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| author | pgww <pgww@lists.pglaf.org> | 2025-09-16 11:22:03 -0700 |
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| committer | pgww <pgww@lists.pglaf.org> | 2025-09-16 11:22:03 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/76887-0.txt b/76887-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..13e682c --- /dev/null +++ b/76887-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6410 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76887 *** + + + + + + DEAD-SEA FRUIT + + + A Novel + + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + “LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET,” + + ETC., ETC., ETC. + + + IN THREE VOLUMES. + + + VOL. III. + + + + + LONDON + WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER + WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW + 1868. + + + [_All rights reserved_] + + + + + LONDON: + PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO., + 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + CHAP. PAGE + + I. VALE 1 + + II. “STILL FROM ONE SORROW TO ANOTHER THROWN” 25 + + III. LEFT ALONE 36 + + IV. THE MORLAND COUGH 46 + + V. LUCY’S FAREWELL TO THE STAGE 63 + + VI. “COULD LOVE PART THUS?” 88 + + VII. A SUMMER STORM 112 + + VIII. A FINAL INTERVIEW 143 + + IX. TIMELY BANISHMENT 158 + + X. SIT TIBI TERRA LEVIS 169 + + XI. HIDDEN HOPES 182 + + XII. NORTHWARD 204 + + XIII. HALKO’S HEAD 216 + + XIV. HOPELESS 233 + + XV. STRONGER THAN DEATH 298 + + XVI. RECONCILED 322 + + + + + DEAD-SEA FRUIT. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + VALE. + + +“AT my own quarters trouble unutterable awaited me. While I had +amused myself with the more piquant society of Gulnare, my sad +sweet love--my Medora--had fled from her solitary bower. I found my +household gods shattered; and standing among their ruins, I was fain +to confess that I had deserved the stroke. She was gone. The poor +child had borne my absence so uncomplainingly that I had been almost +inclined to resent a patience that seemed like coldness. Had she been +more demonstrative--had her affection or her jealousy assumed a more +dramatic and soul-stirring form--it might have been better for both +of us. But the poor child locked all her feelings so closely in her +breast, that she had of late seemed to me the tamest and dullest of +womankind--an automaton with a woe-begone face. + +“The woman who waited upon her in that rude mountain home told me that +she was gone. She had gone out early in the day--soon after my own +departure--and had not been seen since that time. She had seen me in a +carriage with a strange lady, and had, by some means, possessed herself +of the secret of my visits to the lodge in the valley. This very woman +had, perhaps, been C.’s informant, though she stoutly denied the fact +when I taxed her with it. + +“She was gone. It mattered little how she had obtained the information +that had prompted her to this mad act. For some minutes I stood +motionless on the spot where I had heard these tidings, powerless to +decide what I ought to do. And then, sudden as a shaft of Apollo the +destroyer, there darted into my brain the idea of suicide. That poor +benighted child had left her cheerless home to destroy herself. + +“I rushed from the house, pausing only to bid the woman send her +husband after me with a lantern and a rope. What I was going to do I +knew not. My first impulse was to seek her myself, along that desolate +coast. She might wander for hours by the sea she loved so well, +shrinking from that cold refuge, loth to fling herself into the strong +arms of that stern lover for whom she would fain forsake me. + +“I waited only till I saw D. emerge with his dimly-twinkling light, +called to him to follow me, and then ran down the craggy winding +way--the Devil’s Staircase--to the sands below. + +“And then I remembered the heights above me--the little classic temple +in which we had so often sat--and I shivered as I thought what a +fearful leap madness might take from that rocky headland. I had told C. +the story of Sappho,--of course giving her the ideal Sappho of modern +poesy, and not the flaunting, wine-bibbing, strong-minded, wrong-minded +Mitylenean lady of Attic comedy,--and we had agreed that Phaon--if +indeed there ever existed such a person--was a monster. + +“As I hurried along those lonely sands, dark with the shadows of the +heights above, I remembered the soft spring sunset in which I had +related the well-worn fable, and I could almost feel my love’s little +hand clinging tenderly to my arm--the hand whose gentle touch I never +was to feel again. + +“I will not excruciate thee, reader, or bore thee, as the case may be, +by one of those prolonged intervals of suspense whereby the venal hack +of the Minerva Press would attempt to harrow thy feelings, and eke out +his tale of strawless brick. For thee, too, life has had its fond hopes +and idle dreams, its bitter disappointments, chilling disillusions, +dark hours of remorse. + +“Enough that in this crisis I suffered--suffered as I have never +suffered since that day. My search was in vain; nor were the efforts of +the men whom I sent in all directions of the coast--by the cliff and +by the sands--of more avail. For two days and two nights I suffered +the tortures of Cain. I told myself that this girl’s blood was upon +my head; and if, in that hour when the thought of her untimely death +was so keen and unendurable an agony, she could have appeared suddenly +before me, I think I should have thrown myself at her feet and offered +her the devotion of my life, the legal right to bear my name. + +“She did not so appear, and the hour passed. Upon the third morning, +after a delay that had seemed an eternity of torture, the post brought +me a letter from C. She was at E----, whither she had gone, after long +brooding upon my inconstancy. + +‘I will not try to tell you all I have suffered,’ she wrote; ‘my most +passionate words would seem to you cold and meaningless when measured +against those Greek poets whose verse is your standard for every +feeling. I will only say you have broken my