperture, sliding up and down, but never beyond the limits of -the circle of window. The effect of the girl’s white face, and of this -star that seemed to be sliding to and fro near it, was extraordinary. -A strange fancy entered my head: I thought of the star as of Alice’s -spirit hovering close to the form that was not yet inanimate, and -waiting for death to give the signal for its flight to Heaven; and -whilst I thus thought, looking at the white face and the golden star -shining in the cabin window, a sweet low voice began to sing the -opening lines of that beautiful hymn, ‘Abide with Me.’ - -The voice was faint and sounded as though it came from a distance, -but it was inexpressibly sweet. I started, believing that someone was -singing on deck, for the voice of anyone singing on deck would strike -faintly upon the ear through the open cabin window, even as this voice -did. Then I said to myself, ‘It is Alice who is singing,’ and stepping -to her side I was in time to witness the movement of her lips ere she -ceased, after having sung but little more than the first two lines of -the hymn. Her eyes were closed, her hands remained crossed upon her -bosom; she had not stirred, and there was no doubt that she sang in her -sleep. - -About this hour Mrs. Lee lifted her head from her pillow, then arose, -and after gazing silently for awhile at her child, she approached me, -put her lips to my ear, and bade me in almost breathless accents take -the sleep I needed. I answered in a whisper that I could not sleep, -and asked her to allow me to go on deck to breathe the cool air for -a quarter of an hour or so, telling her where she would find me. -She acquiesced with a motion of her head, and catching up a shawl I -noiselessly passed out from the cabin. - -The saloon lamps had long been extinguished, but a plentiful haze of -starlight floated through the open skylights. Not knowing but that Mr. -Harris might have charge of the ship, and desiring to avoid him, though -even if he were on the poop and saw me there I did not suppose he would -address me, I passed through the saloon on to the quarter-deck, and -seated myself half-way up one of the ladders which conducted to the -poop, and, my attire being dark, and the darkness where I sat being -deep, there was small chance of my being observed unless someone came -to the ladder to mount or descend it. - -The night air was delicious. Low over the sea on my left hand side was -a dark red scar of moon; it was floating slowly up out of the east with -its fragment of disk large and distorted by the hot atmosphere through -which it stared. The sails of the ship rose pale, and the topmost -of them looked so high up that the faint pallid spaces seemed to be -hovering cloud-like close under the stars. The faint breeze held the -canvas motionless, and not a sound came from those airy heights. - -The figure of a man moved on the forecastle; otherwise the decks--so -much of them, at least, as my sight commanded--were tenantless. The -night was the more peaceful for the soft air that blew. The delicate -noise of rippling waters lulled the senses, and at another time I -should have fallen asleep to that gentle music of the sea, but my -heart was too full to suffer me to slumber then; the tears fell from my -eyes. A sweet girl was dying; the gentlest heart that ever beat in a -woman’s breast might even now, as I sat thinking, have ceased to throb; -one whom I dearly loved, whose tenderness for me had been that of a -sister, was dying, might even now be dead, and as I sat thinking of her -I wept. - -I looked up at the sky; it was crowded with stars, and many meteors -glanced in the dark heights. I asked myself, ‘Where is Heaven?’ We look -upwards and think that Heaven is where we direct our eyes, but I knew -that even as I looked the prospect of the stars was slowly changing, -so that if Heaven were _there_ where I was now gazing it would not be -there presently. Where then was Heaven? And when the soul of the sweet -girl who was dying in her cabin quitted her body whither would it fly? -Then I remembered that she herself had told me that we looked upwards -when we thought of Heaven because the light was there, the light of the -sun, and the moon, and the stars, but that God whom she had taught me -to remember and to pray to was everywhere. - -This thought of God’s presence--for if He was everywhere He must be -where I now was--awed me, and, rising from the step upon which I was -seated, I knelt and prayed, weeping bitterly as I uttered the words -which arose from my heart. I prayed that my memory might be restored -to me; I prayed that, if I were a wife and a mother, the image of my -husband and my children would be presented to me that I might know them -and return to them. But I did not pray for Alice Lee. She was already -His to whom I knelt, and I knew in my heart that even if it had been -in the power of prayer to save her she would not desire another hour of -life unless--and here I turned my head and looked at the dark surface -of sea and thought of it as her grave. - -I resumed the seat I had arisen from in order to kneel, and again -surrendered myself to thought. I heard the measured tread of a man upon -the poop-deck that stretched above and behind me. He came to the rail, -and stood at the head of the steps which lay opposite to those on which -I was seated. His figure showed black against the starless sky, and I -saw that he was not Mr. Harris, but Mr. ----, the second officer of the -vessel. He whistled softly to himself as he stood awhile surveying the -sea and the ship. - -One reads often in poetry and in stories of the loneliness of the -night watch on the ocean; but one should bear a secret part in such -a watch--a part such as I was now bearing, with a heart of lead and -with eyes which burnt with recent tears--to compass what is meant when -the loneliness of the night watch at sea is sung or written of. Nobody -stirred upon the ship but the figure of this second officer and some -dim shadowy shape far forward on the forecastle, flitting among and -blending with the deep masses of dye cast upon the atmosphere there by -the sails. Not a sound was to be heard saving the sigh of the faint -wind in the rigging, and the tinkling noise of rippling water. The -fragment of moon was still red in the east, and as yet without power to -touch the dark ocean under it with light. Two bells were struck on some -part of the deck, and the tremulous chimes went floating up into the -hollows of the sails, and trembled in the pallid concavities in echoes. -The figure of the second officer moved away from the rail; and now, -though a little while before I had believed myself sleepless, my head -insensibly sank forward, my eyes closed, and I slumbered. - -I was awakened by a hand laid upon my shoulder. I started with a cry, -and gazed around me. No situation would more bewilder one new to the -sea than the being suddenly aroused and finding oneself on the deck of -a ship, with the stars shining and the tall sails spreading over one, -and the night wind of the deck blowing upon one’s face. The person who -had awakened me was Mr. McEwan. - -‘This is a strange bed for a lady to be sleeping upon at this hour of -the night,’ said he; ‘but I have no heart and no time now to represent -the folly ye commeet in sleeping in such a dew as is falling. I have -been to see Miss Alice Lee; she is dying. She will be gone before that -moon there has climbed to over our mast-heads. She wishes to see you, -and her mother asked me to find and send you to her. Go and comfort -the puir old lady. God knows she needs comfort! There is nothing I can -do for the girl,’ and he abruptly quitted me, and disappeared in the -gloom of the saloon. - -I immediately made my way to Mrs. Lee’s cabin, but before entering I -stood upon a chair that I might see the clock under the skylight. The -time was a quarter to two. I was now able to read the clock, though -when I had first come on board the _Deal Castle_, having no memory of -the figures, I was unable to tell the time. I quietly opened the door -and entered. Mrs. Lee was kneeling at the side of her sleeping-shelf, -which was below the bunk in which her daughter lay, and she was so lost -in prayer that she did not hear me enter. I crept to Alice’s side, and -then her mother, perceiving me, arose. - -Though the cabin lamp was turned down, there was plenty of light to -see by. Alice’s eyes were closed, but after I had stood a moment or -two looking at her she opened them, saw me and knew me, and a smile of -touching sweetness lighted up her wasted face. She feebly moved her -hand, but with a gesture which made me know she wished me to hold it. -I bowed my head close to her face, and asked her in a whisper if she -was in pain. She answered no; and then I asked her if she was happy, -on which she looked at me and smiled. Her lips moved, but she seemed -powerless to give expression to her thoughts. I bent my ear close to -her mouth, and I heard her say in a whisper as dim and far off as the -voice one hears in a dream: - -‘I have been praying that God will give you back your memory----My -beloved mother will be your friend----’ - -The whisper ceased, she smiled again, twitched her fingers that I might -relax my hold of her hand, and looked at her mother, who took her hand -and held it. - -I withdrew to the chair in which I had been wont to keep a watch while -Mrs. Lee slept, that the mother and daughter might, in that sacred -time, be alone together. But the sweet girl never spoke again. Whilst -her hand was still clasped by her mother she turned her face to the -side of the ship and passed away, dying so quietly that her death was -as noiseless as the fall of the leaf of a flower in the night--dying so -quietly that her mother knew not when the soul of her child had fled, -and continued holding her hand, with not a sound breaking the sacred -stillness of that little cabin save the rippling of the water tinkling -to the ear through the embrasure of the window, from whose dark disk -the large golden star had gone. - -‘Mark,’ says the most eloquent of divines, ‘mark the rain that falls -from above, and the same shower that droppeth out of one cloud -increaseth sundry plants in a garden, and severally according to the -condition of every plant. In one stalk it makes a rose, in another a -violet, divers in a third, and sweet in all. So the Spirit makes its -multiformous effects in several complexions and all according to the -increase of God.’ - -The rose of this fair garden was dead. But what says this same most -eloquent of all divines, the rose being dead, and the perfume, which is -its spirit, gone from it? - -‘As when the eye meets with light it is the comfort of the eye: when -the ear meets with harmony it is the comfort of the ear. What is the -most transcendent consolation therefore but the union of the soul with -God?’ - -Until long after the dawn had broken Mrs. Lee and I remained with the -dead. The poor mother seemed at first stupefied. Mr. McEwan came in, -looked at Alice, pronounced that all was over, and with a sigh and a -gentle nod to Mrs. Lee softly quitted the cabin. - -And then it was that the poor mother appeared to have been changed into -stone. She held the dead girl’s hand, and kept her eyes fastened upon -the averted face. At last a sob convulsed her. Another and a third -followed, and, releasing her child’s hand, she threw herself into a -chair, hid her face, and wept. Oh how she wept! and I feared that her -heart had broken. Then, when she had calmed down somewhat, I took -her hand and said whatever I thought might soothe her. But there was -nothing under Heaven to soothe grief so recent as hers, with the body -of her sweet daughter lying within view, though she may have found a -sort of sympathy which no other person on board could have possessed -for her in my own distressed condition; for from time to time as I -talked she would lift her streaming eyes to my face with an expression -of deep pity that for the moment overlay the look of her own grief. -It was indeed as though she should say, ‘Great as is my sorrow here, -seeking to comfort me is one whose sorrow may be even greater than -mine.’ - -We passed the hours until some time after dawn had broken in prayer -and in tears, and in whispering of the dead. Often the mother would -rise to look at her, and then come back and talk to me about her--of -the sweetness of her disposition even when she was a little child, -of her tenderness and goodness as a daughter, of her simple innocent -pleasures, of her tastes; how the poor whom she had visited and -comforted loved her and blessed her name. - -When the morning had fairly come I saw it was no longer fit that the -poor bereaved mother should continue in this cabin in sight of her -child’s body, so, telling her that I would presently return, I entered -the saloon, and, seeing nothing of Mrs. Richards, I descended into -the steerage and found her in her cabin. I told her that Alice Lee -was dead. She heard me with a look of sorrow, but it was impossible -that she should feel surprise. I told her that Mrs. Lee was nearly -heartbroken, and begged that another cabin might be prepared for her -where she might remain private until after the funeral. She reflected -and said: - -‘All the saloon cabins are occupied. It would not be right to offer -her a berth in the steerage. I will speak to the captain at once; the -surgeon is sure to have reported the poor young lady’s death to him; -pray return to Mrs. Lee until I am able to tell you what can be done.’ - -Shortly after I had returned to Mrs. Lee’s cabin a number of the -passengers came out of their berths, and the news that Alice Lee was -dead swiftly went from mouth to mouth. Then it was, as I afterwards -came to know, that Mrs. Webber, meeting Mrs. Richards as she came from -the captain’s cabin, learnt from the stewardess that there was no -berth vacant in the saloon for the reception of Mrs. Lee, and that the -poor bereaved mother would have to retire for awhile to a cabin in the -darksome steerage. The good-natured, sympathetic Mrs. Webber would not -hear of this; she bade Mrs. Richards wait for a little, and going to -one of the ladies she promptly arranged to share her berth with her; -Mr. Webber and the lady’s husband sleeping meanwhile in cabins occupied -by single men. All this Mrs. Webber promptly arranged. Her sympathetic -enthusiasm swept away every difficulty, and before the breakfast-bell -summoned the passengers to the saloon table Mrs. Lee and I were -installed in the Webbers’ cabin. - -The state of the weather required that the funeral should not be -delayed, but I own that I was not a little shocked when I learnt that -the ceremony was to take place at eleven that morning. I had met -Captain Ladmore in the saloon as I came from my berth in the steerage -to rejoin Mrs. Lee in her new quarters, and he stopped me to ask in his -grave sad way how Mrs. Lee did, and to inquire after the last moments -of the dear girl. I answered him as best I could, and then, seeing Mrs. -Richards come out of the berth that had been occupied by Mrs. Lee, it -entered my head to ask the captain when the funeral would take place. - -‘I have arranged,’ said he, ‘that it shall take place at eleven.’ - -‘At eleven!--this morning?’ cried I, starting. ‘That is terribly soon, -Captain Ladmore.’ - -‘It is terribly soon, as you say,’ he answered, ‘but at sea there is no -sentiment, and the claims of the living at sea are far more imperious -than ever they can be ashore. I do not wish to intrude upon Mrs. Lee. -Her sorrow is too fresh to admit of intrusion. I will ask you to tell -her that the funeral takes place at eleven, and you will also say that -I too have suffered keenly, even as keenly as she, and that I feel for -her,’ and, giving me a slight hurried bow to conceal his emotion, he -left me. - -I broke the intelligence as softly as I was able to the poor bereaved -mother. A scared look entered her eyes, which were red with weeping, -and she convulsively motioned with her arm as though she would speak -but could not; she then hid her face in her hands and swayed her form -as though she wrestled with the agony of her affliction. I stood at the -port-hole, looking through it at the sea, but my eyes were blind with -tears, and I could behold nothing but the image of Alice Lee, already -draped, perhaps, in her sea-shroud--in less than two hours to have -vanished for ever in that mighty sepulchre of ocean from which, as a -grave, her pure sweet spirit had shrunk, so great was her horror of its -vastness, albeit she knew that her Lord, in whom she believed and whom -she loved, was awaiting and would receive her, though an ocean as wide -as the heavens themselves rolled between her and Him. Presently I felt -Mrs. Lee’s hand upon my arm. - -‘Agnes, will you attend my darling’s funeral?’ - -‘If you wish it, dear Mrs. Lee, yes.’ - -‘I could not be present--I could not----. You will tell me----’ She -broke down and wept upon my shoulder; but I readily gathered her -thoughts from her grief-broken utterance. - -Shortly before eleven I quitted her cabin. She looked me in the eyes -and kissed me on the brow before I left her. I went to the berth that -I had been occupying, but that I was to occupy no longer, and put on -a black veil which Mrs. Lee had given to me to wear. I also put on a -pair of black gloves which had belonged to sweet Alice Lee. I had no -more mourning to wear. As I passed through the saloon I heard the sound -of the ship’s bell tolling. It chimed in a funeral note, but the wide -glory of the morning took all significance of grief out of it. The soft -wind which had fanned the ship forward during the night still blew; -the sun was within an hour of his meridian, and the rippling sea was a -vast dazzling plain, a surface of white fire wrinkling southward. There -could be nothing funereal in the tolling of a bell on such a morning as -this; the life of the flashing universe was in every trembling pulse -of the slowly recurring chimes. - -The emigrants crowded the deck in the forward part of the ship. They -stared with eager eyes, and every face wore an expression of vulgar, -morbid curiosity. The children amongst them stared too, but they were -silent and wondering, and often would they look up at the sails and -around at the furniture of the ship, as though all familiar objects had -been rendered fresh and strange to their young eyes. Most of the crew, -in clean white attire, stood in ranks in front of the emigrants. Every -man’s shadow softly swung at his feet, and just past and close behind -one bushy-whiskered face was the tawny countenance of the gipsy woman, -her eyes full of fire, and her mouth wide with a grin that seemed to -fling a complexion of irony upon the serious, vulgar, and grimy faces -round about in her neighbourhood. - -The saloon passengers had clothed themselves in black. They were -congregated on the quarter-deck, at a short distance from the part of -the bulwark where the body was to be launched. The hour of eleven was -struck, six blows on the bell announcing the time; and the captain, -stalking gravely out of the saloon, Prayer-book in hand, took up his -station close against the bulwarks, where the sailors had made an -opening by lifting out a piece of the rail. A few moments later the -body was borne forth from the saloon, and at the sight of it every man -took off his hat, and a strange sound, like a subdued moan uttered by -many persons at one instant, came from the crowd of emigrants. - -The body was carried by four sailors; it was covered by a large -flag--the red ensign of the English merchant service--and the crimson -edges of the flag trailed along the white planks as the sailors, with -measured tread, bore their sweet and sacred burthen to the bulwarks. -The captain, opening his book, began to read the funeral service in -a deep, clear voice; but often there was a tremor, often there was a -break of emotion in his tones, which made those who knew how it had -been with him feel that his heart was away with his own dead in the old -home. Sobs often broke from the ladies. - -So young! So sweet! So good! Whilst my eyes streamed with tears, and -whilst my ears followed the touching words recited by the captain, -my heart asked many questions. Why should one so gentle, so pure, so -young, be taken? Why for years should she have been haunted by the -terrible spectre of death, a shadow for ever creeping closer and closer -to her, poising its certain and envenomed lance, for years haunting her -hours and her dreams with its ever-growing apparition? Oh, how cruel! -how hard to bear is the continuous dread and expectation of death! I -thought. And when I remembered how she had answered me when I spoke -aloud to her some such thoughts as were now running in my mind: how she -had told me that the victory of the spirit over life, and all that life -can tempt it with, is by suffering and pain; that the great triumph -of our salvation was the fruit of suffering and of pain, the sweet, -dear, glad voice spoke to me yet. I seemed to hear its pure accents -creeping into my ear from the pale form hidden by the crimson flag. The -voice told me that all was well with her, that the conquest was hers, -that she had exchanged the dim pale shadows of this dream called life -for the shining and glorious realities which had been promised to her -by One whose word was Love, unfailing and imperishable, and that she -was--as no one in this life can be--happy. - -At a signal from the captain the flag was removed, the grating on -which the body rested was tilted, and the body, sewn up in snow-white -sail-cloth, flashed from the ship’s side. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -I RETURN TO ENGLAND - - -And now it is necessary that I should skip a considerable period of -time--no less a period of time indeed than ten months--that this story -may bring me to a close relation of my own affairs; for the most -extraordinary part of my strange adventures yet remains to be unfolded, -and no purpose can be served by my keeping you dawdling on shipboard, -when everything from this time material befell me on shore. - -I will not speak of the grief of Mrs. Lee; her bereavement left her -childless, and, indeed, alone in the world, and her loss was as an -arrow in her heart. Alice had been left to her when her first child -was taken; but now Alice was gone, and loneliness and childlessness -rendered the loss of this daughter a far deeper affliction than had -been the death of the other. But Mrs. Lee was a woman of strong -religious feelings; resignation grew in her with the help of prayer, -and with the compassion of God, and through much silent meditation; -and, long before we arrived in Australia, she could bear to say and to -hear many things concerning Alice which, in the earliest stages of her -grief, her faltering tongue could not have pronounced, nor her stricken -heart endure to listen to. - -I think it was about three weeks after Alice’s death, that Mrs. Lee -spoke to me very seriously about my future, repeated her daughter’s -wishes, and asked me to live with her as companion whilst my memory -continued dark, and whilst I remained homeless. I gladly assented, -kissing her, and gratefully thanking her again and again for her -offer; and she seemed as glad as I. She had liked me from the beginning -of our acquaintance; now she loved me for my association with her -lost child, and also because Alice had loved me. And she loved me for -myself too, as the dear little woman would often tell me, though all -the kindness, all the goodness was on one side. For I could do no more -than feel grateful, and thank God for having found me a friend in her, -and be with her, and oblige her, and comfort her as fully as my mind, -enfeebled by the want of memory, would enable me. - -We arrived at Sydney, New South Wales; the passengers bade us farewell -and went their ways. Some of them presented me with little gifts of -jewellery to remember them by, and the tears stood in Mrs. Webber’s -eyes when she said good-bye to me. Had the _Deal Castle_ touched at -the Cape of Good Hope, Mrs. Lee would have gone on shore, taking me -with her, and proceeded to England direct by one of the fine steamers -of the Union Steamship line; but the ship stopped nowhere during the -outward passage, and therefore, unless we chose to be transferred to a -homeward-bound ship, we were obliged to proceed direct to Sydney. Mrs. -Lee made up her mind to return home in the ship. She had paid her cabin -fare for two for the ‘round voyage,’ as it is called; she liked Captain -Ladmore, and she also liked his ship; and then, again, Mr. McEwan -strongly recommended her to remain in the _Deal Castle_, affirming that -her health would benefit by such a voyage as a sailing ship provided. - -So, for the reasons I have given, together with others which I need -not enter into--as, for example, the cost of returning home by steam: -a cost that must tax her purse, seeing that she had already paid for -the voyage out and home--we returned to England in the _Deal Castle_ -living on shore at a hotel during the three months the vessel lay in -Sydney harbour. - -You will ask whether, in this time, my memory had returned to -me--whether, indeed, I was even capable of dimly recollecting? My -answer is, _No!