heart. My story begins and +ends in that one sentence. There must come an end even to such worship +as mine. Oh! H., you have been very cruel to me! I have seen you with +the beautiful foreign lady, whose society has been pleasanter to you +than mine. Your carriage drove past me one day, as I stood half-hidden +by the bushes upon a sloping bank above the road, and I heard her +joyous laugh, and saw your head bent over her long dark ringlets, and +knew that you were happy with her. + +‘From the hour in which I discovered how utterly you had deceived me, +my life has been one continued struggle with despair. You do not know +how I loved those whom I left for your sake. In all the passion and +pain of your Greek poetry, I doubt if there is a sentence strong enough +to express the agony that I feel when I think of those dear friends, +and stretch out my arms to them across the gulf that yawns between +us. You read me a description of the ghosts in the dark under-world +one day, before you had grown too weary of me to let me share your +thoughts. I feel like those ghosts, H. + +‘Why should I tire you with a long letter? I leave you free to find +happiness with the lady whose name even I do not know. + +‘Perhaps some day, when you are growing old, and have become weary of +all the pleasures upon earth, you will think a little more tenderly +of her who thought it a small thing to peril her soul in the hope of +giving you happiness, and who awoke from her fond, foolish dream, to +find, with anguish unspeakable, that the sacrifice had been as vain as +it was wicked.’ + +“This letter melted me; and yet I was inclined to be angry with C. for +the unnecessary pain her abrupt disappearance had inflicted upon me. I +was divided between this feeling and the relief of mind afforded by the +knowledge that my folly had not resulted in any fatal event. She had +gone to E---- in a fit of jealousy, and she favoured me with the usual +feminine reproaches so natural to the narrow female intellect--imagine +a _man_ reminding his friend at every turn of the sacrifices he +had made for friendship!--and she sent me the address of that humble +inn where she had taken up her abode, and of course expected me to +hasten thither as fast as post-horses could convey me. + +“Nothing could be more hackneyed than the end of the little romance. +I will not say that I was capable of feeling disappointed because the +poor child had not drowned herself; but I confess that this commonplace +turn which the affair had taken, grated on my sense of the poetical. +It is possible that I had indeed learnt to measure everything by the +standard of Greek verse; certain it is that it seemed a sinking in +poetry to descend from Sappho’s fatal leap to a commercial-travellers’ +tavern at E----. + +‘I will start for E---- to-morrow morning,’ I said to myself; but +without enthusiasm. + +“Had I rescued my love from all-devouring ocean--had I found her +wandering half-crazed upon the mountains, like that lorn maiden whom +even savage beasts compassionated, when she roamed disconsolate, crying, + + ‘Tall grow the forest trees, O Menalcas,’-- + +I think I should have taken her to my heart of hearts, and sacrificed +my freedom to secure her happiness. But this departure for E----, and +the long reproachful letter, savoured of calculation; and against the +manœuvres of feminine diplomacy I wore the armour of experience. + +“I ordered post-horses for the following morning, and then set off +in the direction of my friend’s hunting-lodge. ‘My bosom’s lord sat +lightly on his throne,’ relieved from the burden of a great terror; but +poor C.’s dreary letter was not calculated to put me in high spirits, +and I hastened to refresh myself with the society of the sparkling +Carlitz. + +“I languished for the frivolous talk of people and places I knew--the +_olla-podrida_ of sentiments and fancies, facts and fictions, +spiced with that dash of originality, or at the least audacity, +wherewith an accomplished woman of the world flavours her small-talk. +Lightly and swiftly I trod the hill-side, pleased when the blue smoke +curling from the familiar chimneys met my eager eyes. + +‘Is it possible that I am in love with this woman?’ I asked myself, +wonderingly. + +“And then I remembered my despair and terror of yesterday, and the fond +regret with which I had thought of poor C., yearning to clasp her to my +heart, to promise eternal fidelity. + +“The hour had passed. I tried in vain to recall the feeling. I felt +that it was more worthy of me than the fickle fancy which led me to the +feet of Madame Carlitz; but man is the creature of circumstance, and my +best feelings had been _froissé_ by the conventional aspect which +C.’s flight had assumed. + +“A deep-mouthed thunder greeted me as I entered E. T.’s domain, the +bass bow-wowing of some canine monster. + +‘What new fancy?’ I asked myself, as a huge mastiff ran out at me, and +made as if he would have rent me limb from limb. I was half inclined +to seat myself on the ground, after the example of Ulysses, and the +accomplished Mure of Cladwell; but before the creature could commence +operations a familiar voice called to him, and E. T. himself emerged +from the porch. + +‘My dear H.,’ he exclaimed, ‘what an unexpected felicity! I thought you +were at Vienna.’ + +‘Indeed! I cried, somewhat piqued. ‘Has not Madame Carlitz told you of +my whereabouts?’ + +‘I have not seen her.’ + +‘You have not seen her!’ I exclaimed, in utter bewilderment. + +‘No. Madame left yesterday morning with Mr. and Mrs. H. I only arrived +last night. Come indoors, old fellow, and let us hear your adventures +since our last meeting. + +“I followed my friend across the little hall into the bare, +tobacco-scented, bachelor sitting-room. The enchanter’s wand had been +waived a second time, and the fairy vision had melted into thin air. +Tiny dogs, dainty and fragile as animated Dresden china, ribbon-adorned +guitar, satin-lined work-baskets, velvet-bound blotting-books, +_déjeûners_ in old Vienna porcelain, card-bowl of priceless +Worcester, leopard-skins, lounging-chairs, _portière_, and +French prints had vanished; and in the place which these frivolities +had embellished, I beheld the bare battered writing-table and shabby +smoking-apparatus of my reckless friend, who stood with his arms +a-kimbo, and a tawny-hided bull-dog between his legs, grinning--man and +dog both, as it seemed to me--at my discomfiture. + +‘What!’ cried E., ‘it was for the divine Carlitz your visit was +intended? My shepherd told me there had been a fine London gentleman +hanging about the place while madame and her following were here; but +he could not tell me the fine gentleman’s name, and I little thought +you were he. Come, my dear boy, fill yourself a pipe, and let’s talk +over old times. You’ve been buried among your dryasdust books, I +suppose, while I have been scouring Northern Europe in pursuit of the +rapid reindeer and the sulky salmon.’ + +‘We’ll talk as much as you like presently,’ I replied, ‘but just let +me understand matters first. When I left madame and the H.’s the other +night, it was understood they were to remain here some time longer. +What took her to town?--is the Bonbonnière season to begin?’ + +‘The Bonbonnière! My dear friend, this is really dreadful. The +lamentable state of ignorance which results from the cultivation of +polite learning is, to a plain man, something astounding. Learn, my +benighted recluse, that the Bonbonnière Theatre will be opened for +the performance of the legitimate drama early next month by the great +Mackenzie, who inaugurates his season with the thrilling tragedy +of _Coriolanus_, so interesting to the youthful mind from its +association with the pleasing studies of boyhood. Madame Carlitz has +sold her lease of the pretty little theatre; and on very advantageous +terms, I assure you.’ + +‘She has sold her lease! Does she intend to leave the stage, or to take +a larger theatre?’ + +‘She intends to do neither the one nor the other. She appears on a +grander stage, and in an entirely new character. She is going to marry +Lord V.’ + +‘Impossible!’ + +‘An established fact, my dear boy. The noble earl, as the fashionable +journalists call him, has been nibbling at the enchantress’s bait +for the last twelve months--rather a difficult customer to land, +you know--turned sulky when he felt the hook in his jaw, and got +away among the rushes; but Carlitz used her gaff, and brought him +to land. And now the talk of the town is their impending union. The +great ladies _de par le monde_ intend to cut her, I believe; but +Carlitz has announced her intention of taking the initiative, and +cutting _them_. “I shall cultivate the foreign legations,” she +told little J. C. of the F. O., “and make myself independent of our +home nobility.” And, egad, she is capable of doing it! She is like +Robespierre,--_elle ira loin_,--because she believes in herself.’ + +‘But Carlitz!’ I gasped; ‘has she got a divorce?’ + +‘My benighted friend, the decease of M. Carlitz, or Don Estephan +Carlitz, of the Spanish wine-trade, is an event as notorious in modern +history as the demise of that respectable sovereign, Queen Anne. He +died three months ago at the Cape, whence it was his habit to import +that choice Amontillado in which he dealt. Madame was prompt to improve +the occasion offered by her widowhood; but I have heard it whispered +that the noble earl made it a condition that she should clear herself +of debt before--to continue the fashionable journalist’s phrase--he led +her to the hymeneal altar. Of course you are aware that the noble earl +is amongst the meanest of mankind.’ + +“Yes, I knew V., a little middle-aged man, suspected of wearing a +wig, and renowned for harmless eccentricities in the way of amateur +coach-building. Alas, what perfidy! Those bright, sympathetic glances, +those tender smiles, those low tremulous tones, had been all a part of +one coldly-calculated design--the ladylike extortion of so much ready +money from the pockets of weak, adoring youth. The divine Estelle had +been all this time the plighted wife of Lord V., and had traded upon my +admiration in order to secure the means of purchasing a coronet. + +“I burst into a savage laugh, and when E. pressed me with questions, +I told him the whole story. He, too, laughed aloud, but with evident +enjoyment. And then he told me how my wily enchantress had borrowed his +rustic retreat, and had come to these remote fastnesses in order to +exasperate poor vacillating V. into a tangible offer, and how she had +succeeded. + +‘I was staying with another fellow further south,’ said my friend, ‘and +received a few lines from madame the day before yesterday, resigning +possession of my shanty, and announcing her approaching espousals; “you +must come for the shooting at the Towers next autumn,” she said, in +her postscript. Begins to patronize already, you see.’ + +“After this E. insisted on detaining me to dine with him. Our dinner +was ill-cooked, ill-served; and my friend’s conversation was a mixture +of London gossip and Norwegian sporting experiences. How I loathed the +empty, vapid talk! How I envied this mindless animal his barbarous +pleasure in the extermination of other animals, little inferior to +himself! I went back to my own quarters in a savage humour, and it +seemed to me that my anger included all womankind. + +‘I have been fooled and deluded by one woman,’ I said to myself; ‘I +will not give myself a prey into the hands of another. C. has chosen to +inaugurate our separation. I will not attempt to reverse her decision. +My duty I am prepared to do; but I will do no more.’ + +“Thus resolved, I seated myself at my rough study-table, and wrote a +long letter to C.--a very serious, and I think a sufficiently kind, +letter--in which I set forth the state of my own feelings. ‘I had hoped +that we should find perfect happiness in each other’s society,’ I +wrote, in conclusion; ‘I need scarcely tell you that hope has been most +cruelly disappointed. You were the first to show that our happiness was +an impossibility. You have been the first to sever the tie which I had +fondly believed would be lasting. I accept your decision; but I do not +consider myself absolved from the duty of providing for your future. +For myself, I shall leave Europe for a wilder and more interesting +hemisphere, where I shall endeavour to find forgetfulness of the bitter +disappointments that have befallen me here.’ + +“I then told C. how I designed immediately to open an account for her +at a certain bank, upon which she would be at liberty to draw at the +rate of four hundred a year. + +‘Have no fear for the future,’ I wrote; ‘a lady with a settled income +of four hundred a year can find friends in any quarter of the globe, +and need never be troubled with impertinent inquiries about her +antecedents. I shall always be glad to hear of your welfare; and if you +will keep me acquainted with your whereabouts--letters addressed to the +“Travellers” will always reach me--I shall make a point of seeking you +out on my return to England.’ + +“This letter I despatched, and the chaise that was to have taken me to +E---- took me to London, where I made the necessary arrangements with +my banker, and whence I departed for a tour of exploration in South +America. + +“It was after two years’ absence that I returned to discover that the +account opened in C.’s name had never been drawn upon. And thus ended +the story that had opened like an idyll. I have sometimes feared that +an unhappy fate must have overtaken this poor foolish girl, and my +recollection of her is not unmixed with remorse. But I have reflected +that it was more likely her beauty had secured her an advantageous +marriage, and that she was unable to avail herself of the provision I +had made for her. + +“I instituted a careful inquiry, in the hope of discovering her fate, +but without result. Her parents at B---- were both dead--strange +fatality!--and from no other source could I obtain tidings of my poor +C. M. Thus ended my brief, broken love-story. It was with a feeling of +relief that I told myself it had thus ended; for I could but remember +that the course of events might have taken a very different turn, and +one for me most embarrassing. + +“If C. had been a woman of the world, or if she had fallen into the +hands of some legal adventurer, I might have found myself fixed with +a wife, and bound by a chain not to be broken on this side the grave. +As it is, I retain my freedom, and only in my most pensive and sombre +hours does the pale shadow of that half-forgotten love arise before me, +gently reproachful. + +“And in these rare intervals of life’s busy conflict, when the press +and hurry give pause, and I sit alone in my tent, the words of the +poor child’s letter come back to me with a strange significance. +_Perhaps some day, when you are growing old and have become weary of +all the pleasures upon earth, you will think a little more tenderly +of her who thought it a small thing to peril her soul in the hope of +giving you happiness._ + +“Life’s intricate journey has so many crossroads. Who can tell whether +he has not sometimes taken the wrong turning? Should I have been +happier if I had given G. a legal right to bore me for the remainder +of my existence? Happier! For me there is no such possibility. To be +happier, a man must first be happy; and happiness is a bright phantom +which I have vainly pursued for the last fifteen years. I should at +best have been differently miserable. + +“I am still free, and I meet the lovely Lady V. in that seventh heaven +of the great world to which she has contrived to push her way, and she +gives me a patronizing smile and a lofty inclination of her beautiful +head; and it is tacitly agreed between us that our rambles and picnics +beneath the snow-clad hills are to be as the dreams of days that never +were.” + + +Here the _Disappointments of Dion_ lost its chief interest for +Eustace Thorburn, for here the record of his mother’s hapless love +ended. Beyond this, and to the very close, he had read the book +carefully, weighing every sentence, for it was the epitome of his +father’s character. In every line there was egotism, in every page the +confession of energies and talents wasted in the pursuit of personal +gratification. For ever and for ever, the weary wretch pursues the +same worthless prize--the prize more difficult of attainment than the +new world of a Columbus, or the new planet of a Herschel. With less +pains a man might achieve a result that would be a lasting heritage for +his fellow-men, and might die with the proud boast of Ulysses on his +lips--“I am become a name!” + +Through fair and sunny Italy; in wild Norseland; in the granite and +marble palaces of St. Petersburg; nay, beyond Caucasian mounts and +valleys; amid the ruins of Persepolis; across the sandy wastes, and +by the snow-clad mountains of Afghanistan; deep into the heart of +Hindustan,--the worldling had pursued his phantom prey; and everywhere, +in civilized city or in tiger-haunted jungle, the hunter after +happiness found only disappointment. + +“A tiger-hunt is the dreariest thing imaginable,” he wrote; “it is +all waiting and watching, and prowling and lurking behind bushes; a +dastardly, sneaking business, which makes one feel more ignoble than +the tiger. For genuine excitement the race for the Derby is better; and +a man can enjoy a fever of expectation at Epsom which he cannot equal +in Bengal.” + +And anon; “That most musical and meretricious of poets, Thomas Moore, +has a great deal to answer for. I have been all through the East in +search of his Light of the Harem, and have found only darkness, or the +merest rushlights, the faintest twinkling tapers that ever glimmered +through their brief span. And so I return disappointed from the Eastern +world, to seek new disappointments in the West.” + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + “STILL FROM ONE SORROW TO ANOTHER THROWN.” + + +EUSTACE closed the book with a sigh--a sigh for the father he had never +known, the father who had never known his birth; a sigh for the mother +whose life had been sacrificed on so poor an altar. He had been reading +for some hours with very little consciousness of the passage of time. + +“You seem to be interested in that book, Mr. Thorburn,” said a familiar +voice from the bank above him. + +He started to his feet, dropped his book, turned, and looked up at +the speaker. The voice was the voice of Harold Jerningham; and that +gentleman was standing on the bank, pointing downward at the fallen +book with the tip of his extended cane, as he might have pointed to +some creature of the reptile tribe. + +“You startled me a little, Mr. Jerningham,” said Eustace, as he stooped +to pick up the book. + +“Your study must have been deeply interesting to you, or you could +scarcely have been so unconscious of my footsteps. Permit me.” He +took the volume from the young man’s hand and turned the leaves +listlessly. “One of your favourite dialogues, I suppose? No; an English +novel. _Dion! Dion?