_ My memory seemed to grow even more impenetrable as -the months went by. There had been times, as I have told you, when the -cry of a child, when the gibberish of a gipsy woman would stir the -gloom within me as though there were shadows or shapes of memory which -moved, eagerly responsive to the cry or the syllables which fell upon -my ear, but incapable of determining themselves to my mental vision. My -feelings were, indeed, as the poet expresses a like state of mind:-- - - ‘Moreover, something is or seems, - That touches me with mystic gleams, - Like glimpses of forgotten dreams. - Of something felt, like something here; - Of something done, I know not where; - Such as no language may declare.’ - -But time deepened the silence and the darkness. The old yearning grew -sick, it languished; curiosity itself, the vulgar, commonplace quality -of curiosity, fell mute and closed its eyes and seemed to sleep. The -utter inability to penetrate, resulted in a sort of stagnation of soul. -My mind lapsed into a condition of absolute passivity. I knew that I -had a past; but of it, of all that entered into it, and created it, -I was as ignorant as though it had never been. I believed it to be -extinguished for ever, and I became resigned to the loss as we become -resigned to the loss of those who have died; though a loss it was _not_ -to my unremembering brain in the sense that death is a loss to the -mourner who has dried her tears; for _she_ can remember; but I, though -conscious of a loss, and of a loss that for all I knew might have -rendered me a widow and motherless for life, though with a husband and -children living and craving for me, could not weep over it, for I knew -not what I had lost. - -My condition excited much interest in Sydney; that is to say, amongst -a circle of acquaintances whom we had got to know through some of -the passengers who had come out in the ship with us. A doctor, whose -reputation stood high in Sydney, was introduced to me, questioned me -closely, subjected me to all the tests he could devise, carried Mrs. -Lee and me here and there with some worthy, kind notion in his head of -my memory taking fire from the sight of shops and streets, and gardens -of beautiful flowers and the like; but all to no purpose. From nothing -he could do, from nothing that I could see, did I get the least hint. I -perfectly comprehended everything that I beheld, and everything that I -heard; but no images of the past were presented to my mind. - -I went by the name of Miss C----, and was thus spoken of by everybody -excepting Mrs. Lee, who always referred to me and addressed me by the -name of Agnes. Before I left Sydney, however, my appearance had greatly -improved. It might have been the change from the sea to the shore; it -might have been that condition of passivity which I have mentioned, -which had silenced in me to a very large extent the dreadful, wearing, -benumbing, blind conflicts of my spirit with my memory; but be the -reason what it might, I was looking so much better when Mrs. Lee and I -rejoined the ship, when she was about to sail for England, that Mrs. -Richards scarcely recognised me. My hair was growing very thick and -abundant again; it remained as white as snow, but being very plentiful, -it looked as though it were powdered; it contrasted finely with my -dark eyes and gave them, as Mrs. Lee would tell me, a very rich and -glowing expression. Hair had sprouted, as Mr. McEwan predicted it -would, on the brow which had been injured and where the scar was; but, -strangely enough, this hair was black, whereas the other eyebrow was -as snow-white as the hair of my head. There was but one way to remedy -this extreme of hue. I could not make the growing hair white; and -therefore, to rescue my face from the odd cast which the differently -coloured eyebrows imparted, I purchased some dye at Sydney, and so -brought my left eyebrow to look like my right one. That the shape of -my nose had been altered by its having been broken or indented above -the bridge I very well knew, but I could not know to what extent its -shape differed from its form before the accident befell me. It was -now, as of course it has ever remained, what might be termed a Roman -nose, though scarcely high-bridged enough for that shape; but I easily -conceived that the structural change of it, coupled with my snow-white -hair, and the scar over my right eye, that gave a somewhat overhanging -look to the brow there--these were changes, I say, to make me easily -conceive that, however my face may have shown in the past, it could -hardly be more changed had I worn a mask. My complexion, however, had -wonderfully cleared. Those strange fine lines, the effect, as Mr. -McEwan declared, of a terrible shock to the nervous system, were fading -out of my cheeks, though they lingered somewhat obstinately about my -forehead. I was pale, but no longer sallow; my skin, indeed, had grown -very clear; and I was not always pale either, for, being very nervous, -and constantly possessed by a painful sense of embarrassment through my -not having any memory, and through my being conscious that my intellect -was weakened by the want of memory, a very little matter would bring -the blood to my cheeks, and often I would turn scarlet when suddenly -addressed. - -As you will suppose, I presented what may reasonably be called a -very striking appearance, what with my white hair and dark eyebrows, -and dark shining eyes and clear skin, and youthful well-proportioned -figure. Mrs. Richards would tell me that amongst the passengers (during -the homeward run) I passed for any age, from five-and-twenty to forty. - -But to proceed with my story. It was some time about ten months from -the date of my being rescued from the French brig--whose people, more -especially the kind young Alphonse, were often in my mind--that the -_Deal Castle_ arrived in the River Thames. I stood on the deck with -Mrs. Lee, all the canvas was furled, and the ship was being dragged up -the river by a small steamboat. We had met with thick blowing weather -in the Channel, and I had seen nothing of the English coast; but now -we were in the River Thames; the land, with houses and gardens and -fields, and blue hills in the far distance, was on either hand. It was -a fine summer day; the river was crowded with ships of many kinds; one -seemed to feel the beat of the mighty heart of the great metropolis -that lay hidden beyond the bends and reaches, in this great artery of -its river; and I gazed about me with an impassioned yearning. - -There was no detail of the busy, shining scene at which I did not -thirstily stare--from the half-embowered church-spire ashore--from the -windmill languidly revolving--from the white cloud of a locomotive -speeding through a cutting--from the tall factory chimney soiling the -pure azure with its dingy feathering of smoke; from these and from -scores of such things as these, to the barge with chocolate-coloured -sails lazily stemming the stream, to the stately ship towing past, to -the great steamer whose destination might be the land whence we were -newly returned, to the little wherry doggedly impelled by its lonely -occupant in a tall hat. - -I gazed with a passion of anxiety and expectation, kindled afresh in me -by the sight of the land--by the sight of what I had again and again -been told was the land of my birth, the unremembered land in which my -home was; but to no purpose. Nothing came back to me. - -‘We shall pass through London,’ said Mrs. Lee, ‘and your memory may -return at the sight of the streets; for rest assured, even supposing -your home is not in London, that you have visited the great city, -perhaps very often. And if London gives you nothing, and there is still -the journey to Newcastle, then there will be Newcastle itself. And -if all remains blank, there is my home for you to share; and though -I should rejoice, even as my angel daughter would, over the recovery -of your memory, you have become so necessary to me, dear Agnes, as a -companion, that parting with you would be almost like losing another -child.’ - -Before we arrived at the Docks where the ship was to be berthed, and -where we proposed to land, Captain Ladmore invited Mrs. Lee and myself -to his cabin; for his ship was now in the hands of the pilot, and the -captain was, so to speak, a free man. First of all he asked Mrs. Lee -for her address at Newcastle-on-Tyne, to enable the owners of the -_Deal Castle_ to communicate with her, should any inquiries concerning -me be made at their office. He informed us that it would be his duty -to report the circumstance of his ship having been in collision with -a French brig, on board of which there was found a single person, a -woman, whose memory was gone--that is to say, who was unable to give -any particulars of herself prior to her having been picked up by the -French brig. This report, he said, would be printed in the shipping -papers, and it would find its way into the London daily newspapers, and -be copied by most of the provincial sheets; so that if I had friends -in England, or, indeed, in any part of the United Kingdom, it would be -strange indeed if the newspaper paragraph did not lead to the discovery -of my identity. - -He then advised Mrs. Lee to send my case to the London police, and -solicit such help as they would have it in their power to render -by advertisements and by communicating with the provincial police; -and he also recommended Mrs. Lee to repeat the paragraph in the -newspapers--the paragraph I mean about his ship having found me in a -brig--after a few weeks should elapse, that is to say, supposing the -report which he himself would make, and which would be published, -should lead to nothing. - -I bade farewell to this upright, worthy, humane captain with tears and -expressions of gratitude again and again repeated. He had befriended -me; he had protected me; his ship had been my home; he had done me a -hundred kindnesses; and when I put my hand in his and said good-bye my -heart was very full. - -And equally full was my heart when I said good-bye to Mrs. Richards, -for she, too, had proved a true friend to me at a time when I was -without friends, at a time when I was destitute, helpless, hopeless, -and broken-hearted, and when sympathy and friendship were precious -indeed to me. I gave her of what the passengers had given to me on -our arrival at Sydney. I could not part from her without a gift. I -possessed nothing but the trifles of jewellery which had been given to -me by the passengers, and of these I chose the best, and when I put -them into her hand I kissed her and blessed her for her kindness to me. - -Mr. Harris I did not see; Mr. McEwan I warmly thanked for his attention -and interest in me, and then Mrs. Lee and I left the ship and drove to -a hotel close to the railway station, whence we were to depart on the -following morning for the north. - -On our way to this hotel I spoke little, so busy was I with looking. -The sight of the streets and houses, however, did nothing for me but -keep me bewildered. So profound had been the sense of loneliness -occasioned by my loss of memory, that I felt as one who had been -shipwrecked upon an uninhabited island, where I had lived solitary, -hearing nothing but the cry of tropic birds, the noise of the wind in -trees, the dull thunder of the gigantic breakers bursting upon the -desolate shore. I was in a manner dazed by the crowds and the throng -of vehicles, by the uproar of locomotion, by the seemingly endless -complication of streets. No, assuredly, it was not in London that I was -to find my memory. - -Mrs. Lee watched me as we sat in the cab, and when we had arrived at -the hotel and were conversing in a quiet sitting-room she told me she -was now certain I had never before been in London, and that, as it was -impossible for her to imagine that any Englishwoman who belonged to -such a station of life as was indicated by my manner and speech was -never in London, her conviction was my home was not in England. - -We left for the north by an early train on the following morning, and -arrived at Newcastle at about five o’clock in the afternoon. Throughout -the long journey my eyes and my thoughts were as busy as they had -been in the drive from the docks to the hotel. I gazed, half maddened -by my passionate anxiety to recollect, at every little village or town -we flew past; and whenever the engine’s whistle signalled that we were -approaching a station at which we were to stop my head was out of the -window and my heart beat furiously, whilst I kept crying to myself, -Will _this_ be the town? Will _this_ be the place where my home is? and -shall I know it when I see it? - -I had often heard dear Alice Lee talk of her home at Jesmond, and I -could have made a sketch of the house without seeing it from her loving -description. It was a pretty little house indeed, standing in about -half-an-acre of garden. The house was removed from the road, very -sheltered and retired. It had been left in charge of an old servant, a -respectable Newcastle woman, now somewhat stricken in years, who had -been in Mrs. Lee’s service almost throughout my dear friend’s married -life. To this honest old housekeeper Mrs. Lee had written on the ship’s -arrival at Gravesend; servants were engaged and the house thoroughly -prepared to receive us. - -Mrs. Lee bore up bravely throughout the journey and down to the moment -of her entering her home; but when the house-door was opened and she -saw the old housekeeper standing within dressed in black--for she had -written the news of Alice’s death from Sydney--she broke down. - -‘Oh, my child! my child!’ she cried, and went with a blind step into -the parlour and sank into a chair, weeping bitterly. Ay, it is on -such occasions as this that death is most terribly felt; when you -go forth with someone beloved by you and return _alone_, then is -the house desolate and every familiar object a pang and every sound -will make you start as though the dear one were at hand and about -to enter, and whatever your gaze rests on bristles with bitter-sweet -memories. I knelt beside Mrs. Lee; the old servant stood in the doorway -crying and looking at her mistress, but not offering to say a word of -comfort--perhaps because of a little natural feeling of jealousy, for -I cannot be certain that Mrs. Lee had made any reference to me in her -letter, beyond saying that she was bringing a friend home with her. The -poor old woman in the doorway might suppose, from my familiar manner -of kneeling and speaking to Mrs. Lee and holding her hand and soothing -her, that her mistress had adopted me as a daughter in the place of -Alice. - -The room that Alice had occupied was to be mine. The old housekeeper, -whose name was Sarah, conducted me to it at the request of Mrs. Lee, -and left me to return to her mistress, who would now explain all about -me and win the old thing’s sympathy for me. - -I stood in the room that had been Alice Lee’s and looked around. It -was sacred ground to me--consecrated by love, death, and memory. Often -had she spoken of this little room, of the view from the window, of -the weeks during which she would lie ill in yonder bed, and she seemed -to stand before me as I gazed; I saw her sweet, pale, wasted face, her -gentle, touching, prayerful eyes, and the last smile she had given -me--a smile that had lain like God’s glory upon her countenance as -she put her hand into her mother’s and turned her face to the ship’s -side. Often to amuse me she had, girl-like, spoken of her little -possessions, and many of them I now saw and remembered as though I -had seen them before. There was a little white marble cross; there -was her Bible, lying at the foot of the steps of the cross; there -were pencil-sketches and water-colours by her own hand, all dealing -with subjects which showed that her heart was for ever with her God. -Many more trifles of decoration could I name, such things as a sweet -young soul, a tender girl, would love to collect and cherish as -embellishments for her bedroom. - -I stepped to the window, that stood wide open, and I looked forth. -The prospect was a fair English scene, clothed just now with summer -evening beauty. For Jesmond, where Mrs. Lee’s house was situated, is -universally considered the prettiest part of the neighbourhood of -Newcastle-on-Tyne. The effect largely lies in contrast; for you come -out of Newcastle, whose atmosphere is tinged with smoke and often -poisonous with the fumes of the chemical works--you come from that -great noisy town, or city as it now is, with its hard stony streets -over which every vehicle roars, with its crowds upon the pavements, -its horned cattle newly arrived from some Scandinavian port and -thrashed bellowing through the throng, its tumult of newspaper urchins, -its distracting cry of hawkers, its dark tide of Tyne smearing as -though the mud of the banks through which it flows were tar--from all -this you come into a country of gentle and sometimes of romantic beauty -when you arrive at Jesmond, whose Dene, as it is called, lives in the -memory of those who view it as one of the sweetest pictures that our -garden-land of England has to offer. - -For some days we lived very retired. Nobody appeared to know that Mrs. -Lee had returned, and this she had provided for by bidding the old -housekeeper Sarah and the other servants hold their peace. She desired -time to battle with the deep grief which visited her with the sight of -the home in which she was now to live childless as she had before lived -a widow; and when at last we made an excursion our first walk was to -Jesmond cemetery, there to view the grave of Alice’s twin sister. - -The mother wept as she looked upon the grave. It had been carefully -tended during her absence; it was rich with flowers, and the cross -at the head of it was as white as the foam of the sea, and the gilt -letters upon it burned in the sun. The mother wept, for her thoughts -were with that other blessed child whose grave was the mighty deep. - -‘Oh,’ she cried to me, ‘if I could but have laid my darling by the side -of her sister here!’ - -As we returned home from this visit to the cemetery Mrs. Lee met the -wife of the clergyman of the parish church, and after that there were -many callers--for it seemed that the Lees had lived for the greater -part of their lives at Newcastle-upon-Tyne and had a number of friends -in the district. But she denied herself to most of the visitors; she -received but a few and they had been Alice’s most valued friends. - -Five days had not passed since our arrival at Newcastle when the -postman brought a newspaper addressed to Mrs. Lee. The wrapper was -initialled ‘F. L.,’ and when she opened the paper her eye lighted upon -a paragraph with a cross of red ink against it, under which were the -initials ‘F. L.,’ so we might be sure that this newspaper had been sent -to us by Captain Frederick Ladmore. The newspaper was the _Shipping and -Mercantile Gazette_, and the paragraph indicated by the red mark was -buried in a half column of shipping intelligence. It ran thus:-- - -‘The ship _Deal Castle_, Ladmore, arrived in the Thames on ----. Her -master reports that on such and such a date, when in latitude -- N. -and longitude -- W., she was in collision with the French brig _Notre -Dame de Boulogne_. The night was dark and squally, and a moderate sea -was running. The _Deal Castle_ hove to within a mile of the vessel she -had run into and for some time continued to burn flares and to send up -rockets. At daybreak the French brig was found to be still afloat, and -a boat was sent in charge of the third officer of the _Deal Castle_, -who discovered that all hands of the Frenchman had left the brig, -leaving behind them a woman who was imprisoned in her berth owing to -a cask having been dislodged and rolled against the door. When this -woman was brought aboard the _Deal Castle_ she was found to be without -memory, and could give no further account of herself than saying that -she had been fallen in with by the French brig, in an insensible -condition, drifting about in a boat. It is supposed that she is the -survivor of a wreck. She was landed in London, and those interested may -obtain her present address on application to Messrs ----, etc.’ - -Mrs. Lee read this paragraph aloud, and when she had ended it she -said:-- - -‘I fear this will not help us, Agnes.’ - -‘Yet what more could be said?’ I asked. ‘It is the whole story so far -as Captain Ladmore--so far as any of us could relate it.’ - -‘Oh, but there is more to be said,’ she exclaimed: ‘the newspaper -notices of your rescue should contain conjectures as to how it happened -that you were drifting about in an open boat. And a description of you -should be given--a description of those points, I mean, which could not -be changed, such as your height, complexion, colour of eyes, and so -forth.’ - -She rose and paced about the room; then, stopping and gazing at me -earnestly, with a look which reminded me of Alice, she said, ‘I am -acquainted with a gentleman who is connected with the Newcastle -press. His name is Francis Roddam. He was formerly a clerk in my -poor husband’s office. I will write to him and ask him to sup with us -to-morrow evening. He will be able to put together such a newspaper -notice as is sure to attract attention; he will also advise us how -best to place it. Indeed, I dare say he will himself send it to the -newspapers. As to writing to the London police, as Captain Ladmore -suggested’--she shook her head and added, ‘I fear they will not trouble -themselves. Had you been the victim of a crime--but even supposing -a representative of the police should call upon you, what can you -say that will enable him to help you better than we are able to help -ourselves?’ - -She wrote to Mr. Roddam, and on the following evening he arrived to -supper, and spent a couple of hours in discourse with us. He was a -slow-minded but shrewd man, whose light-blue eyes seemed to bore deep -into me as they pierced the spectacles he wore. He listened with -the interest of a born journalist to my story, and, remarkable as he -doubtless found it, I believe he thought it mainly so because of the -opportunity it offered him of making stories and newspaper paragraphs -out of it. - -He questioned me with great sagacity. Never since the hour of my -rescue from the French vessel had my dead or slumbering memory been -so critically ‘overhauled.’ To express my sensations by a material -image: some of his inquiries flashed with the dazzle of the lightning -brand upon the closed doors of a temple or sanctuary; but the midnight -darkness within remained impenetrable. Sometimes I seemed to recollect; -but when with a trembling heart and a white face, believing at such -moments that my memory was astir--when, I say, I endeavoured to -_realise_, I found that what I imagined to be recollection was no more -than the effect of fancy acting upon what Mr. Roddam had, by his own -inquiries and suggestions, put into my head. - -However, he took many notes, and told me he would send my story to -several newspapers for which he acted as correspondent, one of them -being a London daily paper and another a widely read influential -journal published in Liverpool. - -‘The paragraph,’ he said, ‘will run the whole round of the British -press, and, to ensure your hearing of your friends, should the -paragraph meet their eye and lead to their inquiring after you, I will -take care to give the address of the owners of the _Deal Castle_.’ - -He was as good as his word, and in a day or two called upon us with a -printed slip of the paragraph he had written and proposed to send. It -was something more than a paragraph; it ran to the length of a short -story, was very well written, and bore a title of a sort to catch the -eye of the most indolent reader. In it he introduced the conjectures -which Mrs. Lee considered needful, since one of them alone might serve -to clear up the mystery of my identity. He put it that it was supposed -either that I had formed one of a yachting party; or that I had been -blown away from a French port whilst making an excursion in a small -boat; or that I was the sole survivor of a shipwreck, the particulars -of which might never be known unless my memory returned to me; or that -I had been the victim of some great outrage at the hands of the captain -or crew of the _Notre Dame de Boulogne_, the effects of which had lost -me my memory and turned my hair white. - -This last was a guess of his own, and he insisted upon including it, -though I pointed out to him that I had met with the humanest treatment -it is possible to imagine on board the French vessel, and that there -could be no doubt whatever that the young man Alphonse’s story of my -being found drifting about in an open boat was absolutely true. - -‘Ay, that may be,’ he exclaimed with a knowing look at Mrs. Lee; ‘but I -fully agree with those of your fellow-passengers who hold that _before_ -your disaster, whatever it may have been, you wore jewellery, and that -your being found without rings, without a watch, with nothing of value -upon you saving a few shillings in a purse, signifies robbery and more -than robbery.’ - -But to end this. The paragraph was published. I read it in the -_Newcastle Chronicle_ and in five other journals sent to us by Mr. -Roddam, who assured me that it had been reprinted in a hundred -different directions; but nothing came of it--that is to say, nothing -in any way material. About twenty letters reached me through the -owners of the _Deal Castle_; but they contained nothing but idle -inquiries; a few of them were impertinently curious, and the contents -of them all were wretchedly purposeless. One was from a quack who -offered to recover my memory for a certain sum; three were from people -who desired to write an account of my adventures; another was evidently -from a poor lunatic, who, writing as a mother, said that her daughter -had perished by shipwreck twenty years before, and that she expected I -was her child who had been restored to life by her prayers. She asked -me for my private address that she might visit me. - -How can I express the passionate eagerness with which I awaited the -arrival of the post, the recurring little pangs of disappointment as -the man would go by time after time without knocking, the torment of -hope with which I would tear open an envelope when a letter reached -me at last, the cold despair that took possession of me when the weeks -rolled by yielding me nothing! - -‘It must be, Agnes, as I have all along thought,’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee, -‘your home is not in England, and you have no friends in this country. -But let us be patient, my dear. Mr. Roddam’s paragraph will find its -way to the Colonies, to India, to distant countries, and when _that_ -has happened, any day may bring glad tidings to you. But you must wait, -and meanwhile you must make yourself as happy as you can with your poor -bereaved friend.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -MEMORY - - -The days rolled into weeks and the weeks into months, and still my -memory remained clothed as with midnight. No whisper broke its silence. -I recollected with almost phenomenal accuracy everything that had -befallen me since my rescue; but all that had gone before was darkness, -hushed and impenetrable. I cannot remember that I was visited by the -dimmest intimation--that the dullest gleam, however instantaneous, -touched my inward gloom. - -My story and condition created great interest in Newcastle; for a time -I was much talked about. Mrs. Lee had friends who were concerned in -the shipping trade, and two or three of them good-naturedly wrote -to correspondents at various parts of our coast, and to agents and -representatives abroad; but it was all one. Nobody gave information -that was in the slightest degree useful. A gentleman at Havre wrote -that he met with a sailor who had formed one of the crew of _Notre Dame -de Boulogne_, but the man could not tell so much of what happened after -the collision as I, because, when the _Notre Dame_ was struck, they -launched and crowded into their only boat, and were swept away in the -blackness of the night, losing sight of the brig, and the ship which -had run into her, and seeing nothing of the flares which the _Deal -Castle_ had burnt and the rockets she had sent up. They were rescued -next morning by a Spanish schooner, bound to the Mediterranean, and -safely landed at Toulon, their original destination, but with the loss -of all they possessed in the world. It was quite true, this man added, -that the _Notre Dame_ had fallen in with an open boat, and rescued a -woman whom they found unconscious, and severely wounded about the head. - -The sailor had no more to tell. - -It rejoiced me, however, to learn that Alphonse and his uncle had been -rescued and were safe. Strange indeed did it seem to hear of them in -such a roundabout way; and yet perhaps it would have been stranger -still had nothing been heard of the fate of the crew of the _Notre Dame -de Boulogne_, considering the paragraphs which had appeared about me, -and the letters which had been written, some of them being despatched -to shippers, consuls, and others, not only in France, but in Spain and -Portugal. - -Mrs. Lee, fixing as well as she could the time of the month in -which I had been drifting about in the open boat, and willing to -suppose--merely to supply me with a further chance--that I had been -blown away from some part of the English coast, set her friends to -inquire if there had been any notice in the newspapers of that date of -a lady who had gone out in a boat and had not returned nor been heard -of. The files of local papers were searched; but, though there were -several accounts of boating accidents, none could be found that at all -fitted my case. A friend of Mrs. Lee, a Mr. Weldon, ‘fancied’ in a -vague sort of way that he had read, probably in a mood of abstraction, -of a lady who had gone out with a boatman from some part of the coast -which he could not recollect, but which he believed was the south-east -coast--it might have been Ramsgate or Folkestone, he could not be -sure--and he had some dim idea that the body of the boatman was -discovered, and the boat afterwards brought in ... he would look the -incident up ... he would endeavour to recollect the name of the paper -in which it was published. But if he gave himself any trouble it was to -no purpose. - - * * * * * - -The time went on; the interest I had excited died out; I heard not a -syllable from the owners of the _Deal Castle_; Mrs. Lee had long since -persuaded herself that, though I was undoubtedly of English parentage, -and perhaps born in England, my home was not in this country, and that -I had no friends in it. And this was now my belief also. My spirits -grew apathetic. I ceased to importune my memory. My past, let it hold -what it would, I regarded as dead as my sweet Alice Lee was--as buried, -mouldering, irrecoverable as her twin sister was. - -Three years passed--three years dating from my rescue by the French -vessel. In all this while I had lived with Mrs. Lee as her companion. -I strove to keep up my heart for her sake, thanking God always for -finding for me so true a friend as she had proved, and praying to Him -always that He would give me back my memory. I know not how to express -my state of mind throughout all these months now running into years. -My intellect was dull, my conversation to strangers insipid. I found -myself constantly at a loss through inability to carry my memory back -past the point where it had vanished; but I read aloud very well, my -tastes corresponded with Mrs. Lee’s; she owned again and again that she -would not have known where to seek for such a companion as she desired -had my strange experiences not brought us together; there was no one -who could have talked about Alice as I did; my presence seemed to give -embodiment to the memory of her child, and in our many lonely rambles -our conversation was nearly wholly made up of our recollections of the -sweet girl’s closing days. - -It chanced one day in October--three years from the time when I was -taken on board the _Deal Castle_--that, having occasion to go into -Newcastle for Mrs. Lee, and finding myself with some leisure on my -hands, I went on to the High Level Bridge to view the scene of the -river and the busy quayside. It was a somewhat cold, grey day. The wind -blew strong, and the rapid ripples of the rushing river broke in white -water upon the dingy banks. Many tall chimneys reared their stacks on -my right, and the smoke breaking from their orifices was again and -again flashed up by a ruddy glare as though the chimneys themselves -were full of living fire. Large steamers lay at the quayside under me; -steam broke from their sides, and there was an artillery-like sound of -rattling engines; scores of figures on the wharves hurried here and -there. And from time to time above my head would sound the thunder of a -train roaring past over the wondrous height of metal ways. - -I was singularly depressed. Never before had I felt so low in spirits. -Heretofore my days had been passed in the coldness of settled grief, at -first in a capricious and now in an habitual acquiescence, charged with -despair, in my lonely, outcast, hopeless lot. But this day misery was -active in me. I might compare myself to a woman who, having for long -rested apathetically in her cell, is stimulated by some wild longing of -misery to rise and grope with extended hands in agony of mind round the -black walls outside which she knows the sun is shining. - -My head ached, but the ache was a novel pain; it was a dull sick throb, -a thick and dizzy pulse, not in my brows, but on the top of my head, -in the middle of it. It was as though I had been stabbed there and -the wound ached. I stood upon the bridge, perhaps for twenty minutes, -gazing down at the sight of the vessels moored at the wharves, or -passing in mid-stream below me; and then, hearing the clock of the -church of St. Nicholas strike, I quitted the bridge and walked in the -direction of Jesmond. - -It was a considerable walk--I had measured the distance both ways; and -when Mrs. Lee asked me if I felt ill, and I answered my head pained -me, she accounted for my headache and for my pallor by my having -over-fatigued myself. This I knew was not the case, for I had awakened -in the morning with a pain in my head, but it was not nearly as bad -then as it was now. - -We passed the evening in the usual way. I read to Mrs. Lee, then she -dozed a while, and I picked up some work that I was upon, but could do -nothing with it, for my head ached so badly that my sight was confused -by the pain, and I could not see to thread a needle. Supper was ready -at nine o’clock, but I could not eat. Mrs. Lee felt my pulse and placed -her hand upon my brow. - -‘Your head is cool,’ said she, ‘and your heart’s action regular. -Evidently you have overwalked yourself to-day. You had better go to -bed and get a good night’s rest. But first take this little glass of -brandy and water. There is no better remedy for a nervous headache than -brandy, such a liqueur brandy as this.’ - -I kissed and bade her good night and went to my bedroom. The grey day -had been followed by a clear dusk. There was a high, bright moon. It -poured a silver haze upon the farther land, and the nearer land it -whitened as with sifted snow, giving a silver edge to every leaf and -branch, and painting the shapes of the trees and bushes in indigo at -their feet. I stood at the open window for a minute or two, believing -that the cool of the night would ease the pain in my head; but the air -was chilly, it was the month of October, and, closing the window, I -undressed. - -I extinguished the candle and got into bed leaving the window blind -up. The moon shot a slanting beam through the window, and the light -flooded the white cross which had belonged to Alice Lee and her Bible -that rested as she had left it at the foot of the white cross. The -haze of this beam of moonlight was in the room, and I could see every -object with a certain distinctness. The eye will naturally seek the -brightest object, and my sight rested upon the cross that sparkled in -the moonlight as though it had been dipped in phosphorus. The cold, -soft pillow, and the restful posture of my head had somewhat eased the -pain. My mind grew collected, and whilst my eyes rested upon the cross -my memory gave me back the form and face of Alice Lee. - -I thought of her as I had first seen her, when her sweet, lovely but -wasted face was angelic with the sympathy with which she viewed me. -I recalled her as I beheld her when she lay dying, when the light of -heaven was in the smile she gave me, when the peace of God was in -her eyes as she gazed at her mother ere she turned her face to the -ship’s side. I recalled her natural, girlish fear of the great ocean -as a grave; I saw her as she lay in her white shroud; I looked at the -moonlit cross and thought how that same moon which was illumining the -symbol of her faith and the sure rock of her hopes was shining over her -ocean grave---- - -My eyes closed and I slumbered. And in my sleep I dreamt this dream. - -I dreamt that I stood at the open window of a room whose furniture -was perfectly familiar to me. Without seeming to look I yet saw -all things; the pictures, the case of books, the ornaments on the -mantelpiece; and everything was familiar to me. Before me stretched a -garden sloping some considerable distance down. Beyond this garden were -green pastures, at the foot of which ran a river, and on the opposite -hillside rows of houses appeared to hang in clusters. The hour was -drawing on into the evening and the sun was sinking, and through the -long shadows which lay in the valley the river ran in gold. - -While I gazed I beheld walking in the garden that sloped from the -window at which I stood, two figures; their backs were upon me, they -walked hand in hand, but though their steps gathered the ground their -figures did not appear to recede. On a sudden they halted, the man -turned and looked at me intently; it was my husband! I knew him, I -stretched out my arms to him, I cried aloud to him to come and take me -to his heart; but whether any sound escaped me in my sleep I do not -know. He continued to gaze fixedly at me, then putting his hand upon -the shoulder of his companion he pointed towards me. She, too, then -turned and looked, and I knew her to be my twin sister Mary. Again I -stretched forth my arms--I desperately struggled to approach them, but -my feet seemed nailed to the floor. The vision of my husband and my -sister, the familiar room in which I stood, the scene of gardens and -orchard and river and clustering houses dissolved, and I know that -I wept in my sleep and that I passionately prayed for the vision to -return that I might behold it all again. - -But now came a change which hushed with awe and new emotions the -heart--cries and the spirit--yearnings of my slumber. I beheld a -strange light. It grew in brightness, and in the midst of it I -witnessed the marble cross of Alice Lee, resplendent as though wrought -of the brilliant moonlight which had been resting upon it when my -eyes closed in sleep. This cross flamed upon the vision of my slumber -for a while, and there was nothing more to be seen; then it faded and -I beheld the figure of Alice Lee where the cross had been. She was -robed in white. With her right arm she carried an infant, and with her -left hand she held a little boy. Oh, that vision was like a glorious -painting, ineffably bright and beautiful and vivid. The face of Alice -Lee was no longer wasted; it was not such a face as would come from the -grave to visit the bedside of a slumberer; it was a face fresh from -heaven, and with the radiance of heaven upon it, and her whole figure -was clothed with celestial light and the glory of heaven shone in the -beauty of her countenance. - -I shrieked!--for the children she held, the one on her arm, the other -by the hand, were _mine_! Again I stretched forth my hands and my two -little ones smiled upon me. Then instantly all was blackness and I -awoke. - -The room was in darkness. The moon had sailed to the other side of -the house, and the shadow of the night lay heavy upon the unblinded -window. My heart beat as though I was in a raging fever, and I could -not understand the reason of that maddening pulse, nor of the dreadful -consternation that was upon me, nor why when I put my hand to my brow -I should find it streaming with perspiration, nor why I should have -awakened trembling from head to foot; because it is true that often the -most vivid, the most terrific dream will not recur to the memory for -some time after the dreamer has awakened. - -But presently I remembered. I beheld with my waking sense the whole -vision afresh, and I said to myself, even as I lay trembling from -head to foot, and even as my brains seemed thickened with bewilderment -that was like madness itself--I said to myself, speaking aloud in -the darkness, but calmly and with a gentle voice: ‘My name is Agnes -Campbell. I have seen my husband John, I have seen my sister Mary, and -my two little ones have come to me in my sleep. I remember that we took -a house at Piertown--I remember that I went out sailing in a boat--I -remember that the man who had charge of the boat fell into the water -and was drowned. I remember---- I remember----’ - -And _now_ the full realisation that my memory had returned to me swept -into my soul. I sat up in my bed and gasped for breath. I believed -I was dying, and that my memory had revisited me, sharp and vivid, -in the last moments of my life. But the overwhelming emotions which -possessed me mastered the hysteric condition, and leaping from my -bed I cast myself down upon my knees. But I could not pray. My tongue -was powerless to shape thoughts of appeal and impulses of thanks into -words. I arose from my knees, lighted the candle, and began to pace the -room. - -Then all at once I was seized with a terrible fear: suppose my memory -should forsake me again, even in the next minute! Suppose all that I -could recollect of the vision I had beheld should in an instant perish -off my mind, and leave me inwardly as blind as I had been during the -past three years! I felt in the pocket of my dress that was hanging -against the door and found a pencil; but not knowing where to lay my -hand upon a piece of paper, unless I sought for it downstairs, and -urged by a very passion of hurry lest my memory should in a moment -fail me, I took Alice Lee’s Bible, carried it to the candle, and upon -the fly-leaf wrote my name and the names of my husband and my sister -and the children, also my address at Bath, together with the story, -briefly related, of my husband leaving Piertown for a couple or three -days, of my going out in a boat with a man named William Hitchens, of -my pulling off my rings, amongst them my wedding-ring, that I might row -without being inconvenienced by the pressure of them, of their being -cast overboard by the hoisting of the sail, of William Hitchens’ sudden -death by heart-disease or drowning, and of the horrible days and nights -of misery, despair, madness, and unconsciousness which followed. - -The mere writing of all this steadied my mind. I kissed the sacred Book -when I had ended, gazed upwards with adoration, as though the sweet -saint who had come to me with my children and restored my memory were -gazing down upon me, and then I began to pace the room again, thinking -and thinking, but no longer struggling with memory: for all was clear, -all had wonderfully, by a miracle of God’s own working through the -intercession of one of the sweetest of his angels, come back to me; and -_then_ my heart was filled with an impassioned yearning to be with my -dear ones again, to return to them _immediately_, to write _now_, at -this very instant, and tell them that I was alive, sending kisses and -my heart’s love to my husband and sister, and kisses and blessings to -my two little ones. - -But _then_, too, arose the thought that it was three years since I had -been torn away from them. Three years! How much may happen in three -years! My little Johnny would now be five years old, my little baby -Mary would be three years and eight months old! I clasped my hands, and -paused in my walk and wondered. - -What might not have happened in three years? Was my husband well--was -my dear sister Mary living--were my children----? Oh, if you who are -reading this are a mother and a wife, as you muse upon my situation at -this time, your own heart will be telling more to you about me than -ever I could convey of my own conflicts of mind, though I wrote with -the most eloquent pen the world has ever known. - -Whilst I paced the room the door was softly knocked upon, and Mrs. -Lee’s voice exclaimed: - -‘Are not you well, Agnes? Is your head still bad? I have heard you -pacing the room for hours.’ - -‘My head is better,’ I answered, for, being taken unawares, I knew not -what to say, and wished to think out the thoughts which besieged me -before communicating my dream to her. - -She was silent, as though in alarm, and cried nervously, ‘Who answered -me? Is that you, Agnes?’ - -On this I opened the door. She was clothed in a dressing-gown, and -recoiled a step on my opening the door, and, after peering for a few -moments, she exclaimed, ‘I did not recognise your voice.’ - -‘I have had a wonderful dream,’ I said. - -She took me by the hand, turned me to the light, looked in my face, and -shrieked, ‘Child, you have your memory!’ - -‘Yes, it has all come back to me!’ I exclaimed, and casting my arms -round her neck I bent my head upon her shoulder and broke into an -uncontrollable fit of weeping that lasted I know not how long, for as -often as I sought to lift my head I wept afresh. - -At length I grew somewhat composed, and then Mrs. Lee exclaimed: ‘It -is five o’clock. I will dress myself, and return and hear what you -have to tell me. Meanwhile, do you dress yourself. Day will be breaking -shortly. Strange!’ she said. ‘I seemed to hear in your footsteps -what was passing in your mind, and felt that something wonderful was -happening to you.’ - -She left me, and I made haste to dress myself. My trembling hands -worked mechanically; my mind was distracted; so extreme was the -agitation of my spirits, that anyone secretly viewing me must have -supposed me mad to see how I would start and then pause, then laugh, -then fling down whatever I might be holding that I might bury my -face in my hands and rock myself, then laugh again and take a number -of turns about the room with delirious steps, as though I were some -fever-maddened patient who had sprung from her bed in the absence of -her attendant. - -Before I had completely attired myself Mrs. Lee entered the room. I -could see by her countenance she had composed her mind that she might -receive with as little emotion as possible whatever I had to tell her. -She lighted another candle, viewed me for a moment, and then said, -‘Now, Agnes, be calm. Sit down and tell me of your dream, and what you -can recollect of yourself.’ - -‘Let me hold your hand, dear friend,’ said I, ‘whilst I sit and tell -you what has happened to me. The pressure of your hand will keep me -calm,’ and, sitting at her side and holding her hand, I related my -dream to her. - -She endeavoured to listen tranquilly, but an expression of awe grew in -her face as I proceeded, and when I described how I beheld her sainted -daughter Alice robed in white, with my baby girl on one arm and holding -my little boy by the hand, the three clothed in a mystical light, an -expression of rapturous joy entered her face. She dropped my hand to -raise hers on high, and lifting up her eyes, cried out, ‘Oh, my Alice! -my Alice! Though I know now that you are in heaven, yet also do I feel, -my blessed one, that you are near us. Oh, come to me with my beloved -Edith, that I may behold you both, and know that you are happy and -awaiting me!----’ - -We sat eagerly and earnestly talking; for now all the mysteries of my -past could be solved. Why it was that I was without a wedding-ring, how -it came about that I was drifting in the wide ocean in a little open -boat, why it was that I had been moved by indescribable, dark, subtle -emotions when I heard a baby cry, and when the gipsy told me that I was -a married woman, and with preternatural effort of guessing informed me -that I had left a husband and two children behind me: these things and -how much more were now to be explained. - -‘And your name is Agnes--your true name is Agnes?--and my darling in -heaven gave you that name!’ cried Mrs. Lee. - -‘Yes,’ said I, ‘and she was one of twins, and I am one of twins, -and who will say that there was not a magnetism in that to draw us -together?’ - -I turned my head and found the dawn had broken. The heavens were -flooded with a delicate pale green, against which the trees stood -black, as though sketched in ink. But even as I gazed the pink and -silver haze of the rising sun smote the green and swept it like a veil -off the face of the tender dewy blue of the early autumn morn. - -‘Oh, thank God, the day has come!’ said I. ‘I will go presently, before -breakfast, to the railway station, and find out at what hour I can -reach Bath.’ - -‘To-day?’ cried Mrs. Lee. - -‘To-day,’ I echoed. - -‘You will not go to Bath to-day with my consent, Agnes,’ said Mrs. -Lee; ‘and I will tell you why. You have been absent from your home -for three years. What may have happened in that time? How do you know -that your husband and children are still living at Bath? It is a long -journey from Newcastle to Bath, and when you arrive there you may find -that your husband has broken up his home and gone away, no one might be -able to tell you where, for you must consider as beyond all question -that your husband and sister have long ago supposed you dead. They may -have left England for all you know. How can you tell but that they may -be residing abroad? The newspaper paragraphs stating your case were -very plentifully published: _that_ you know; and that they provoked no -attention, signifies to my mind that your husband and family are either -abroad, or that----’ She paused. - -‘What?’ I cried. - -‘Ah, you may well ask what!’ she exclaimed. ‘It is three years ago, -remember, since you left your husband, and he has never received a -syllable of news about you since. Suppose him to be still living -at Bath with your sister and children: would not your going to the -house be too fearful a trial for you, and too frightful a shock for -them?--why, it is by suddenness of joy, by shocks of emotion of this -sort that hearts are broken. You must not dream of going to Bath -to-day, Agnes.’ - -‘It is not likely that John has left Bath,’ said I, ‘he is in practice -there as a solicitor. He will not have broken up his home; I am sure of -that.’ - -‘You must have patience. I will write cautiously and make inquiries. Of -course you know many people in Bath?’ - -‘I have several friends there.’ - -‘Give me the name of a lady or gentleman to whom I may cautiously -write.’ - -I reflected, but I could not recollect a name, and then I grew -terrified, and feared that my memory was deserting me again. - -‘Oh, Mrs. Lee,’ I cried, ‘I cannot remember a name. And yet I can see -the people I have in my mind, in fancy. Oh, if my memory should be -again deserting me!’ - -‘It will not matter,’ she exclaimed, with one of her gentle, reassuring -smiles, ‘everything is known to me now, and, besides, are not all -things material written there?’ motioning with her head towards Alice’s -Bible which I had shown her, and in which she had read the particulars -I had written down on the fly-leaves. - -‘I have a name!’ I cried, with sudden elation: ‘General Ramsay--General -William Stirling Ramsay,’ and my being able to recollect and pronounce -this name in its entirety was as refreshing and comforting to me as is -the inspiration of a deep and easy breath to one whose breathing has -been a labour. - -Mrs. Lee asked me several questions about General Ramsay; how long my -husband and I had been acquainted with him; if he was a good-hearted -man, likely to give himself the trouble to answer a letter; ‘because,’ -said she, ‘my impatience is nearly as great as yours, and I shall want -an answer by return of post.’ She then wrote down his name and the name -of the street in which he lived; but I again felt frightened when I -found that I could not recollect the number of his house. - -Wild as I was at heart to hurry off to Bath to clasp my dear ones to -my heart, to fill them with the exquisite gladness of possessing me -again, I was able, after some feverish thinking and pacing about the -room, to perceive the wisdom of Mrs. Lee’s counsel. So, the sun being -now high and the morning advanced, for by this time it was about -half-past seven o’clock, my dear friend and I went downstairs together, -and, opening her desk, Mrs. Lee sat down and wrote a letter to General -Ramsay. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -GENERAL RAMSAY’S LETTER. - - -Three days must now certainly pass before I could receive news of my -husband, sister, and children. I call the time three days, but I might -have to wait very much longer than that, for how could I tell that -General Ramsay still lived at Bath? And, supposing him to be living -there, could I be sure that he would promptly answer Mrs. Lee’s letter? -So that, if we did not hear from him presently, Mrs. Lee must apply to -some others of the friends I had named to her. This I was resolved not -to consent to. Expectation, uncertainty, the passionate yearning of the -mother and wife worked in my mind in a torment that delay would render -insupportable, and I made up my mind that if General Ramsay did not -answer Mrs. Lee’s letter within four days of the time of her writing to -him I would deafen my ears to every possible objection that Mrs. Lee -might make, and go myself to Bath. - -I was too agitated, too expectant to leave the house. I wandered -from room to room. I could not sit for five minutes at a time. The -marvellous recovery of my memory, all in a moment as it might seem, did -undoubtedly make me light headed during that first day, and Mrs. Lee -would often eye me anxiously. I could think of nothing but my husband -and children and my sister. Were they well? Suppose one of my precious -ones had died during the long three years I had been missing! Suppose -my husband were dead! Suppose they had broken up their home at Bath and -had gone away, as Mrs. Lee had suggested, and there should be no one to -tell me where they had gone, so that it might end in my knowing myself -to be a wife and mother and not knowing where to find my husband and -children! - -These and the like of these were maddening fancies, and they kept me -restlessly moving here and there, as though I had lost my reason and -Mrs. Lee’s house were a cell. - -A certain physician, a person who was highly esteemed by the people of -Newcastle for his skill, called on the afternoon of this first day on -his way back to Newcastle after visiting a patient, to inquire after -Mrs. Lee’s health, her husband and this physician having been boys -together. He knew all about my case, and had frequently visited me -in a friendly way, but with a professional motive, owning himself at -last powerless to do me any good. I did not know that he had called -and that he was talking in the parlour to Mrs. Lee when I entered that -room, and I was hastily withdrawing when, calling to me, he took me -by the hand and in a few words, pronounced with the utmost cordiality, -congratulated me on the return of my memory. Mrs. Lee begged me to sit -and I did so, and then some discourse followed on the subject of my -memory. But the physician’s language was much too technical and learned -for me to recollect, even if I chose to repeat it. I remember, however, -he told us that these abrupt recoveries were more frequent than slow -returns. He cited instances of three persons whose memory, having -utterly failed them, had returned on a sudden. The only difference -between them and me was that I had been able to recollect from the -period of my recovery on board the French vessel, whereas _they_ had -been unable to recall events which had happened an hour before. The -physician talked much of brain cells and of the nervous system, and was -so deeply interested in my case and in his own views and arguments -that he kept his carriage at our door for above an hour. I was glad -when he went, for his observations upon brain cells and the nervous -system made me feel faint, and the condition of my mind rendered -listening and sitting for any length of time insupportable. - -I pass by the remainder of that day, I pass by the sleepless night -that followed, and I pass by the next two days and their long wakeful -nights. On the morning of the fourth day I arose early and stationed -myself at the window, and for an hour and a half I stood with my eyes -fixed upon the garden-gate, waiting for the arrival of the postman. At -last I caught sight of him as he put his hand through the bars to lift -the latch, and I flew to the hall door and received a letter addressed -to Mrs. Lee, heavily sealed, and with the postmark of Bath upon it. - -Mrs. Lee had not yet left her bedroom. The beating of my heart almost -deprived me of the power of speech. I knocked, and on her asking who -was that, I was unable to make my voice heard, whereupon she opened -the door. She took the letter from me, told me to come in and shut the -door, and going to the window broke the seal and withdrew the letter -from its envelope. Her back was upon me--purposely upon me, I was sure. -She read the letter, and I could have shrieked aloud with impatience -and vexation. She read the letter--I believed she would never cease to -read it; then the hand which grasped it fell slowly to her side, and -she turned to look at me with a face full of the deepest pity and grief. - -I saw the look and, clasping my hands, cried, ‘Oh, tell me!’ There was -a hesitation which was a sort of horror in her manner. She did not seem -to know what to do, nor would she speak. I could bear the suspense no -longer, and, rushing to her side, I snatched the letter from her hand. - -It ran thus:-- - - ‘Raby Place, Bath, October --, 18--. - - ‘DEAR MADAM, - - ‘I am in receipt of your letter, the contents of which I read with - interest. It may be known to you that Mrs. John Campbell with her - family, composed of her husband, sister, and two children, took a - house about three years ago at the seaside. Mrs. Campbell, during - her husband’s absence on business at this city, went on a boating - excursion, her sole companion being the boatman. She did not - return. The weather grew boisterous, and although one or two boats - were sent out in search they returned after a few hours, the men - professing themselves unable to keep the sea. Ten days after Mrs. - Campbell had been missing, the body of a man was brought ashore and - recognised as that of the sailor who had accompanied Mrs. Campbell. - A little later the boat was fallen in with; she was drifting about - upside down. She was towed to the harbour to which she belonged. - - ‘These particulars I give you from memory. Mr. John Campbell - caused many inquiries to be made, but no news of his wife was ever - received. She was undoubtedly drowned. I have been absent from Bath - for some time, and since my return have been confined to my house - with the gout. I am able to state, however, that Mr. John Campbell, - his wife, and two children are in good health. About four months - ago he shut up his house and the family went to London. I believe - Mr. Campbell left Bath for no other purpose than to marry his - sister-in-law. The marriage was advertised in a Bath paper, but I - am unable to refer you to it. He returned with her as his wife, and - I hear from my daughter that they are living at their old address. - This, madam, is all that it is in my power to communicate. - - ‘Faithfully yours, - ‘W. STIRLING RAMSAY, - ‘_Major-General_.’ - -I read this letter through, and as I approached the end of it I felt my -heart turning into stone. There was something petrific in the horror, -the consternation, the despair which rushed into me out of that letter. -The hand with which I grasped it sank to my side even as Mrs. Lee’s -had, and I looked at my friend though I knew not that I saw her. I -felt as though some one had circled my breast with a rope which was -being tightened and yet tightened into one of agony of constriction. My -throat swelled, my breath came and went through it in a dull moaning, -my head seemed formed of fire, my hands and feet of ice. I may guess -now by the expression Mrs. Lee’s countenance reflected as she suddenly -hurried to me, believing that I was about to fall, perhaps expire, that -there was something shocking in my looks. - -I raised the letter again, dashed it from me, flung myself upon Mrs. -Lee’s bed with a long cry, and lay moaning and moaning in the hands -with which I had covered my face. Then I started up. - -‘I must have my children!’ I shrieked. ‘They are mine! They cannot -keep them from me! They are my own flesh and blood! They are mine!’ I -shrieked again. - -‘You shall have them, my love!’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee in a broken, -tremulous voice. ‘They are yours--they cannot keep them from you. They -shall come here and live with us, and they shall have my love as well -as yours.’ - -‘Married!’ I muttered. ‘Married! Married!’ I muttered, mumbling my -words huskily--so dry were my lips, so tight was my throat--and looking -at the letter which lay upon the floor. ‘My husband married to Mary! -Oh, my God,’ I cried, flinging back my head and beating my brow with my -fist, ‘what is this new thing that has come to me?’ - -Mrs. Lee stood silent. What could she say? There were no words of -comfort to utter at such a moment. Misery must be suffered to have its -way with me, and she could do nothing but stand and gaze and wait. - -What I have set down I very well remember saying, but afterwards a -sort of delirium fastened upon me, and I recollect but fragments of -my dazed, broken-hearted speech. I remember lifting up my hands and -calling upon God to slay me as I there stood. I remember cursing the -moment that gave me back my memory since it was to yield me _this_. I -remember exclaiming with passionate abhorrence against my husband’s -infidelity to my memory, against my sister Mary’s--my twin sister -Mary’s--cold, cruel, treacherous, disloyal appropriation of my place -in my husband’s heart. I wandered about the room with the steps of -madness, loud with lamentation, loud with abuse of my husband and -sister, vengefully, with infuriate gestures, crying that I must have -my children! They were mine! I must have my children. They were my own -flesh and blood! They dared not keep them from me! pausing sometimes to -say ‘they have driven me mad!’ and then raving afresh, but always with -dry eyes, whilst poor Mrs. Lee stood apart, gazing at me with silent -distress and dismay. - -Then in one of my transports I stood and picked up the letter and read -it again, breathing fast, as though I had been racing, and when I -had come to the end of it for the second time the horrible tightness -in my throat was relaxed, as though a cord which had been choking me -had suddenly broken, and, once again flinging myself upon the bed, I -wept--crying as never had I cried before, often as my griefs had vented -themselves in passions of weeping! - -Human sorrow may be compared to a river that, when it first springs, -flows over a shallow bed with froth and noise, but presently the -channel deepens, and then the river flows silently. As my grief flowed, -it deepened; it grew hushed. I arose from Mrs. Lee’s bed, and sat upon -the edge of it with my eyes fixed upon the floor. The dear little woman -finished dressing in silence. She then took me by the hand, and we -went downstairs into the parlour where breakfast awaited us. - -‘Now, Agnes,’ she exclaimed, ‘before we decide upon what steps you are -to take we must first make sure that General Ramsay’s information is -correct.’ - -‘Oh, I feel within my heart it is correct,’ said I; ‘Mary is a -beautiful girl; my husband always admired her. Oh, yes, they are -married,’ and I wept silently. - -‘I should wish to be quite satisfied as to that,’ said Mrs. Lee. ‘I -wish General Ramsay had given us the date of their marriage. However, -after breakfast I will write to the offices of the Bath newspapers--you -will be able to give me their names--and offer a reasonable price for a -copy of any paper which may contain an announcement of the marriage.’ - -‘I must have my children!’ I cried. - -‘Yes, yes, all shall happen as you wish. But God has been good to you. -Continue to have faith in His goodness. Do not act hastily, do not let -your feelings govern you; for, unless we reflect, we are certain to act -rashly. Something we might do which would make you feel broken-hearted -for life for having done. Remember this: _you are still your husband’s -wife_. It is your sister who must be the sufferer--not you. She is -your twin sister. Be sure that your love for her is deep, though for -the moment the startling, dreadful news which we have received renders -you insensible of that love. And you must be just, Agnes. It is hard -for one who feels as you now do to be just, and still the truth must -be as a star that nothing is to cloud, that you may be able to direct -your steps unerringly by it. It is three years since your sister and -husband have heard of you. They believe you dead. Who would not believe -you dead on such evidence as General Ramsay’s letter contains? The -body of the boatman who was known to be your sole companion is found, -is brought to land, and identified. The boat in which you set sail is -discovered drifting about upside down. Surely your husband had all -imaginable right to consider himself a widower. He has waited two -years and seven or eight months. Do not imagine that I justify his -second marriage. It is not a right marriage. Indeed, it is not lawful. -A man may not marry his deceased wife’s sister. But these unions are -repeatedly happening for all that, and I for one do not oppose them -for the reasons which are advanced against them, but merely because I -object to second marriages altogether. But remember that you have two -little ones. They need a mother’s care. Your husband has a business -that takes him away from his home, and, failing your sister, the -little ones must be at the mercy of a nurse throughout the day and -night. Your sister took your place. She loved your children, as you -have told me, with a love which was scarcely less than your own, and -if this world had been any other world than it is, your sister, I have -no doubt, would have gone on filling your place as a mother, without -a thought ever occurring to her or to your husband of her taking your -place as a wife. Whilst you were at home it was perfectly reasonable -and correct that she should live with you. But when you were gone--that -is to say, when it was believed that you were dead--it would not be -considered proper by a society that drives people into a behaviour it -condemns, that your sister should continue living as a single woman -under the same roof with your husband, whom all Bath regarded as a -widower; and yet, if she did not live under his roof, she could not -look after your children! Oh, have mercy, my dear. Be just to those -who loved you, whom you still love, hard as it may seem to you to -render justice at such a time. And, above all, remember you are still -the wife!--it is your sister, your dear twin sister, who must prove the -sufferer.’ - -She looked upwards with tears in her eyes; her own daughters were in -her thoughts at that moment. - -To this, and to much more--for we sat talking until the morning was far -advanced--I listened with tearful attention; but my passions were so -hot, my emotions so violent, that whilst my dear friend talked I was -not sensible of being influenced by her views. Knowing that my husband -was again married, I could not bring myself to feel that I was still -his wife. I had been replaced; he had given his love to my sister; for -all I knew I might be as dead to his remembrance and love as I was dead -in his belief. - -Oh, it was an exquisite pang of mortification to feel that there had -been needed but a very little while--for what were three short years in -the life of married love? nor was it even three short years, for, if -General Ramsay spoke truly, my husband had been already married three -or four months--I say it was exquisitely mortifying to my pride and to -my love for my husband, to think how speedily and easily the memory -of me had been turned out of his heart, leaving room for another to -replace me, and that other my sister, whom I had loved so tenderly, -that I would have laid down my life for her, even as I was sure she -would have died for me. - -But after a while, and when I was alone, other and higher and nobler -thoughts prevailed. The words of Mrs. Lee began to weigh with me. I -fell very silent, and for the rest of the day sat or moved here and -there engrossed in thought. Mrs. Lee contrived to leave me alone. She -could perceive in my face the conflict that was happening in my mind, -and, having given me her opinion and her counsel, she acted wisely in -letting me solve, as best I could, with the help of God, the awful and -tremendous problem which my returning memory had brought with it. - -When the night came I was still undecided. Mrs. Lee had written to -the Bath papers during the afternoon, and nothing more had been done. -Indeed, we had seen so little of each other throughout the day that, -after our long discourse of the morning was ended, but a very little -more had been said on the subject. She had counselled me; she had been -perfectly conscious of the deep, and often the distracting, struggle in -my mind, and now, I saw, she was resolved that, let the issue be what -it might, it should be of my own contriving. - -I bade her good-night at ten o’clock, our usual time of separating, and -entering my bedroom, closed the door, and putting Alice Lee’s cross -upon a chair, knelt before it and prayed for aid and enlightenment, -for support and for strength; and I prayed that I might be taught to -know what was best to be done. I arose with refreshed heart and calmed -feelings, and, replacing the cross, I paced about the room, not with -agitation, but because I was sleepless, and because the mere mechanical -effort of walking seemed to help me to think. - -But I had made up my mind. I had said to myself: my husband and my -sister believe me dead, and I must remain dead to them, for if I -return to my home and proclaim that I am alive, what is to become of -my sister, who is now a wife, but who will not then be a wife? What is -to become of her? A dreadful sacrifice is involved, and I must be the -victim. Were Alice Lee to descend from heaven and speak to me, what -would be her bidding? That my sister must remain a wife, yea, though my -heart broke in securing her in that title. - -I love my husband; I love my sister. The great sacrifice, I said to -myself, that I feel is demanded of me will prove my love. But my -children! I cannot possess them without discovering myself. I must -surrender them to my sister, who I know loves them with the love -of their mother ... but here I stopped dead in my pacing the room -and wept, but without agitation, without passion, for my prayer was -brooding dove-like over my spirit, and though I wept I was calm. - -I could say no more to you, no, not if I were to write down every -thought that had visited me throughout the day and in the silent -watches of the night. They supposed me dead, they had wept for me--oh, -well did my heart know how they had mourned for me! and a mother being -wanted for my little ones, who, of all the countless women in this -land, could so fitly take my place as my sister? - -But my children.... But my children? and I pressed my hand to my -heart.... - -In the morning when Mrs. Lee entered the parlour she found me standing -at the window. She kissed me and then looked me in the face. She would -know by my eyes that I had slept but little, she would also see that I -had wept much, and she would gather from my face that I had formed a -resolution. She listened in silence while I unfolded that resolution to -her. - -‘You must not dream of banishing yourself from your home for ever,’ -said she. - -‘I must not dream of banishing my sister from the home which my -supposed death has made her mistress of,’ said I. ‘She could not now -live in the same house with me. She is friendless in the world, as I -should be were you not my friend. If I claim my own, what is to become -of _her_?’ - -‘But your children!’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee. - -‘Oh, my children!’ I cried. - -‘Your estrangement from them, your estrangement from your husband is -not to be thought of,’ said Mrs. Lee; ‘it is a terrible calamity to -befall your sister, but your children’s claims upon you are greater -than your sister’s.’ - -I shook my head. - -‘And your husband has claims too,’ continued she. ‘He believes you -dead. If he knew you to be alive, would not his love eagerly claim you -and possess you, in spite of what has come between your hearts through -the silence of three years?’ - -I stared through the window, making no answer. - -‘It is quite certain,’ said Mrs. Lee, ‘that you cannot be separated -from your children. You have a home, and it is your duty to occupy it. -Now what passed in my mind last night is this: you are very dear to me, -Agnes, but I must not keep you away from your husband and children. -Yet when you go I shall be companionless and I know I shall find it -very hard indeed to replace you. But your sister is certain to be like -you. You are twins, and from what you have told me of her I am sure you -differ but little in character. Let her take your place here. She will -be dear to me for your sake, and if she has even but a little of the -sweetness you have told me of we shall be happy together.’ - -‘Dear Mrs. Lee, my sister is now a wife. I must leave her so. I am the -stronger by my rights, and the stronger by my love, and the sacrifice -must be mine.’ - -‘You think nobly and God will bless you,’ said she; ‘but your sister is -not your children, and it is of your children that I am thinking.’ - -I made a motion of entreaty with my hand. - -‘Could your sister live independently of--of--your husband?’ - -‘She has means of her own. She has the same amount that I possess, or -rather that I possessed.’ - -‘She can do what she likes with it?’ - -‘Yes, unless she has given it to John.’ - -‘As you did your portion?----Well, if your sister leaves your husband -he must return the money he has taken from her that she may be -independent to that extent. And she will take your place and live with -me.’ - -But I was not to be moved. I had made up my mind. The resolution I -had formed was the offspring of bitter tears and long hours of inward -torment. My sister, my sweet sister, must be first. Since the certain -result of the assertion of my existence must be to expel her from -her home, leaving her friendless, an orphan, and lonely to face the -world, then I must remain dumb and hidden, as much so as if I were at -the bottom of the sea. And there was another consideration, something -that _might_ render the news of my being alive a dreadful and horrible -affliction to her. She had been married four months. - -Mrs. Lee saw that I was not to be moved. - -‘I could sympathise with your resolution,’ said she, ‘if it were not -for your children. Can we not get possession of them? You would then be -happy, or at least happier than you are. But how is it to be done? They -cannot be stolen,’ she cried, stepping about the room. ‘They can only -be demanded in your name;’ then observing my distress and agitation, -she added, ‘Well, we will wait a little. Something may happen to give -a new turn to this strange, lamentable business. And you will not mind -my having a good long talk with Mr. ----?’ and she named the clergyman -of the church we attended. ‘He is a man of resources. Even my husband, -who was a thoroughly business man, often found Mr. ----’s advice very -useful. You may be able to exist without your husband, but with such a -mother’s heart as you possess you will not be able to go on living long -without your children.’ - -One point I overlooked at this time, nor indeed did it occur to me -until events had robbed it of the weight it must otherwise have had: I -mean that by determining not to make my existence known to my husband -and sister I should be continuing in a state of absolute dependence -upon Mrs. Lee. This I could not have felt whilst my memory was wanting; -but now it was known to Mrs. Lee that I was a wife and that my husband -was in a good position and capable of supporting me. As you will -perhaps remember, when my father died he left five thousand pounds to -my mother; this on her death was divided equally between Mary and me. -Mary invested her money and kept control of it; I gave my portion to my -husband, who invested it in his business or in some other way. There -was capital enough here to have yielded me about one hundred pounds -per annum, and this was the income, I believe, that Mary obtained from -her share; whilst I chose to remain as one that was dead, my little -fortune, of course, could be of no use to me, but as I have just said, -the matter did not pressingly occur to me at this time. - -It was on the day following that conversation with Mrs. Lee which -I have just related that the dear little woman called upon her old -friend the Rev. ---- and was closeted with him for two hours. When -she returned she gave me the substance of what had passed between -them, and added that Mr. ---- was going to Edinburgh, whither he had -been suddenly summoned, but that on his return he would visit me and -earnestly enter with me into my trouble and advise me. - -I asked Mrs. Lee what he had said, and she owned that though he had -talked much he had left no very definite impressions upon her mind. - -‘Unhappily,’ said she, ‘there is no middle way in this sad business. -You want your children: you must have them: but in order to obtain them -your husband must be informed that you are alive. That is what you do -not want. I tell you frankly, Agnes, Mr. ----’s opinion is, that for -the sake of your children and for your own, and for your husband’s -sake, it is your bounden duty to make your existence known.’ - -‘And my sister?’ cried I; ‘he does not name my sister.’ - -‘Yes, to deeply pity her, for she is the true sufferer. Your trouble -is voluntary, and you can end it when you choose. However, let us -wait until Mr. ---- returns. By that time a change may come over your -mind, or Mr. ---- may be able to offer some suggestion of the utmost -usefulness to us. And pray, my dear, also remember that in the eyes -of my friend your sister is not a wife: nothing could make her your -husband’s wife short of an Act of Parliament, and even if she could -be legally married to him as his deceased wife’s sister, she still -cannot be his wife whilst you are living. This was one of Mr. ----’s -arguments, and he insisted that it was your duty to rescue your sister -from the false and really odious position in which her ignorance of -your being alive has placed her.’ - -But I was now firm. Every hour of thought had served to harden my -resolution. I did not choose to consider that my sister was in a false -position because I was alive, but I did choose to consider that she -would be in a false position if I announced my existence; and my fixed -determination, therefore, was to remain dead to her and her husband, -leaving it to the Almighty God who had watched over me in many terrible -perils and distresses, and who had raised up a friend for me when I was -absolutely friendless and blind in soul upon the great ocean, to find a -way of His own to bring me and my little ones together. - -It was on the morning of the sixth day, dating from the receipt of -General Ramsay’s letter, that Mrs. Lee opened a newspaper which had -been addressed to her from Bath, and read aloud the announcement of my -husband’s marriage to my sister. The statement was brief; merely that -the marriage had taken place in London. - -I had passed a long miserable night of bitter thought, with a desire -in me that had grown more and more impassioned as I lay dwelling upon -it; and yet I know not that I would have given expression to it or -have resolved upon gratifying it but for Mrs. Lee reading aloud this -announcement of my husband’s marriage. But when she had read it, and -sat gazing at me through her glasses in silence, I sprang up and cried: - -‘I must see my children. I have struggled hard with the yearning, but -it will have its way.’ - -Something like a smile of satisfaction lighted up her face as she -answered: - -‘I was sure you would come round to my views. There are, I know, -mothers, miserable creatures that they are! who could live without -seeing their children; but you are not of them, Agnes, you are not of -them.’ - -‘Do not misunderstand me,’ I exclaimed; ‘I wish to see my -children--merely to see them, but the darlings shall not know I have -beheld them--and John and my sister shall not know that I am alive.’ - -‘But you will have to call at the house to see them,’ said Mrs. Lee. - -‘I will visit Bath and return to you,’ said I, caressing her hand. -‘Bear with me, dearest friend. Let me have my way.’ - -‘You shall have your way,’ she exclaimed. ‘I shall do nothing and say -nothing to hinder you. When do you wish to go?’ - -‘To-day.’ - -‘I will find out how much money you need. How long do you mean to stop?’ - -‘Until I have caught sight of my children,’ I answered. ‘One look at -them--to see if they are well--to see how much they have grown----’ - -‘Well,’ said she, ‘let us hope, my dear, for your sake that the -children are in Bath. You may have to wait some days before you obtain -a glimpse of them, and if you are constantly about the house will not -you be noticed, and excite suspicion? But I wish to say nothing to -hinder you. If it will comfort you to get a sight of your children, -then, my dear, go; and should you be kept waiting, write to me and I -will remit as much money as you may think needful. But suppose your -memory should fail you?’ - -‘I will take care of that,’ said I, ‘by putting down my name and your -name and address and other matters on a card. I can never be at a loss -if I have such a card to refer to.’ - -‘Take two cards,’ said Mrs. Lee, ‘one for your pocket, and one -which I will stitch inside your jacket. It is not probable that your -memory will play you false, but it would be a terrible thing to find -yourself at a distance from me without being able to give your name and -address.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -AT BATH - - -The train I caught did not reach Bath till half-past eight in the -evening. It was a tedious, melancholy journey, so sad to me that I -never recall it without emotion. The moment I had kissed and said -good-bye to Mrs. Lee, and entered the train and started, I felt utterly -lonely and miserable, as though, indeed, I were friendless, without -memory, childless and widowed, and a blind wanderer. My luggage -consisted of a travelling bag. I was dressed in black and wore a thick -veil, but even without that veil I should not have feared recognition. -I had looked into the glass before I started, and _now_, being able -to remember my face as it was when my husband and sister last beheld -me at Piertown, I was very sure that both of them might stare me in -the eyes for an hour at a time, and find nothing in my white hair and -in my changed lineaments, and in the expression which grief and time -had stamped upon my countenance, and in my white eyebrows and the -appearance of the flesh of my face that wore no longer the bloom of my -happy days to give life to any sort of imagination which might visit -them from the tone of my voice or from some subtle quality in my looks. - -As I have said, I arrived at Bath at half-past eight, wearied to the -heart by the long journey, and drove to an old-fashioned hotel not very -far from Milsom Street. I was too exhausted to walk, or even at that -hour, after I had refreshed myself with a cup of tea, I would have -crept forth and traversed the width of the city to view the home in -which my little ones were resting. I went to the window and gazed into -the street; there were brightly lighted shops opposite; the roadway -shone with the light of gas lamps; many people were afoot and private -carriages and vehicles of all sorts passed in plenty. - -I stood gazing, and my eyes may well have worn the expression of one -who dreams. To think that for three years the old familiar city in -which I now was, my pretty home past the avenue of chestnuts, the dear -ones who dwelt within it, should have been as utterly extinguished from -my brain as though I had died! I thought of the day when I had started -from Piertown on an excursion, as I had imagined, of an hour or two; I -thought of the French vessel, of my awaking in her from a swoon, and -finding my face strapped, mutilated, unrecognisable, and I recalled -the dumb, importunate cry of my heart, _Who am I?_ I thought of all -that had happened afterwards, of the gipsy’s predictions which had been -so fearfully verified, that I wondered if her darker predictions were -still awaiting realisation; and then I pictured my home: the interior -of the house: I beheld my children sleeping in their beds, and my -husband and my sister sitting in the parlour, one reading to the other -or conversing.... I sighed deeply and turned away from the window. - -I was in no hurry to rise next morning. It was the second day of -November and a cold morning, though the sun shone bright with a -frost-like whiteness in his brilliance, and I knew that my children -would not be taken for a walk until the morning had somewhat advanced. -I did not suppose that Johnny went to school. I knew that my husband -had always been of opinion that no child should be sent to school under -the age of ten; Johnny was but five. - -I descended to the coffee room, keeping my face carefully covered by -a thick black veil: but when I found that I was the only occupant of -the room I lifted the veil to the height of my eyes, the better to -see through the wire blinds in the windows and to observe the people -passing. The waiter who attended at my solitary meal looked very hard -at me, but his gaze was one of curiosity merely. Well might it puzzle -the man to reconcile my youthful figure and youthful complexion, pale -as I was, with my hair and eyebrows, whose snowy whiteness was rendered -remarkable by my dark eyes. - -I asked him how long he had lived in Bath, and he answered all his -life; and that he had never been further than Swindon. I asked him a -number of idle questions, and named one or two persons who lived in -Bath, and I then spoke of Mr. John Campbell, solicitor, and inquired if -he had left the city. - -‘No,’ he answered, ‘Mr. Campbell is my governor’s legal adviser. He was -here yesterday; very like he’ll be here to-day. The governor’s got a -lawsuit on. Are you acquainted with the gentleman, mum?’ - -I asked him to tell me the time, and then saying it was uncertain at -what hour I should return, I dropped my veil and walked into the street. - -It was about half-past ten o’clock. By this hour I knew that my husband -would have arrived at his office; or, if he was not yet at his office, -he would be on his way to business, and by going a little out of my -road when I was in New Bond Street I might have passed the windows of -his place of business; but I dreaded to see him. Veiled as I was I -felt that if we met and his gaze rested upon me, though I should be no -more known to him than the veriest stranger then in Bath, yet the mere -sight of him would break me down. I should cry out or swoon, suffer -from some convulsion of passion and feeling whose violence might result -in betraying me by attracting a crowd, by bringing him to my side to -inquire, by causing my pocket to be searched for my address; and, -therefore, when I passed the street in which his office stood, I shrank -within myself, and for ever as I walked I stared through my veil at -the passing faces, never knowing but that I might meet my husband, and -trembling and shuddering from head to foot at the mere contemplation of -the encounter. - -But though I had had many acquaintances in Bath, I met no one that I -knew; no, not a single familiar face did I see. As I walked I could not -realise that three years had passed since I was last in these streets. -The extinction of my memory had fallen upon me as a deep sleep might -fall upon a person on a sudden, arresting her in her discourse or in -whatever she might be doing, and the sleep might last for many hours; -though when she awakens she proceeds in her speech or resumes what she -was about with no idea of having been interrupted beyond a minute or -two. Thus it was with me. I walked through the streets of Bath and I -could not persuade myself that I had not trodden the same pavements -yesterday. I passed down that wide, cold, windy thoroughfare called -Pulteney Street and reached Sydney Place, where I came to a pause with -my heart in my throat; for here are situated the public grounds called -Sydney Gardens, where many a time had I walked with my children and the -nurse, and as I looked at the trees, which were brown and burning with -their late autumn tints and fast growing leafless, and thought of how I -had romped with my little Johnny in the shade of them on summer days, -and how I had sat with my baby in my arms upon the cool seats along -the shadowed walks, and how happy I then was, I wept. - -The house which I intended to watch until I saw my children stood not -far from the part at which I had arrived, and after I had walked a few -hundred yards I came to a bend of the road which brought me to the -foot of the hill. And now I walked very slowly, gazing in advance of -me with impassioned eagerness, and with so great a craziness for clear -vision that I could have torn the veil from my face. Very few people -were about, and they took no notice of me. At times a cart from some -neighbouring farm came spinning down the hill. It was a fine bright -morning, no longer cold, as it had been, now that the sun was asserting -his power, and I was sure that my children would be sent by Mary for a -walk with the nurse. I entered the avenue of chestnuts and crept along -up the hill very slowly until I had sight of the house, and then I -stopped with a dreadful aching under my left breast as though my heart -had broken. - -I stood partly sheltered by the trees, staring at the house. It was -situated on the left-hand side of the road, and as I stood gazing on -this same side I thought to myself, supposing my husband having been -detained at home should _now_ come out. The thought affrighted me, -and I hastily crossed the road and in a manner hid myself among the -trees on that side. A gentleman and two ladies came from the direction -of Bathampton; they stared very hard and turned their heads to view -me after they had passed; their scrutiny vexed and agitated me, and -stepping out I walked up the hill, passing my home. - -I dared not look too hard lest I should attract attention. The bedroom -windows were open, but I could not see anybody stirring within. I -looked at the window of the room that had been the day-nursery -and that, very well knowing the accommodation the house offered, I -might suppose was still occupied by my children by day; and whilst I -instinctively paused in my walk to gaze at that window the hall-door -was opened, and the nurse, the person I had taken to Piertown with me, -she who had been in my service for a short while when I was lost to my -husband and children--this nurse, I say, whose name was Eliza Barclay, -came out and advanced as far as the gate and looked up and down the -road as though waiting for somebody. - -I walked on with my eyes straight in front, but my heart beat so -violently that I felt myself sway from side to side, and coming to a -bench that was at the top of the hill and at some distance from the -house, I sank upon it, breathing with great distress. - -Here on this eminence I commanded a view of our garden and of the -river flowing through the valley, of the hills opposite with their -clustered houses and spaces of garden-land and groups of trees, whose -summits in parts feathered a line of roofs. Dogs were barking down by -the river side; notes of life came floating from the fair city of Bath -upon the November wind; the violet shadows of clouds sailed stately -over the green slopes. I went to the hedge that divided the adjoining -meadows from the side path and looked over, thinking I might catch a -sight of my children in the garden. A man was at work there. I raised -my veil to observe if he was the gardener whom we had employed when -I was at home, but I could not distinguish his features, and if I -approached the house the angle of the building must shut him out. - -The time passed. Twelve o’clock was struck by the clock of a church -down in the valley, then one, and then two. Some tradesmen’s -assistants had called at the house during this time, and a housemaid -had come to the side-gate and stared with a servant’s idle curiosity -up and down the road. Nothing more had happened. But I must see my -children if I lingered all day; I must see my children, though to -obtain but one glimpse of them I should be obliged to remain in Bath -a month. Do you wonder if I wished to see my husband and my sister? -Oh, do not ask me! If ever I thought of them the desire to behold them -rapidly merged into a passionate yearning to see my children, and I -could think of nothing else but my two little ones. - -The time passed. And now the next hour the Batheaston clock struck -would be half-past three. All this while I had been wandering furtively -about the chestnut avenue, and up and down the hill, never losing sight -of the house, but taking care after the first hour of this grievous day -of sad expectant watching to remain unseen by anyone who might come to -its gate or look from its windows. There were times when I would walk -on as far as Bathwick Street and there loiter, for if my children came -down the hill I might be sure they would pass by the end of that street -and I should see them. - -The road in which the chestnut avenue stood is but little frequented. -Carts and private carriages drive along it, but few people use it -merely for walking. It is traversed by those who live at Batheaston and -Bathford and beyond, and such persons when they pass, whether coming -into or going from Bath, are long in returning. There are also very -few houses; the few there are for the most part stand back. All these -points I had reckoned upon, knowing the neighbourhood thoroughly; and -I state them that you may understand how it was that so conspicuous a -figure as I made in my black dress and thick black veil should have -haunted that road of the chestnut avenue for nearly a whole day without -apparently receiving any further attention than now and again a stare -from a passer-by. - -I had eaten nothing since my breakfast, and that meal had been slender -enough; but I felt no hunger; though I had sat but little I was not -conscious of any feeling of exhaustion. The craving for a sight of my -children dominated all physical sensations. - -It was drawing on to the hour of four; I was slowly making my way up -the hill in the direction of my house, and I was within a hundred yards -of it when a little boy ran through the gateway on to the path, and was -immediately followed by a lady. - -The little boy was my child. I should instantly have known him had I -beheld him amongst a thousand children. His face was the same sweet -face that I had left behind me three long years before; grown, indeed, -but the eyes, the expression, were the same, the beautiful golden hair -but a little darker in hue. He was tall for his years, and looked a -noble, manly little fellow. He was dressed in the costume of a sailor, -and when he ran from out the gateway he sprang with graceful agility -across the side-walk into the road, pointing to a hedge that was -opposite, and looking back as he cried: ‘Mother, mother, I saw a wabbit -jump out of that ditch.’ - -The lady was my sister. She was dressed in black, but was without a -veil; her hat of black velvet with a black feather suited her beauty. -She looked younger, sweeter than I remembered her; her complexion -was of an exquisite delicacy faintly touched with bloom, and her -golden-brown hair sparkled in the sunlight under the black velvet of -her hat. - -My boy came running towards me, leaving my sister at some distance; -then when he was close he stopped, child-like, to stare up at the -strange veiled figure. I looked down into his upward-gazing face: I -could have cried aloud out of the passion of the impulse that possessed -me to lift him, to clasp him to my heart, to devour him with kisses. -Then, all on a sudden, his own little figure, and the figure of my -sister who was now nearing us, swept round, and I fell, with a roaring -in my ears that was followed by blackness and insensibility. - - * * * * * - -I opened my eyes and slowly turned them about. It was strange that the -first idea which came to my awakening senses was that I was on board -the French vessel, that in a few moments Alphonse would appear, that -he would hold a mirror to me into which I would look and behold a -face which I had never before seen. I closed my eyes and heard myself -sighing deeply; then opening my eyes again I slightly raised my head -and surveyed the place in which I was lying. - -It was a room, and as my eyes roamed over the various objects which -formed the furniture of that room, I found everything I beheld familiar -to my recollection, and still I could not tell myself where I was. I -rested upon a sofa; there was a lamp with a deep green shade upon it in -the centre of the dining-table: a small fire was burning in the grate, -and I perceived the figure of a woman seated in an arm-chair beside the -fire. She turned her head and directed her eyes at me; then, observing -that I had returned to consciousness, she arose and came across to the -sofa. - -When she was close to me I saw that she was the nurse whom we had taken -with us to Piertown, and by this time having my senses fully, and every -sense being rendered keen by dread of detection, I raised my hand to -my head, meaning to pull down my veil, but found that my hat and veil, -as well as my jacket, had been removed. The nurse’s name, as I have -said, was Barclay; she looked at me earnestly, but without the least -expression of recognition in her face, and said: - -‘I am glad you have got your senses, ma’am. You have been a long time -in a faint. I will go and tell Mrs. Campbell you are awake: she is -sitting with the doctor in the dining-room. The doctor asked me to let -him know when you came to.’ She was about to leave me. - -‘I do not wish to see the doctor,’ I exclaimed feebly. ‘Where am I?’ - -‘You are in Mr. John Campbell’s house, ma’am.’ - -‘Why am I in his house?’ - -‘You fainted away just outside his door and was carried in by me and -the gardener.’ - -‘I do not wish to see the doctor,’ said I. ‘Where is my hat and veil?’ -and I endeavoured to sit up, but fell back again, feeling as weak as -though I had been confined to my bed for a month by a severe illness. - -At this moment I heard footsteps, and my sister entered the room, -followed by a gentleman who instantly stepped to my side. He asked me -how I felt, but I made no answer, and on his taking my wrist to feel my -pulse I drew my hand away. I knew him very well; he was Doctor B----, -he had attended me with each of my children; but now he looked at me -with a subdued air of astonishment at my appearance--with nothing but -_that_ expression in his face; he recognised me no more than my nurse -did. - -‘I have asked for my hat and veil,’ said I, ‘I wish to return to the -hotel at which I am stopping. I am quite well now,’ and again I essayed -to rise, and again fell back. - -‘She appears to have overtaxed herself,’ said the doctor, speaking -to my sister as though I were not present. ‘One would suppose she had -walked from London and eaten nothing the whole way.’ - -I drew my handkerchief from my pocket and held it to my mouth to hide -my face as much as possible, and I also turned my head away from the -light, which, indeed, was sufficiently subdued owing to the green shade -that covered the lamp, and to the smallness of the fire. - -‘Do you live in Bath?’ said the doctor. - -‘No,’ I answered. - -‘Where are you stopping?’ - -I named the hotel and said, ‘I wish to return to it.’ - -‘My carriage is at the door,’ said he, ‘I shall be happy to drive you -to your hotel.’ - -My sister, who had been standing at a little distance with the shadow -of the shaded lamp upon her face, said: ‘I cannot suffer the lady to -leave until she is stronger and better.’ - -‘Are you alone at the hotel?’ said the doctor. - -‘Yes,’ said I, answering him in a weak voice; ‘but that does not -matter. I will thankfully accept your offer to drive me to my hotel,’ -and again I tried to sit up, but my having been on my feet from ten -o’clock in the morning to four o’clock that afternoon, my having taken -nothing to eat or drink--no, not so much as a glass of water--and, -above all, the terrible agitation, the dreadful continuous expectancy, -and the hundred feelings which had burnt like fires in my breast as -I passed my home again and again, all this had done its work; a few -hours’ rest might help to restore me, but as I now was I was incapable -of any exertion. - -The doctor saw how it was. He drew my sister to the other side of the -room and conversed with her. I tried to hear what was said, but caught -only a few sentences. He seemed to advise her to keep me for an hour -or two, then send me in a cab to the hotel. I heard him whisper: ‘A -perfect stranger, you see, Mrs. Campbell’--‘a genuine case I don’t -doubt’--‘I would not, if I were you, keep her through the whole -night’--these, and one or two more sentences of counsel, were all I -heard. He then bade my sister good-night; meanwhile I kept my face from -the light and my handkerchief to my mouth. - -‘You will sleep here to-night,’ said the sweet voice of my sister, and -looking up I perceived her bending over me. Her face was tranquil, her -gaze perfectly calm with an expression of gentle sadness that had been -there ever since I could remember. Pity was the only look in her face -that was in any way marked. She glanced at my white hair, and her eyes -rested for a little while upon my face, but her regard was without -recognition. Her presence was a torture to me. My old love for her -was strong and deep. There she stood, my sweet, my gentle, my beloved -sister, and I dared not own myself--I dared scarcely look at her; for -her occupation of my place was based on deep conviction of my death. I -would have killed myself sooner than by confession of my existence have -forced her from the position she had purely entered upon with a spirit -which she would take to her grave clothed in mourning for the sister -whom she believed dead. - -But her presence was an agony. I felt that it would be impossible to -support even for a short time the ordeal of her ministrations; to -listen to her low, sweet voice; to meet her clear, sad gaze; to suffer -in silence the intolerable sense of loneliness born of her presence, of -my being homeless in my own home, of the thought of my little ones, in -a room above, taught to pray for a mother they could not remember and -to give that holy name to another, even though she were my own sister. - -‘You will sleep here to-night,’ said my sister, bending over me. - -‘What is the time?’ I inquired, resolved to speak as little as possible. - -‘It is nearly eight o’clock. You have been a long time unconscious. -Barclay, cut a few light sandwiches and bring some port wine. Be quick. -I am sure this poor lady wants nourishment first of all. Tell Sarah to -light a fire in the spare room and prepare the bed.’ - -My sister then brought a chair to the table and seated herself. - -‘This light, I fear, taxes your eyes,’ said she, and stretching forth -her hand she dimmed the lamp. - -Then followed a long silence; my sister did not appear to regard me. -Her eyes seemed to steal to my face rather than look at it; but for the -most part she kept her gaze bent downwards. Her behaviour suggested -that she was struck, as all others whom I had met had been struck, -with the contrast between my snow-white hair and white eyebrows and -my youthful figure. Only at long intervals did I dare glance at her. -I held my face averted and my handkerchief to my mouth, and twice I -endeavoured to rise, fully meaning to leave the house if I found that I -had strength to walk; but I was without strength as yet even to sit up. - -The housemaid brought in some port wine and sandwiches, and I drank the -wine which my sister put to my lips. I then ate the sandwiches merely -with the hope that they would diminish the feeling of faintness and -give me strength enough to leave the house. - -I had eaten as much as my constricted throat would enable me to -swallow, when suddenly I heard the noise of a key turned in a lock, -then the hall door was shut and my sister went out. I caught the sound -of my husband’s voice; but I should have known him by his tread alone -as he stepped across the square hall, and thankful, indeed, was I that -Mary had gone out to speak to him and detain him whilst she prepared -him for seeing me--that is to say, for seeing a strange lady who had -dropped in a fit near the house and been brought in; I was truly -thankful, I say, for this delay, since it gave me time to fortify my -mind for beholding my husband and being looked at by him, and perhaps -spoken to by him; for had he come in upon me on a sudden, my white -hair and changed face would have availed nothing: I must have betrayed -myself, he would have detected me by signs I should have been unable to -conceal. - -He and Mary conversed for some time in the hall. The door was ajar and -I heard their voices, but not what they said. He ejaculated, as though -expressing surprise and sometimes remonstrance; her sweet, low voice -had a pleading note. Presently the door was pushed open and the two of -them entered. - -I held my handkerchief to my mouth, but forced my eyes to look in the -direction of my husband, never doubting that any emotion that my face -might express would be attributed by him to my illness and condition. -There was no more alteration in him than in Mary. He wore a little -more whisker than formerly, and his hair was cut short in the military -style, otherwise there was no change. He was dressed in dark grey -clothes and, instead of a gold watch-chain, wore one of jet, to which -was attached a locket which had formerly held, as it might still hold, -a likeness of me and a piece of my hair. - -He slightly bowed as to a perfect stranger, and leaned upon the table -to look across at me. I closed my eyes and averted my face; I could not -bear the dreadful trial of looking at him and of seeing him look at me. -Oh, he was my husband--he was the father of my children--he had been my -first and only love--but though he was my husband still, my love for my -sister stood between him and me in as iron-like a barrier as ever the -divorce law of the land could erect between two hearts. - -Mary had gone to the end of the table where it faced the windows which -overlooked the grounds; she stood with one hand upon it and the other -resting upon her hip. When I opened my eyes she seemed to be gazing at -me steadily, but the light was dim and I could not see her clearly. - -‘I am sorry to hear of your illness,’ exclaimed my husband, addressing -me across the table, ‘I trust you are feeling better?’ - -‘I believe I am well enough to return to my hotel,’ I answered in a -tremulous voice, ‘will you kindly send for a cab?’ - -‘No,’ said my sister, ‘you must sleep here to-night. You are alone in -Bath. Should you return to the hotel and feel ill in the night you will -not be able to obtain the attention you might require.’ - -‘By what name shall I address you?’ said my husband. - -‘Do not trouble her with questions, dear,’ said Mary. ‘She is very -poorly.’ - -I had made up my mind to give the name of my old friend at Jesmond -should it ever come to my having to give a name at all. This I had -settled with myself before I left Newcastle. When Mary ceased I -answered, ‘My name is Miss Lee.’ - -‘Have you no friend in Bath?’ said my husband. - -‘None. I am returning to-morrow to the north.’ - -‘My wife is anxious that you should stay the night,’ said my husband; -‘you will be very welcome; but if it would make you more comfortable -to return to your hotel, I will call a cab and personally attend you -there; provide--for I am very well acquainted with the landlord of the -house--that you be carefully looked after; and, if you should desire to -communicate with your friends in the North by telegraph or by letter, I -shall be very pleased to do your bidding.’ - -‘Yes, I shall feel easier--my strength is returning,’ I exclaimed, and -I forced myself to sit upright. - -‘John,’ said my sister, ‘it is settled that Miss Lee sleeps in this -house to-night. It is not as though she had friends to go to. She is -ill,’ she added, and for a moment her voice trembled. ‘The spare room -is ready. I can take no denial.’ - -She crossed the room and rang the bell. - -‘Be it as you wish, my dear,’ said my husband, and casting another look -upon me of curiosity he left the room. - -The housemaid answered the bell; my sister told her to send the -nurse, then poured out another glass of port and begged me to drink -it. I drank it, for I needed strength. Already had I settled what to -do, but I required more strength than I now possessed to carry out -my resolution. The nurse arrived and my sister requested her help -to convey me upstairs. I said not a word. I kept my eyes fastened -upon the floor. I feared that I should betray myself by speech, by -look, by tears, or by some subtle sign that would be interpretable by -the penetrating, wonderful sympathy that exists between twins--the -sympathy that had certainly existed between my sister and me. So far I -had victoriously passed through one of the most terrible ordeals that -a woman could be confronted with, and the sight and presence of my -sister, her sweet voice, her sweet face, the memories which arose in me -as I looked at her and listened to her, had still further heightened -and hardened what I might have already deemed my unconquerable -determination to remain dead to her and her husband that her happiness -should not be disturbed, leaving it, as I have already said, to my -Heavenly Father to bring my children to me in any way that should not -bruise my sister’s heart, or cloud the clear serenity of her life as a -wife. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -MARY - - -My sister took me by one arm and the nurse by the other, and assisted -me to rise. I found myself a little stronger than I had imagined. I -felt, indeed, fully equal to returning to the hotel, if my sister sent -for a cab; but my bedroom was ready, I was now being helped upstairs, -and, moreover, I had settled a plan which I did not intend to disturb. -I looked neither to the right nor to the left, as I ascended the -stairs, supported by my sister and the nurse. I feared the effect upon -me of the familiar objects which my sight must encounter--the shield -and stag’s head in the hall, the pictures on the staircase, the -barometer, and other such details--in all which I had taken a young -wife’s pride, choosing places for them, dusting them with my own hands. - -We mounted the stairs in silence. I was taken to a room over the -dining-room, an apartment at the back of the house. This room had been -the spare room with us ever since we had occupied the house. A cheerful -fire burnt in the grate, and on a chair near it were my jacket, hat, -and veil. Lighted candles stood upon the dressing-table; the curtains -were drawn; the bed, draped with a new eider-down quilt, was open ready -for my reception; there was a smell of flowers in the atmosphere, and -the whole chamber was spotless and the picture of comfort. - -‘A long night’s rest will do you all the good in the world,’ said Mary. -‘Do not hurry to rise in the morning.’ - -I could not thank her; I could not feel grateful for hospitality shown -to me in my own house; I could not bring my tongue to utter to my -sister words which my heart would pronounce ironical. But I could have -thrown my arms round her neck, I could have wept upon her breast, I -could have poured forth the story of my life; and all this, too, my -heart denied me. - -She sent Barclay, the nurse, for some hot spirits and water, and for -another plate of sandwiches; but I refused to eat or drink. I said I -was weary and would get into bed and rest. She asked me at what hour I -wished to leave by train next day. - -‘If I can reach my destination by five or six o’clock in the evening I -shall be satisfied,’ I answered. - -She looked around as though there was something, unremembered by her, -that would add to my comfort, then softly said, ‘Good-night,’ and left -the room, closing the door after her. - -I thanked God when she went out, for another few minutes must have -betrayed me. No sooner, indeed, had she closed the door than my heart -gave way, and I cried with a dreadful grief, burying my face upon -the bed that the sound of my sobs might be unheard. My children, I -knew, were sleeping on the same floor. I say I _knew_, because the -disposition of the rooms would not admit of a day and night nursery on -the floor above. My bedroom--the bedroom I had occupied--had been over -the room in which I now was; it was the best room in the house, with a -bath-room and dressing-room adjoining it, and this apartment I might be -sure my husband still used. Therefore, knowing that my children were -within a few yards of me, my yearning to visit them, to behold and -kiss my baby--my little baby girl--to kiss my darling boy, to view -them even for a moment only--this yearning was anguish inexpressible. -But I dared not leave my room. I could not think of any excuse to make -should I be found looking at my children. Indeed, my being found in -their room, bending over them, would infallibly lead to my husband -and sister making conjectures, and putting one thing and another -together--for my husband was a lawyer and my sister a clever woman of -quick intellect--and so discovering who I was. - -I partially unclothed, extinguished the lights, and got into bed--not -to sleep, but that I should be found in bed if my sister visited me -before she herself retired. I heard a distant clock strike nine. A few -minutes later a child cried. I sat up, straining my ear to catch the -precious voice of my baby girl. It was the cry of a sleeping child, -and was not repeated; but, even if that cry of my child had found me -drowsy, it would have awakened me to the very full of all my senses and -held me sleepless for the rest of the night. - -All was quiet below. I heard no sound of my husband and sister -conversing, though I supposed that they continued to occupy the -dining-room beneath me. The distant church clock struck ten. The -hall-door was then bolted, and the noise was followed by a faint -tapping on my bedroom door. I made no answer. I knew by the character -of the knocking that it was my sister, and wished her to think that -I was asleep. I held my face to the wall, and kept my eyes closed -and drew my breath regularly, as though I slumbered; but, though my -eyes were closed, I was sensible of the presence of my sister at the -bedside. The light she held dimly flushed my sealed vision, and I knew -by the radiance that she held the candle close to my face, whence I -might conclude she was inspecting me. That she had not recognised me I -was sure, but I now dreaded this minute scrutiny. Some feature, some -point of resemblance to our mother or to herself, some expression which -I could not control, she might witness, and by it know me. - -I sighed and stirred, without opening my eyes, on which the light -vanished; and when, after waiting a little, I stealthily lifted my -eyelids, I found myself alone and the room in darkness. - -I was able to follow the flight of the hours by hearing the distant -church-clock strike. Midnight rang out, and then one o’clock, and then -two o’clock. The wind had risen. It made a noise in the chimney and -hissed about the windows; otherwise the house was buried in silence, -saving that at intervals I seemed to hear a sound of footsteps, a very -soft movement, as of naked or slippered feet restlessly pacing. But, -listen as I might, I could not imagine in what room the person, whoever -it might be, was pacing; it was not overhead, and it did not sound as -though it were on the floor where the room I occupied was. I therefore -supposed it a deception of the ear, though it held me in check until -after three o’clock had struck, at which hour it ceased. - -I waited until somewhat after four o’clock, then noiselessly rose, -very softly lighted a candle, and completely dressed myself, with the -exception of my veil, which I folded and put in my pocket. The fire had -long ago gone out. A small pair of scissors lay upon the toilet-table, -and on a chest of drawers was an Old Testament, with illustrations -protected by sheets of tissue paper. The book had been my mother’s. I -tore out several sheets of the tissue-paper, picked up the scissors, -and, putting the candle in the grate, where it would be safe--I dared -not move without a light, lest I should make a noise--I opened the -door, crept forth on to the landing, and stood listening. - -All was silent, save the noise of the wind. At the extremity of the -landing a door stood ajar, and a faint light shone through it. I knew -that my children slept in that room, that the faint illumination -proceeded from a night-light, and that the door was left ajar in -pursuance of a custom established by myself, for I always required that -my children should have air, but would not permit their bedroom window -to be left open during the night. I put my boots on the landing-carpet, -and crept on noiseless feet to the door where the light shone, and, -looking into the room, saw the two little brass bedsteads side by side. -I stood listening, and plainly heard the deep breathing of the nurse, -who slept in a small room adjoining this bedroom. - -I crept to the side of one of the beds, and in it lay my little girl, -Mary. I stood looking down upon her sleeping face, then cut off a -little piece of her hair, and breathlessly pressed my lips to her -cheek. Afterwards I stepped round to the bedside of my little boy, -and, when I had looked down upon him for awhile, I cut off a little -piece of his hair, and, with trembling but noiseless hands, placed the -two curls in the tissue-paper and slipped them into my pocket. I then -kissed my boy, and, going to the foot of the bedstead, knelt so that -my posture might embrace both little forms, and, lifting up my eyes to -God, I asked Him to look down and bless my children, and to give them -to me soon, and to watch over them and preserve them whilst I continued -absent from them. - -I then rose, and, with a weeping heart and one long, lingering look -at the two faces, I soundlessly descended the staircase, and, being -intimately acquainted with the house, as you will suppose, knowing -exactly how the house-door was bolted and locked, I opened it without -more noise than would have scared a mouse, gently pulled it to after -me, so that it would have been impossible upstairs to have heard the -click of the latch, so gradually did I draw the door to; then, seating -myself on the step, I put on my boots, and, rising again, hurried away -down the hill. - -It was snowing slightly, and the ground was thinly whitened. The -wind blew piercingly cold. I had learnt that the railway-station was -closed all night, and that the earliest train to London, which was the -directest way to Newcastle from Bath, did not leave until eight o’clock -or thereabouts. There was nothing for me to do but to walk about the -cold, windy streets until the hotel where I had left my bag was opened. - -This I did. I met nobody. Bath seemed as silent and as deserted as -though the old plague that had visited London two hundred years ago -had attacked and desolated this city of the Abbey Church. At last, at -about a quarter to seven, on passing the hotel for the tenth or twelfth -time, I saw a man sweeping in front of the door, which stood a little -way open. I entered and passed into the coffee-room, and found a large -fire, newly lighted, burning in the grate, before which sat a man -reading a paper by the gas-light, for the sky was dark with cloud and -there was no daylight as yet. The man did not lift his head nor make -room for me; he was probably a commercial traveller. I rang the bell, -ordered some breakfast, desired that my bag should be brought from my -bedroom, and, whilst I waited, I drew as close to the fire as the -commercial traveller would suffer me, and warmed myself. - -I was very cold and very weary, but the rest I had taken at my -husband’s house had given me strength enough to walk about the streets, -and when I had warmed myself and breakfasted I found that my sense of -exhaustion was considerably less than I had dreaded to find it. All the -while that I had walked, and all the while that I was warming myself -and eating my breakfast, I was thinking, ‘What will my sister say, or -what will my husband suppose, when they find that their visitor, whom -they so hospitably received, has fled from their house in the darkness -of the night? Their first suspicion will be that my falling into a -fit was a trick, and they will look over the house to see what I have -stolen; then, on discovering that nothing whatever is missing, they -will conjecture that my fit was epileptic, and that in an hour of -madness I rose in the night and wandered from the house.’ - -This notion made me hurry, lest my husband should come to the hotel -to inquire after me; for though, if he came, he would know no more -about me this morning than he did last night, yet he might agitate -and confuse me with questions--perhaps cause me to be detained for -inquiries, as it is called--and this apprehension, as I have said, -made me hurry. As soon, then, as I had breakfasted, I paid the bill, -took my bag, and told a porter who stood in the hall to call a cab. An -hour later I was safe in a railway-carriage, gliding out of the Great -Western Railway station at Bath on my way to London. - -I reached Newcastle at seven o’clock in the evening, and drove at once -to Jesmond. I had telegraphed to Mrs. Lee from London, and I found her -awaiting me, with a table cheerfully set forth and a great Newcastle -coal fire roaring. She kissed me again and again; had I been her own -child she could not have given me a gladder, more affectionate welcome. -She saw exhaustion in my looks and the marks of much bitter weeping in -my eyes, and asked no questions until after I had eaten and drunk and -was resting upon the sofa before the fire, with my feet in comfortable -slippers, and the dress in which I had travelled replaced by a warm -dressing-gown. - -I then told her everything that had happened to me; but when I opened -the travelling-bag, which I had kept at my side, and took from it the -two little locks of hair and showed them to her, I broke down, and -could not speak again for a long time for weeping. - -‘Well,’ said she, when my sobs had ceased, ‘your adventure has -certainly been an extraordinary one. To think of neither your husband -nor your sister knowing you! Surely that can only be accounted for by -their conviction that you are dead? Your white hair, and the structural -change of the shape of your nose, and the change in the shape of your -right brow, coupled with other changes which they might be able to -point out, have, of course, created a new face for you--a face such -as friends, people whom you may have known for a few years but met at -intervals only, would not recognise; but that the alteration should be -so complete that your own sister and husband----no, it is because they -believe you dead.’ - -‘The light was dim when my husband saw me,’ said I. - -‘Ay, but your sister? She saw you when you were brought in from the -street in daylight. No; I am sure that nothing could have saved you -from recognition but their belief that you are dead--a belief that is -now a habit of mind with them, not to be disturbed by the apparition -of a white-haired woman, who, to be sure, looks some years older than -the mere passage of three years only could have made her.’ - -She then asked me what I meant to do, and I replied that the sight -of my sister had hardened my resolution to leave her in undisturbed -possession of her home and her peace of mind. - -‘But your children, dear?’ - -‘I am in God’s hands,’ I cried. ‘I have left it to Him to bring them to -me in His own good time.’ - -She looked at me, shook her head, and fell into a fit of musing. - -I was so exhausted, however, that I was unable to maintain a -conversation even on this subject of my children--a subject which so -wholly occupied my heart that I could think of nothing else. I went to -bed, and scarcely was my head upon the pillow when I fell asleep, and -slept without moving the whole night through, without the disturbance -of the least dream that I can remember. In fact, nature could support -the burthen I had imposed upon her no longer; I had, in truth, scarcely -closed my eyes for above a few hours from the time of the restoration -of my memory, and this night I lay as one that had died. Next morning, -when I awoke, I found my limbs so stiff that I was unable to rise, -and I kept my bed all that day. Mrs. Lee came and sat by my side, -and we talked long and gravely upon the subject of my future--what -was best to be done; whether I had a right to divorce myself from my -husband and remain as dead to him out of a sentimental tenderness for -my sister, whose claims were not those of a mother’s, as mine were; -whose claims were not those even of a wife’s, as mine were--because it -would be all the same whether I was living or dead: she could not be -my husband’s wife; the law did not suffer a man to marry the sister of -his dead wife. In this way Mrs. Lee reasoned; and, after asking me some -questions about my sister--as to her habits, tastes, appearance, and so -forth--she said: - -‘Why will you not let me write to her, gently break the news of your -being alive, ask her to come and see us here, and bring your children -with her; then the three of us can talk the matter over? Her sensations -on hearing the news of your being alive will soon pass; you will find -that she will agree in my views and consent to come and live with me, -taking your place, often seeing you and the children--for, of course, -dear Agnes, you will be a regular visitor. I can imagine no other -way of your regaining possession of your children. Whilst you have -been away I have thought and thought, and I cannot imagine what Mr. -----’ (naming the clergyman), ‘will be able to suggest beyond what -we ourselves are quite capable of conceiving--namely, that, in order -to obtain your children, you must make your existence known to your -husband and sister. Since, therefore, _that_ is certain, the rest is -inevitable. I mean that your sister, on hearing that you are alive, -must at once quit your husband.’ - -I lay in my bed listening to her, and often answering and agreeing with -her in many points of her argument, but all the time perfectly resolved -to remain dead to my husband, that my sister’s peace should not be -ruined and her life wrecked. The problem of how I was to regain my -children was indeed fearful, and, as I did think, insoluble; but I had -seen them, I had kissed them in their sleep, they were alive and well. -All this greatly comforted me, and though I was almost crazy with a -mother’s yearning for them, I felt better capable of waiting, now that -I had seen them, than before--better capable of exercising patience -for my sister’s sake, looking to God to reward me for my sacrifice by -uniting me with my children without desolating my sister’s life. - -When the night came I again slept well, and was awakened next morning -by a knock on the door. The servant entered, and handed me a letter in -deep mourning. I was startled by the deep black edge upon the envelope, -and told the maid to open the curtains. She did so, flooding the room -with light, and withdrew. I looked at the envelope, and instantly -recognised the handwriting as that of my sister. It was addressed -to Mrs. John Campbell, care of Mrs. Lee. In fact, the address was -precisely the same as that which I had written upon the cards I had -taken to Bath with me, one of which, as you will remember, Mrs. Lee had -stitched inside of the back of my jacket, the only difference being -that the envelope bore my name, Mrs. John Campbell. - -I trembled violently, and for some few minutes felt so faint that the -letter drooped in my hand on to the coverlet, whilst I lay back for -the support of the pillow. Then I looked at the letter again; it was -in Mary’s writing. I knew the writing as well as though I had seen her -with a pen in her hand addressing the envelope. For a long time I could -not summon courage to open the letter. It was not only the handwriting -and the seeing my name plain upon the envelope; it was the mourning -also that terrified me, so significant was it of the character of the -enclosure. At last I opened the letter, and read this: - - ‘My own darling Sister,--When, after fainting at the sight of your - boy, you were brought into your house, and your hat and veil were - removed, I knew you. Beloved sister, I knew you instantly. Your - white hair, your changed appearance, could not disguise you from - the eyes of my love. They had told me that during a great part of - the day a woman in black, thickly veiled, had several times passed - this house, and when your veil was removed, and I saw that it was - you, Agnes, _then_ I knew all, I understood all. I knew that you - had come to catch a sight of your children, that you knew I had - become your husband’s wife, and I understood that your secret visit - meant that when you returned to your home you would never come here - again. And why? That your husband and I might think you dead, as we - have long believed you dead, and that I might be left to live as I - have lived since you were mourned as lost to us for ever. - - ‘My darling sister! It was because I knew you that I insisted upon - your remaining in the house all night, for then you would have - rested, sleep would have given you strength, I should have been - able to see you in the morning, have heard your story, and have - told you mine. Oh! what has kept you from us for three years? What - sufferings have you undergone to change you so? I have loved and - tended your little ones as though they had been my own. You will - find them well, and very beautiful children. You saw but little of - Johnny. You fell whilst he was looking at you. I have been wakeful - all night, pacing the floor of a room that was above the one in - which you slept--not thinking over what I should do; no! what I was - to do I knew very well; but thinking about you, your three years’ - absence, the meeting of two sisters who knew each other and loved - each other, and yet dared not speak to each other. - - ‘And why did not I speak to you, Agnes? Because, my beloved, I - desired the morning to come, when, after having sat and conversed - with you in your bedroom, I should have been able to depart from - your house, leaving it to you to tell your husband the story of - your return, and of my going, when he came back to his home in the - evening. - - ‘You know that I was married to him fourteen weeks ago. Your secret - visit convinced me that _that_ news had reached you. Oh! had the - gentle and all-merciful God brought you home to us but four months - earlier! I can write to you that I was married to John, but I could - not look at you and say so. - - ‘Yet I believed you dead, dear sister, and your husband believed - you dead. The body of the man who attended you in the boat was - washed ashore, and the boat was afterwards found drifting about, - upside down. How could we doubt that you had perished? But I have - not come between you and your husband’s heart. Your memory is sweet - and sacred to him. Often does he talk of you. It is a subject that - he never wearies of. One to take the place of you was needed for - Johnny and little Mary, and who fitter than I? But oh! but oh! that - you had returned but four months earlier! - - ‘And now with the tears standing in my eyes, and my heart aching as - though it must break, I am going to bid you farewell for ever. Do - not fear for me. God’s love will stay my hand. I will do nothing - that is rash or sinful. I shall hear of you and always in spirit - be with you, and my prayers shall ever be for you and for your - husband, and your little ones. By the time this letter reaches - your hands, your husband will have known all, and will in all - probability be on his way to Newcastle-on-Tyne. - - ‘As for me, I go where no inquiries can ever reach me. It will be - useless to seek for me; not the utmost strength of our love, Agnes, - would ever be able to court me from my concealment. You may hear of - me in my death, but in no wise else, and some day you will know why - I have chosen to hide myself until the grave closes over me. - - ‘But I could wish to receive one last letter from you, telling me - what has befallen you, and where you have been during these three - years, and sending me your blessing and your love, and a kiss. - Therefore write to me at the ---- Hotel, Leicester. Address me - there by return of post, that I may receive the letter as I pass - through that town. My beloved sister, farewell. Forgive me! Love me - with the strength of your old sweet love. - - ‘MARY.’ - -I read this letter twice over, realising its full import. There -then followed such a tumult of feelings in my mind that I cannot -recollect even a little of my thoughts. I was struck to the heart by -the knowledge that Mary had known me from the beginning, and had not -spoken, and then horror fell upon me when I reflected that she had left -her home; that she had as good as vowed never to be heard of until her -death should come; that, despite her assurance, grief, misery, shame, -homelessness, the remembrance of what she had lost, the fear of, as I -could read in her letter, of what was yet to befall her, might tempt -her to end her life! - -I hastily rose, dressed myself, and went downstairs. Mrs. Lee had not -yet left her bed. I took pen and paper, and wrote to Mary. I wrote page -after page, for I had much to relate and also to implore, to persuade, -and to command. On the top of the third or fourth sheet of paper I -began to tell her that it was my unalterable resolution never to live -with my husband, or speak of him, or think of him as my husband whilst -she was living; and I was going on to say that I asked for nothing but -my children, when it flashed upon me that if I told her I would never -have anything more to do with my husband _while she was alive_, her -love for me, her determination to reinstate me might cause her to take -her life! so that by making a widower of my husband, so far as she was -concerned, there could be no longer any excuse remaining to keep me -away from my home. This fear I say flashed upon me, and I tore that -part of the letter up, and went on writing till I had said all that -was in my heart; but even as I addressed the envelope I seemed to feel -that this letter, full as it was of love and piteous pleadings to her -to return to her home, would be no more than as a wreath laid upon a -grave, and that my sister and I would never meet again in this world. - -I desired a servant to immediately post the letter, and then walked -about the room, as was my habit when deeply agitated, waiting for the -arrival of Mrs. Lee. She entered at last, kissed me, and looking at me -affectionately, exclaimed: ‘You have heard from your sister, I am sure. -The letter was brought to me in error, and I sent it immediately to -you.’ - -I put it into her hand in silence. She read it through, and then said: -‘So she knew you, and yet made no sign! She must be a girl of great -nobility of mind, of wonderful strength of character.’ She read the -letter through again, and exclaimed: ‘And now, Agnes, you will return -with your husband?’ - -‘No,’ I answered. ‘I cannot, and will not, think of him as my husband -whilst my sister lives.’ - -She said much to dissuade me from this resolution, pointing out that -great as might be my love for my sister, my husband must be first of -all with me. Did I remember my marriage vows? Did I remember saying -that I would forsake all others, and keep only to my husband? This was -a vow solemnly uttered at the altar, and God was a witness to it, and -I should be grievously sinning if I were false to that vow. I answered -that I loved my husband, and that I remembered my marriage vows, but -that my husband had married my sister, believing me dead, that she was -his wife and must remain his wife. I asked for my children, I said; and -when I had them--and here I broke into a passion of weeping, for God -knows I spoke truly when I said that I loved my husband; and yet my -love for my sister, my determination that she should not be dishonoured -by my reappearing, after I was supposed dead, must certainly divorce -me from my husband; and then there was the thought of my sister hiding -for the remainder of her days alone, knowing no other happiness than -such as would flow from the belief that I was happy--I say all these -thoughts broke in upon me, and extinguished my speech in a passion of -tears. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -THE END - - -The time passed, and now I was to prepare myself to receive my husband. -My mind had been so wholly engrossed by my sister that I had given but -little thought to the interview that was likely to happen that day, if -it were true, as Mary had said, that my husband would come to Newcastle. - -It was not my fault, but the fault of my having been born a woman--of -my being human, in short--that, whilst I thought of my husband’s -arrival, I should find myself looking into the glass and comparing -my face with my sister’s. Never had I seen her so sweet, so lovely, -indeed, as when I beheld her in the road when my little boy came -running to me. How different was my face from hers! And yet, if he -loved me, if his love for my memory was as deep as my sister had -declared it in her letter, surely my face could not signify. Had I -found him shorn of his youth, maimed, ravaged by disaster, it would not -have mattered, I should but have loved him the more. - -But then, I said to myself, whilst I looked in the glass, ‘What should -it be to me if his love grows cold at the sight of my white hair and -my altered countenance? Why should I care, though he came to me loving -only Mary? for I swear’--and as I pronounced these words I knelt--‘I -swear by my God that whilst Mary lives I will be no wife to John.’ And -this I said on my knees, again and still again. Yet, when I arose, -having been governed by a sudden bitter, powerful impulse to pronounce -these words, my heart trembled within me, and I felt that I had sinned -in directing myself by oath to a course, instead of trusting myself, -child-like, to the guiding hand of Him whose loving eye had been, as I -still hoped it was, upon me. - -I was in my bedroom that evening; the time was a little before eight. -The room, as you may remember, was at the back of the house, and no -sound of traffic from the roadway reached me. On a sudden Mrs. Lee -opened the door without knocking, and said, with something of alarm -in the expression of her face, ‘Agnes, your husband awaits you in the -dining-room.’ - -Had I not seen him when I secretly visited Bath, and had not Mary’s -letter made me expect to see him at Jesmond almost immediately, I -cannot tell what would have been the effect upon me of the announcement -of his arrival. But I had had all day to think over it, and, as I -have said, I had seen him when I went to Bath, though he did not -know me; then, again, my capacity of emotion--or, in other words, my -sensibility--was somewhat dulled by the manner in which my spirits had -been strained since I had recovered my memory and received news of my -family; for one reason or another, then, I merely started when Mrs. Lee -announced my husband’s arrival, and, with a voice of composure, asked -her to accompany me downstairs. - -‘No,’ said she, ‘go alone, Agnes. It will be a meeting too sacred for -me to witness. I have welcomed him to my house, and he awaits you. Go, -then!’ - -I descended the stairs, but my heart beat very quickly. Sacred the -meeting might be, but it could not possess the joy, the gladness, the -happy tears, the pathos of the delight of reunion which must have -made a golden and glorious memory of it whilst my life lasted had it -chanced but four short months earlier. The dining-room door was ajar; -I pushed it open and entered. A tall lamp stood upon the table; the -globe was unshaded, and the light streamed full upon my husband, who -stood at the table with his face turned towards the door. On seeing -me, he cried, ‘Oh, Agnes! oh, my dearest wife!’ and in a moment he had -embraced me, and once or twice he sobbed as he pressed his lips to my -cheek. He held me to him for some moments, then released me, grasped my -hands, and fell back a step to survey me. - -‘That I should not have known you,’ he cried, ‘when I looked at you as -you lay upon the sofa! That you should have come to Bath, as Mary told -me, to see your children, walking until you fainted in your exhaustion, -and not entering your own house because--because--ah, God!’ he cried, -broke off, hid his face, and then, looking at me, exclaimed, ‘Speak to -me, Agnes!’ - -‘Oh, John, I will speak to you! The love that I gave you when we were -married is still yours. I will speak to you--but not as your wife. -Look at these white hairs. Look at the deformity here and here. I have -suffered much. For nearly three years have I been deprived of memory. I -knew not my own name. I knew not,’ I added, in a low voice, ‘that I had -a husband and children. My memory came back to me the other day, and -then I heard that Mary was your wife. Would for her dear sake that I -was dead, as you both believed me. Look in my face; you will see how I -have suffered. But what have been my sufferings compared to Mary’s now? -Oh! I have received a terrible letter from her.’ - -I put my hand in my pocket and extended the letter to him. He looked -at it, and then at me, and then at it again, standing motionless, as -though paralysed. Presently he exclaimed, in a voice a little above a -whisper: - -‘You will speak to me, you say, but not as my wife? You will speak to -me, _but not as my wife_?’ - -‘Oh, John! I love you, but whilst Mary lives I am not your wife.’ - -He regarded me awhile, then extended his arms, as though he would -have me run to him that he might clasp me. I could not bear his look, -and, sinking upon a chair, I hid my face upon the table. He put his -arm around me and caressed me, kissing my hands and stroking my hair, -and calling me his precious wife whom God had returned to him. My -resolution was a bitter hard one in the face of those endearments! I -felt that he loved me. I believed in my heart that his marriage to my -sister was mainly for the sake of my children, and to shield her from -the whispers of the gossips by giving her his name. But, nevertheless, -she was his wife in the eyes of God and in her own pure heart; it was -not for me, her twin sister, to dishonour her; and with a cry forced -from me from the _pang_ of determination renewed, even as I sat with -buried face, caressed by my husband, I sprang to my feet, stepped a few -paces away, and confronted him with dry eyes. - -‘Read this letter, John,’ I said; and I put Mary’s letter upon the -table. - -He picked it up with one hand, and with the other drew a letter from -his pocket. - -‘This, too,’ he said, ‘is from Mary.’ - -It was addressed to my husband. It contained not above twenty lines. -She said that the white-haired lady who had been carried into the -house was Agnes, ‘my sister and your wife.’ She gave him my address, -which she had doubtless found on the card that had been stitched to my -jacket, and bade him go to me without delay. She then, in a few words, -pointed out that I had come to Bath to see my children, that I knew -she had been married to him, and that I had meant to remain as though -dead to them that _her_ happiness might not be disturbed. Wonderful was -the sympathy of the sweet and gentle heart that could thus interpret -me! She briefly concluded by saying that she left him and the children -with tears and love, and that day and night she would pray to God to -continue to bless the house in which she had passed so many happy years. - -My heart wept tears of blood as I read this letter, but my eyes -remained dry. My husband put the letter I had given to him upon the -table after reading it, and stood with his head bowed. He looked pale, -distress worked in his face, he had been travelling all day and was -cold, and he was my husband and I loved him. I took him by the hand -and led him to an arm-chair near the fire, and stood beside him. - -‘John,’ I said, ‘Mary is your wife, and out of her letter I interpret -what you yourself must know. Can I dishonour my beloved sister by -replacing her? Would you wish it? Could you endure the thought of it? -You must seek her, take her to you again, cherish her. I ask only for -my children. Give me them, for they are mine and I must have them.’ - -‘I will seek her, Agnes, but you are my wife. I will seek her; but -suppose I find her? It is not she who is my wife; it is you. Could I -induce her to live with us under the same roof?’ He paused, and then -said, a little wildly, ‘Why have you been silent for three years? What -has become of you in all that long time?’ - -I took a chair opposite him, and told him all that had befallen me, -from the hour of the boatman falling overboard down to the time of -the recovery of my memory. He often started up, as though pity and -grief would make him clasp me. Then I told him of Alice Lee, and of -Mrs. Lee’s goodness to me--how dear, true, and devoted a friend she had -proved to me; and I also told him of the many inquiries she had caused -to be made on our return to England, and of the paragraphs relating -my story which had appeared in the newspapers. He declared he had not -heard one word of those paragraphs. He asked me to name the time when -they had appeared, and, when I answered, he said that in those months -he was taking a holiday in France with Mary and the children, and -this was the reason, no doubt, of his not having seen the newspaper -paragraphs; but he was amazed that none of his friends had acquainted -him with the publication of a story which must certainly have led to -his discovering me, particularly as my disappearance from Piertown and -my supposed death at sea had been much talked of amongst our friends in -Bath, whilst the account of the disaster had been printed in a local -paper. - -His mentioning the trip to France with Mary and the children led him to -speak of the reason of his marrying my sister. I listened to him, and -then said, ‘I have not one word to say. When I first received the news -it grieved me indeed to think how short a time it takes for a man to -banish the memory of his wife from his love.’ - -‘No!’ he said passionately, ‘your memory was never banished from my -love. What has been my sin? How I grieved over your loss, Mary knows. -But the years stole away, two years and eight months passed; all this -while Mary was living with me, the children wanted a mother’s care, and -Mary was with them, and I could not part with her for Johnny’s and the -baby’s sake. But already your sister had remained too long under the -roof of one who was supposed to be a widower. People had been talking -for some time. Our visitors grew fewer and fewer. Either Mary must -leave my children, or I must protect her with my name.’ - -‘John, I have not one word to say,’ I repeated, ‘but Mary is your wife, -and if that be so, you cannot be my husband; therefore find her--you -will send me my children?’ My voice failed me; nevertheless I arose, -crossed to him, kissed his brow, and then found power to say: ‘I love -you, but I also love my sister. Do not ask me to dishonour her. Sooner -than do so I will kill myself,’ and speaking these words I pulled the -bell. - -A servant opened the door, and I asked her to request Mrs. Lee to join -us. In a few moments the dear little creature entered. ‘This has been -my true best friend,’ I cried, throwing my arms around her neck. - -My husband took her by the hand, and thanked her with deep feeling for -her kindness to me; ‘But,’ he added, looking at her with grief strong -in his face, ‘she asks for her children, and means to live away from -me, and to think of me as a stranger.’ - -‘Mr. Campbell,’ said Mrs. Lee, speaking cheerfully, though with a -little effort, ‘you must give your wife time. She has told you she was -without memory for three years. The whole of her past life came to her -suddenly, as I believe, as I truly believe, through the intercession of -my sainted child. Here was a revelation that might wreck the reason. -A lifetime is granted to a mortal to bear the sorrows and take the -pleasures of a lifetime, but all that entered into the lifetime of your -wife was utterly lost to her for three years, and then the mighty tide -of memory floods her brain. Consider this, I pray you, and add to it -the sad complication that has followed. Bear with her, grant her time; -all will yet be well.’ - -‘My sister must not suffer through me,’ said I. - -‘Neither must you suffer through your sister,’ she answered. ‘Mr. -Campbell, I have ordered supper to be laid in the drawing-room, as I -did not wish you to be interrupted. You must feel weary after your long -journey.’ - -‘I can eat nothing, thanking you much. I have left my portmanteau at -the Central Station Hotel. I had hoped to return with Agnes to-morrow -morning.’ - -‘No, John, no!’ I cried. ‘When will you send the children to me?’ - -‘Are you so resolved?’ he said in a low voice. - -‘I have sworn by my God,’ I cried, ‘that Mary shall not be dishonoured -through me. She is your wife. It is your duty to seek her, to follow -her, to find her. She is to be traced to Leicester, at all events.’ - -He took up his hat that lay upon a chair, moving as though in a dream. - -‘God forgive you, Agnes,’ said he; ‘you are wronging and paining one -who loves you.’ - -He went to the door, and held it a moment with his eyes fixed upon me. -I directed my gaze downwards; for not long could I have withheld that -appealing look. - -‘God forgive you!’ said he again, and passed out, followed by Mrs. Lee, -who closed the door behind her. She took him into the drawing-room, -and a long half-hour passed. The hall-door was then opened and shut, -footsteps sounded on the gravel-path, and Mrs. Lee came into the -dining-room. She sank into a chair, and exclaimed, ‘Agnes, he is a -good man, and he loves you. I have sent him away with a light heart. -All will yet be well. We shall recover your sister, and she will live -with me, and you will be a happy wife once more in your own home, with -your husband and your children by your side.’ - -‘Will he send the children to me?’ I said. - -‘Yes.’ - -‘When?’ - -‘On his return.’ - -I blessed him in my heart, and kissed him in fancy. But the strain -had proved too great. The strength I had put forth to uphold me in my -resolution, not to know him as my husband whilst Mary lived, had taxed -me too heavily. I sat down at the table to support my head till the fit -of giddiness should pass, and when I opened my eyes again, Mrs. Lee -told me that I had been unconscious for nearly a quarter of an hour. - -She saw me to bed, and that my thoughts should not keep me sleepless -all night, she procured and insisted on my taking a soothing draught, -which threw me into a sleep from which I did not awaken until past -eight o’clock next morning. My mind went often to my husband throughout -the day, but oftener to my children, whom I was to expect on the -following afternoon, and oftener still to my sister. In what part of -England did she mean to hide herself? And was it not true, as John had -said, that, supposing her hiding-place to be discovered, she would -insist on remaining apart from us all, insuring concealment by change -of quarters. It was certain she would not dwell with my husband whilst -I was alive. It was certain she could not live with us if I chose to -return to my husband. What then could she do? She must live apart, and -her pride and her condition, which her letter had hinted at, would -compel her to live in obscurity, even though, instead of having a -hundred a year to subsist upon, she had the wealth of a Princess. - -I talked earnestly, with tears and with passion, to Mrs. Lee about -her; asked her how we should go to work to find out where she was; -‘Because,’ I said, ‘if she should not consent to live with you, she -might consent to live with me and my children. My husband must support -me, and Mary and I might be able to put enough together to keep a -little home on.’ - -But Mrs. Lee answered somewhat coldly, and without interest. Her -sympathy was not with my sister; it was with me and my husband and -children. She told me that I had no right to render my children -fatherless, to deprive them of their natural protection, and of their -home, indeed, by finding out where my sister was hidden and dwelling -with her. Indeed she strongly discountenanced my resolution not to -rejoin my husband, and I let the subject drop, fearful lest some hot -sentence should escape me, which might give pain to a friend and -benefactress whom I loved only a little less tenderly than I loved my -own sister. - -I busied myself that afternoon, helped by the old housekeeper, Sarah, -to prepare a room for my children and the nurse. I walked into -Newcastle and purchased two little bedsteads, and I bought several toys -and boxes of sweets as surprises and welcomes for my little ones; and -when the evening had come, my thoughts at the time being much with my -husband, I sat down, and for above two hours occupied myself in filling -page after page of a letter to him. - -I should only weary you to give you, even in the most abridged form, -the substance of that long letter. It was a justification of my -behaviour; it was an entreaty for my sister; and I also pointed out to -him that now my children were coming to me, I could no longer remain -dependent upon Mrs. Lee. I would be satisfied with the interest of -the money my mother had given to me, and if that did not suffice to -maintain my children and myself, I would endeavour by my industry to -make up what was wanting. - -My children came next day. My husband sent Mrs. Lee a telegram, giving -the hour at which the train arrived, and I went to the railway station -to meet my children. There were many people on the platform, and I -do not doubt that my behaviour was observed, and that numbers went -away saying that they had seen a mad woman. My joy at the sight of my -children was indeed extravagant. First, I would take the baby from the -nurse and hug it, and then pick up Johnny and hold him, and then put -the little fellow down and take the baby again, laughing and crying -alternately with such gestures of delight, with such impassioned speech -to one or the other of the little ones, that, as I have said, many of -the people who observed me must have certainly thought me crazy. - -As we drove to Jesmond I plied the nurse with all sorts of questions, -and heard, though I did not need to be told, of the devotion of Mary -to my children. As for the nurse, I could not but treat her as a -stranger. She had been with me a few months only before I was lost to -my family, and now, after three years, she was as strange to me as -though I had just engaged her. She it was, however, who told me of my -sister’s fright and grief, when, at Piertown, the evening approached, -the weather grew boisterous, and I did not return; how my sister had -sent boatmen to seek for me, but how they came back in a very short -while, bringing no news, and offering no hope; how further search was -made next day when my husband arrived. And she told me of his grief, -how his heart seemed broken, how messages were sent to adjacent ports -along the line of coast stating the disaster, and requesting that a -lookout should be kept, and that a search should be made; and then she -spoke of the family’s return to Bath, of their going into mourning for -me, though for months my husband refused to believe I was lost to him, -in spite of the boatman’s body having been washed ashore, and his boat -discovered upside down. She told me enough in her plain way to make -me understand that I had been mourned by my husband with a passion of -grief that had broken him down and forced him away for his health, -and almost ruined his practice by rendering him for months unfit for -business. - -I secretly wept as I listened to her and often kissed my children, for -his face as he had turned to look at me was before me, and his cry of -‘God forgive you, Agnes!’ rang in my ears. - -Two days after I had written to him I received a reply. He enclosed a -cheque, told me what he was earning, and said that all should be mine -if I would grant him a trifle to live upon in lodgings, because now -that his children were gone and I refused to return to him his home was -desolate, his life was made insupportable by the memories which arose -as he sat alone of an evening. He would shut up the house, he said, and -go into lodgings and there await me, for he had faith in my love and -believed that I would return to him yet. He had much to tell me about -Mary, repeated all that he had said in his conversation with me about -his reasons for marrying her, said that he had made up his mind not to -endeavour to discover her, because if he succeeded in finding her he -was without any proposal to make. She was not his wife, he could not -insult her by asking her to live with him, and she would not live with -me if I rejoined him. Even if he could find her he would not propose, -because he would not wish, that she and I should live together, for in -that case it might come to his never seeing me nor his children again. -Much more he said with which I will not weary you. - -But his appeals left my resolution unaltered. Day followed day and I -was for ever hoping to receive a letter from my sister, or to hear -from my husband that he had learnt where she was in hiding. But the -silence remained unbroken. What could I do? Even should I make appeals -to her through the newspapers and she read them she was not likely to -tell me where she lived and what she was doing. I could not myself -seek for her. It was impossible to know, indeed, whether she had not -left England. I ascertained from my husband that she had withdrawn her -securities, so there was no clue to her whereabouts to be obtained -from the bank where she had deposited the documents. Bitterest of all -was this consideration--that even if I employed some shrewd person to -seek after her and he should find her, there was no other proposal to -make than that she should live with me; a proposal that I knew would be -hopeless, because she would feel that whilst she lived with me I could -not live with my husband, and her reason in disappearing was that she -should be as dead to us voluntarily as I had been forced to be through -calamity, that I might return to my home. - - * * * * * - -Six months passed. Occasionally I heard from my husband. He had locked -up the house and gone into lodgings, and every letter contained an -impassioned entreaty to me to return to him with the children. - -One evening I was sitting with Mrs. Lee reading aloud to her. We had -passed the afternoon in a long drive with the children; they were -in bed sleeping soundly, and I had come down from seeing after them -and was now sitting reading aloud to Mrs. Lee. It was the 21st of -April, and, I believe, six months to the very day since the date of my -husband’s visit to Jesmond. - -I was reading aloud mechanically; my thoughts had all day been very -much with my husband and my sister, and I felt dull in my heart, when -we were startled by a loud postman’s knock on the hall door, and a -minute later the housemaid entered with a letter. It was addressed to -me, and it was in my husband’s handwriting, and I said to Mrs. Lee, -‘Here is a letter from John.’ - -But on opening the envelope I found that the enclosure consisted of a -letter addressed to Mrs. John Campbell at my house in Bath. I turned it -about before opening it. It was sealed with black wax, but the envelope -was not black-edged, and the handwriting was entirely strange to me. - -‘Can this be news of Mary?’ said I in a low voice, and looking at the -post-mark I said, ‘it is from Manchester.’ - -‘Open it, my love, and read it,’ said Mrs. Lee; ‘there is no other way -to put an end to your conjectures.’ - -The superscription of the letter was that of a vicarage taking its -name from a very little town or village within an easy distance of -Manchester. It was dated seven days earlier than this date of my -receipt of it. I read it aloud: - - ‘Dear Madam,--As the clergyman who attended your sister, Mary - Hutchinson, during her last moments, and as her friend and - confidant during the few months she resided in this neighbourhood, - it is my sad duty to inform you that she died on Saturday evening - last. She was confined of a still-born child on the previous - Tuesday, was very ill, having been long previously in a weakly - condition, but rallied, and the doctor had great hopes, when a - change happened for the worse, and I was sent for. - - ‘My wife had helped to nurse her through her illness; she was - seldom absent from her side. The sad and singular story of your - sister was well known to us. She took lodgings in this quiet place - about five months since, and speedily attracted my attention by her - frequent attendance at church, by her devotional behaviour during - the services, and by her isolation, that seemed strange in one so - young and beautiful. My wife and I found out where she lodged, - and called. Our relations quickly grew friendly and ripened into - intimacy. She told us her story, the story of your own strange and - dreadful experiences, imploring our secrecy, and assuring us that - nothing could ever prevail on her to make her whereabouts known to - you and her husband. We admired the nobility of her resolution, nor - was it possible for us to counsel her otherwise than as her own - pure heart dictated. Indeed, dear madam, we had nothing to oppose - to her own views. She was right. God has now taken her to Himself, - and be satisfied that she is happy, for surely she was of those who - are tried by the Lord in this world only that they shall enter more - surely as partakers of the glory of God and the life everlasting of - His Kingdom. - - ‘I propose that the funeral shall take place on Tuesday, if by - that date you and Mr. Campbell can conveniently reach this place. - Almost her last thoughts were with you and your husband and your - two children, and she desired me to send you her blessing, to tell - you that she was without pain, that the peace of God was upon her - spirit, and that she desired rest. One of the last wishes she - expressed was that her money should be divided between and settled - upon your two children. - - ‘I am, dear madam, - ‘Sincerely yours, - ‘JOHN F. TRUSCOTT. - - ‘P.S.--I reopen this letter after an interval of a week, to express - my deep regret that owing to an oversight on the part of one of my - servants it was not posted when written. It was placed upon the - mantelpiece and the servant was directed to post it, but, by some - means I am unable to account for, it got hidden behind a large - clock that stands upon my mantelpiece. I beg your forgiveness. I - am bitterly grieved by this act of neglect. The remains of your - dear sister were buried on Wednesday. I trust this letter may - safely reach your hands, and should you or Mr. Campbell be unable - to immediately visit us I shall be happy to attend to any requests - you may have to make.’ - -I read this letter aloud with tearless eyes to the last syllable of it, -then remained gazing at it as though I had been turned to stone, and -thus I sat, and nothing broke the silence in that room for many minutes -but the tick of the clock or the fall of an ember in the grate. - -Then, lifting up my eyes and looking at Mrs. Lee, I said, ‘Mary is -dead!’ - -‘She is dead,’ said Mrs. Lee, beginning to weep, ‘and so is Alice, and -so is Edith, and how much happier are they than we!’ - -‘She is dead,’ I cried, ‘my sister is dead!’ and I rose and stepped -about the room murmuring to myself, ‘She is dead---and I was not there -to attend upon her---and whilst she lay dying I might have been playing -with my children and not thinking of her---’And then, seeing Mrs. Lee -weeping, the sight of her tears loosened mine, and I flung myself upon -my knees at her side and buried my face in her lap. - -I felt my dear friend’s soft hand upon my head, and I heard her whisper -in my ear, ‘Agnes, it is at such a moment as this that you need your -husband’s love and sympathy.’ - -‘Oh, John!’ I cried, starting to my feet, ‘if you were but here.’ - -‘He is lonely--his grief will not be less than yours, Agnes,’ said Mrs. -Lee. ‘Prove now a true wife to your husband.’ - -‘I will go to him,’ I cried. - -She kissed me, and again I knelt by her side, and with clasped hands -and streaming eyes we talked of Mary and of Alice and of my husband. - - -THE END - - - PRINTED BY - SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE - LONDON - - -[Illustration] - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a -predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they -were not changed. - -Simple typographical errors were corrected. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Alone on a Wide Wide Sea, Vol. III (of -3), by W. 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