_ I have some recollection of a book called +_Dion_. What a very shabby person he looks after the lapse of +years! Really, the authors of that time suffered some disadvantage +at the hands of their publishers. What dismal gray binding! what +meagre-looking type! The very paper has a musty odour. And you are +deeply interested in _Dion_?” + +“Yes; I am deeply interested.” + +“The book strikes you as powerful?” + +“No. The writer strikes me as a consummate scoundrel.” + +Mr. Jerningham smiled, a faint smile. His smiles were for the most part +faint and wan, like the smiles of a wandering spirit in the house of +Hades. + +“Do not be so energetic in your denunciation, Mr. Thorburn,” he said, +quietly. “The man who wrote _Dion_ was as other men of his +time--just a little selfish, perhaps, and anxious to travel on the +sunny side of the great highway.” + +“Did you know him?” asked Eustace, with sudden eagerness. + +“Not the least in the world. But I know his book. People talked of it a +little at the time, and there was some discussion about the authorship; +all kinds of improbable persons were suggested. Yes; it all comes back +to me as I look at the pages. A very poor book; stilted, affected, +coxcombical. What a fool the man must have been to print such a piece +of egotism!” + +“Yes. It seems strange that any man could publish a book for the +purpose of proclaiming himself a villain.” + +“Not at all. But it is strange that a man can give his villany to +the world in a _poor_ book--a book not containing one element of +literary success; and that he should take the trouble of writing all +this. Yes, it is very strange. An indolent kind of man, too--as one +would imagine from the book. A very feeble book! I see a wrong tense +here in a Latin quotation. The man did not even know his Catullus. +Thanks.” + +Mr. Jerningham returned the volume with a graceful listlessness and +with a half-regretful sigh, as if it wearied him even to remember so +feeble a book. He strolled away, leaving Eustace wondering that he +should have fallen across a man who was familiar with his father’s +book, and who in person resembled his father. + +“If Mr. Jerningham had written his own biography, it might have been +something like this book,” he said to himself. And then another +IF--stupendous, terrible--presented itself to his mind. + +But this he dismissed as an absurd and groundless fancy. + +“What accident is more common than such a likeness as that +between us two?” he asked of himself. “The world is full of such +half-resemblances, to say nothing of the Lesurges and Debosques who are +guillotined in mistake for one another.” + +He left the seat on the river-bank, and strolled slowly homeward by a +different path from that Mr. Jerningham had taken. + +His reperusal of the book had been upon one point conclusive to him. +The few details of the scene had told him at first that it had been +laid in the British dominions. Reflection convinced him that Scotland +was the locality of that solitary mountain habitation where his +mother’s sad days had been spent. + +_This_ had been Celia’s unknown power. This habitation upon +Scottish soil was the hold which she had possessed over her lover. In +the character of his wife he had brought her to Scotland, and there +had made his domicile with her during a period of several months; and +by the right of that Scottish home, that open acknowledgment, she +_was_ his wife. She had fled from him, unconscious of this. But +if she had been conscious of this power, her son told himself that she +would have been too noble to use it; too proud to call herself a wife +by favour of a legal quibble. + +“I will talk it over with Uncle Dan,” Eustace said to himself; “and if +he and I are agreed upon the subject, I will go to Scotland and hunt +out the scene, supposing that to be possible from so slight a clue as +this book will give us.” + +He knew that by the law of Scotland he was in all probability +legitimatized; but not for the wealth of Scotland would he have sought +to establish such a claim upon that nameless father, whom of all men +that ever lived upon this earth he most despised. + +“He abandoned her to lonely self-upbraiding, long, dreary days of +remorse, humiliation, sorrow past all comfort--the thought of the +sorrow her sin had wrought for those she loved. He let her bear this +bitter burden without one effort to lighten or to share it. He +deserted the woman he had destroyed, because--she did not amuse him. +Is this what wealth, and polite letters, and civilization make of a +man? God forbid! Such a man should have worn imperial purple, and died +the imperator’s common death in the days of Rome’s decadence. He is an +anachronism in a Christian age.” + +He walked slowly back to the cottage, where he had but just time to +dress for dinner. The evening passed quietly. Of the four people +assembled in M. de Bergerac’s drawing room, three were singularly quiet +and thoughtful. + +The summer dusk favoured silent meditation. Mr. Jerningham sat apart +in a garden-chair under the long, rustic verandah, half-curtained with +trailing branches of clematis and honeysuckle; Eustace sat in the +darkest corner of the low drawing-room, where Helen occupied herself in +playing dreamy German melodies upon her piano. M. de Bergerac strolled +up and down before the lawn, stopping every now and then to say +something to his friend Harold Jerningham. + +“How silent and thoughtful we are to-night!” he cried at last, after +having received more than one random answer from the master of +Greenlands. “One would think you had seen a ghost, Harold; your eyes +are fixed, like the eyes of Brutus at Philippi, or of Agamemnon when +the warning shade of Achilles appeared to him, before the sailing of +the ship that was to take him home--to death. What is the phantom at +which you gaze with eyes of gloom?” + +“The ghost of the Past,” answered Mr. Jerningham, as he rose to join +his friend. “Not to Lot’s wife alone is it fatal to look back. I have +been looking back to-day, Theodore.” + + +Within, all was silent except the piano, softly touched by slow, gentle +hands, that stole along the keys in a languid, legato movement. + +The player wondered at the change which had come upon her companion and +fellow-student, and wondered to find the change in him so keen a sorrow +to herself. + +Very gloomy were the thoughts of Eustace as he sat in his dark corner, +with closed eyes, and hands clasped above his head. + +“How dare I tell him who and what I am, and then ask for the hand of +his only daughter? Can I hope that even his simplicity will pardon such +a family history as that which I must tell?” + +All through the dark hours of that midsummer night he lay awake, +brooding over the pages he had read, and thinking of the stain upon +his name. To an older man, steeped in the hard wisdom of the world, +the stigma would have been a lesser agony. He would have counted over +to himself the list of great names made by the men who bore them, and +would have found for himself crumbs of comfort. But for Eustace there +was none. He had set up his divinity, and it seemed to him that only +the richest tribute could be offered upon a shrine so pure. + +His thoughts deepened in gloom as the night waned, until the fever in +his mind assumed the force of inspiration. Rash and impetuous as youth +and poetry, he resolved that for him hope there was none, except far +a-field of this Arcadian dwelling. + +“Shall I offer myself, nameless, in order to be refused?” he asked. +“No. I will leave this too dear home, and go out into the world to make +myself a name among modern poets before I ask confession or promise of +Helen de Bergerac.” + +To make himself a name among modern poets! The dream was a bold one. +But the dreamer told himself that the ladder of Fame is sometimes +mounted with a rush, and that for the successful writer of magazine +lyrics it needs but a year or so of isolation and concentrated labour, +a year or so of fervent devotion in the temple of Apollo, a year +or so of poetic quietism, to accomplish the one great work which +shall transform the graceful singer of modern Horatian odes into the +world-renowned poet. + +“I will tear myself away from this place before the week is out,” he +said, with resolution that made the words a vow; “’tis too bright, too +beautiful, too happy, and is dangerous as Armida’s garden for the man +who would fain serve apprenticeship to the Muses.” + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + LEFT ALONE. + + +WHILE Mr. Jerningham dawdled away existence among the woods and hills +of Berkshire, his wife’s life was marked by changes more eventful, and +ruffled by deeper passions. + +To Lucy Alford the lady of River Lawn had shown herself a kind and +generous friend. Not long had the poor child enjoyed the luxurious +quiet of the Hampton villa when she was suddenly summoned away from it. +Mr. Desmond had managed her father’s affairs and pacified her father’s +creditors; with what pecuniary sacrifice was only known to himself. But +a sterner gaoler than the warder of Whitecross Street lay in wait for +Lucy’s father, ready to stretch forth the icy hand that was to arrest +that battered and broken wayfarer. + +Debts and difficulties, disappointments and humiliations, with constant +habits of inebriation, had done their fatal work for Tristram Alford. +’Twas but a poor wreck of humanity which emerged from the dreary city +prison, when Laurence told his old tutor that he was free. The old man +had suffered from one paralytic seizure long ago, in his better days +of private tutorship. He had a second seizure in the Whitecross Street +ward, but made light of the attack; and although he knew himself to be +a wreck, was happily unconscious how near was the hour of his sinking. + +Lucy returned to the dreary Islington lodgings, to find her father +strangely, nay, indeed, alarmingly, altered. She wrote to Mrs. +Jerningham to tell her fears, and Emily made haste to send a physician +to see the invalid. The physician shook his head despondently, but +recommended rest and change of air. These, with the aid of Mrs. +Jerningham’s ample purse, were easily procured, and Lucy and her father +were despatched to Ventnor. + +Laurence saw the physician, and asked for a candid opinion upon +Tristram Alford’s state. + +“The man is a habitual drunkard,” replied the doctor, “and has +evidently been killing himself with brandy for the last ten years. If +you take the brandy-bottle away from him, he will die; if you let him +go on drinking, he will die. The case is beyond a cure. The man’s brain +is alcoholized. His next attack must be fatal.” + +Having once enlisted Mrs. Jerningham’s friendship for Lucy Alford, Mr. +Desmond felt that the young lady’s fortunes had passed out of his care. +Already Emily had shown herself so kind and generous that it would have +been base ingratitude to doubt her charity in every new emergency. He +therefore held himself aloof from Lucy and her father, and only from +Mrs. Jerningham did he hear how it fared with the girl in whose fate he +had taken so benevolent an interest. But while he made no overt attempt +to comfort or assist her in the hour of trial and trouble, he thought +of her, and pitied her, with a constancy that was at once perplexing +and unpleasing to his own mind. + +“Poor little thing!” he said to himself, when he thought of the +motherless girl watching the fading hours of her sole protector. And +he wondered to perceive how much tenderness it was possible to infuse +into those three common words. “Poor little thing! Tristram Alford +cannot last many weeks--that is certain. And then--and then? She will +be left quite alone in the world. And she must suppress all sign of her +natural grief, and enact one of _those ladies_--ever so slightly +expurgated--in _Côtelettes sautées chez Véfour_. What a dreary +present! what a hopeless future!” + +And at this point Mr. Desmond would dig his pen savagely into the +paper, destroy the quill of an unoffending goose, and fling it from him +in a sudden rage. + +“What is it to me?” he asked himself. “There are hundreds of friendless +girls in London for whom the future is as hopeless. Am I going to turn +Quixote, and ride a tilt against the windmills of modern civilization?” + +One morning in February the editor of the _Areopagus_ found +an envelope edged with deepest black upon his breakfast-table. It +contained a brief despairing scrawl from Lucy, smeared and blotted with +many tears. Death had claimed his victim. The third seizure had come, +and all was over. + +“I cannot tell you how kind Mrs. Jerningham has been,” wrote the +mourner; “all is arranged for the funeral. It is to take place on +Friday. My poor dear will rest in a pleasant spot. It is very hard to +bear this parting; but I think it would have seemed harder to me if he +had died in London.” And then followed little pious sentences, in which +faith struggled with despair. + +“He was always good and kind,” she wrote; “I cannot recall one cross +word from his dear lips. He did not go to church so regularly as +religious people think right; but he was very good. He read the Bible +sometimes, and cried over it; and wherever we lodged, the little +children loved him. It was not in his nature to be harsh or unkind. May +God teach me to be as good and gentle as he was, and grant that we may +meet some day in a happier world!” + +“The funeral is to be on Friday,” repeated Mr. Desmond, when he had +folded and put away the letter. He was on the point of endorsing it +with the rest of his correspondence, but changed his mind, and laid it +gently aside in a drawer of his desk. “Not amongst tradesmen’s lies, +and samples of double-crown, and contributors’ complaints,” he said. +“On Friday? Yes; I will attend my poor old tutor’s funeral. It will +comfort her to think that _one_ friend followed him to his grave.” + + +Early on the appointed morning, Mr. Desmond knocked at the door of the +Ventnor lodging-house. + +“Miss Alford is at home, of course,” he said to the maid. “Be so good +as to take her this card, and tell her that I have come to attend the +funeral, but will not intrude upon her.” + +He spoke in a low voice; but those cautious, suppressed tones are of +all accents the most penetrating. The door of the parlour was opened +softly, and Mrs. Jerningham came out into the passage. + +“I recognized your voice,” she said. “How very good of you to come!” + +“Not at all. But how good of _you_ to come! I had no idea that I +should meet you here.” + +“And I was quite sure that I should meet _you_ here,” replied +Emily, with the faintest possible sneer. + +“Is Lucy in that room?” + +“Yes.” + +“I do not want to see her. I wished to show my regard for that poor +old man. I spent many pleasant days under his roof, and he has made +so lonely an ending. It is very good of you to come, Emily; and your +presence here relieves me very much with regard to that poor girl’s +future. I do not think you would be here if you were not really +interested in her.” + +“Yes, Laurence; I am really interested in--your _protégée_.” + +“She is not my _protégée_; but I wish you to make her yours, +because I scarcely think you could find a creature more in need of your +charity. Poor child! she is very much distressed, I suppose.” + +“For the moment she is heart-broken. I shall take her away from here +this evening.” + +“My dear Emily, I knew I was safe in relying on your noble nature!” +exclaimed the editor, with enthusiasm. + +“For pity’s sake, do not be so grateful. I have done no more than I +would for any other helpless woman whom fate flung across my path. +In the whole affair there is only one element that makes the act a +sacrifice.” + +“And that is----?” + +“What only a woman can feel or understand. Pray, do not let us talk +about it. The funeral will not take place for an hour.” + +“I will go and get a band for my hat, and return here for the ceremony. +There will be one mourning-coach, I suppose.” + +“Yes. The doctor has kindly promised to act as chief mourner. There is +no one else.” + +“Poor Tristram! If you only knew that man’s appreciation of Greek; +and Greek is the only language which requires a special genius in the +scholar. And to die like this!” + +Mr. Desmond departed to get his hat bound with the insignia of grief. +Mrs. Jerningham went back to the parlour, where the orphan sat with +listless hands loosely locked, and vacant, tearless eyes, lost in a +stupor of grief. But even in this stupor she had recognized the voice +of her dead father’s only friend. + +“Was not that Mr. Desmond in the passage just now?” she asked. + +“Yes; he has come down to attend his old friend’s funeral.” + +“How good of him! How kind you both are to me!” murmured Lucy. “Oh, +believe me, I am grateful. And yet, dear Mrs. Jerningham, I feel as if +it would be better for me to be going to lie by _his_ side in that +peaceful grave.” + +“No, Lucy. Your life is all to come. You have known sorrow and trouble; +but you have not drained the cup of happiness only to find the +bitterness of the draught. _That_ is real despair. You have not +outlived your hopes, and your dreams and your faith--nay, indeed, your +very self--as I have.” + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + THE MORLAND COUGH. + + +LAURENCE DESMOND heard the sublimely solemn service read above his old +tutor’s coffin, and left Ventnor without seeing Lucy Alford. Again and +again he told himself that with the orphan girl’s future fate he had +no concern. He had given her a good friend--and a friend of her own +sex--who would doubtless afford her help and protection, directly or +indirectly, in the future. + +“She has passed out of my life,” he said to himself; “poor little +thing! Let me forget that I ever saw her.” + + +When Mr. Desmond paid his next visit to River Lawn he found Lucy +comfortably installed there, and looking pale as the snowdrops in her +simple mourning. She said a few tremulous words in answer to his gentle +greeting, and then left the room. + +“She does not like to talk of her father,” Mrs. Jerningham said, when +she was gone; “and I dare say she has run away to escape your possible +condolences. He seems on the whole to have been rather a worthless +person, but she mourns him as if he had been a saint. ‘We were so +happy together,’ she says; and then she tells me of his interest in +her career, and the patience with which he would sit in the boxes +night after night to see her act, and then would tell her the points +in which she failed, and the points in which she succeeded, and +lament the impossibility of her wearing a mask, with some dreadful +pipe or mouthpiece, like the Greek actors; and she tells me of their +cosy little suppers after the theatre, pettitoes--WHAT are +pettitoes?--and baked potatoes, and sausages, and other dreadful things +which it would be certain death for persons in society to eat; and +so the poor child runs on. She is the most affectionate, grateful +creature I ever met, and I think she is beginning to love me.” + +“She has reason to do so,” replied Mr. Desmond. “I suppose she will be +obliged to go on the stage again. I have a promise of an engagement for +her from my friend Hartstone.” + +“I hope she will not be obliged to accept it. Her father’s death has +caused a complete change in her feelings with regard to the dramatic +profession. The poor old man’s companionship seems to have supported +and sustained her in all her petty trials--and now he has gone, she +shrinks from encountering the difficulties of such a life. So, with +my advice and such assistance as I can give her, she is trying to +qualify herself for the position of governess. Her reading is more +extensive than that of most girls, and she is working hard to supply +the deficiencies of her education.” + +“I am very glad to hear that,” Laurence answered, heartily; “I consider +such a life much better suited to her than the uncertainties of a +provincial theatre.” + +And then he remembered that in the existence of a governess there were +also uncertainties, trials, temptations, loneliness; and it seemed to +him as if Lucy Alford’s destiny must be a care and a perplexity to him +to the end of time. + +“I shall keep Lucy with me for some weeks to come,” said Mrs. +Jerningham; “for I find her a most devoted little companion, and she is +exercising her powers as my reader and amanuensis, in order to prepare +herself for the caprices of some valetudinarian dowager in the future.” + +“You are very good, Emily.” + +“Yes, because I am of some use to your Miss Alford;--that is my virtue +in your eyes, Laurence.” + +“If you are going to talk in that manner, I shall try to catch the next +train.” + +“It is very absurd, is it not?” cried Mrs. Jerningham, with a light +laugh; “but you see it is natural to a woman to be jealous; and a woman +who lives in such a place as this has nothing to do but cherish jealous +fancies.” + +“Let us understand each other once and for ever,” said Laurence, +gravely. “To me Lucy Alford seems little more than a child: the time in +which I used to see her frisking about with a hideous Scotch terrier, +and dressed in a brown-holland pinafore, is not so very remote, you +know. I found her in the most bitter need of a friend; and so far as +I could befriend her, I did so, honestly, biding the time in which I +could enlist a good woman’s sympathy in her behalf. Having done that, +I have done all, and I wash my hands of the whole affair. If there is +the least hazard of jealousy where Miss Alford is concerned, I will not +re-enter this house while she inhabits it.” + +“That would be to punish me for my philanthropy. No, Laurence, I am not +jealous of this poor child, any more than I am jealous of every other +woman to whom you speak. Jealousy is a chronic disease, you see, a kind +of slow fever, and it has taken possession of me.” + +“Emily!” + +“I think it is only another name for nerves. Do not look at me with +such consternation. What is it Mr. Kingsley says?--‘Men must work, +and women must weep.’ They _must_, you see! It is the primary +necessity of their existence; and if they have no real miseries, no +husbands drifting over the harbour-bar to death, they invent sorrows, +and weep over them.” + +To this kind of talk Mr. Desmond was tolerably well accustomed. It is +the kind of talk which a man whom fate, or his own folly, has placed in +a false position is sure to hear. One can fancy that Paris must have +had rather a heavy time of it with Helen; and that when he went forth +prancing like a war-horse to meet Menelaus, his gaiety may have in some +degree arisen from his sense of escaping an impending curtain-lecture +from the divine Tyndarid. + +For some weeks after this conversation the editor of the +_Areopagus_ contrived to be more than usually occupied with the +affairs of his paper. He sent Mrs. Jerningham tickets for concerts, and +new books, and new music; but River Lawn he avoided. It was only upon +a royal command from the lady that he appeared there one afternoon, +about six weeks after the funeral at Ventnor. + +He found Lucy looking better; but Lucy’s patroness was paler than +usual, and was much disturbed by a dry, hacking cough, which somewhat +alarmed Mr. Desmond. + +Emily herself, however, made very light of the cough, nor did Mrs. +Colton seem to consider it of any importance. + +“It is only a winter cough,” said Mrs. Jerningham; “I have suffered +from the same kind of thing every winter, if, indeed, you can call it +suffering. I suppose one must pay some penalty for living by the river. +But I would not exchange my Thames for the gift of exemption from +cough.” + +“It is quite a Morland cough,” said Mrs. Colton; “my sister, Emily’s +mamma, had just the same kind of cough every winter.” + +Morland was the name of Mrs. Jerningham’s maternal ancestry. Laurence +bethought himself that Emily’s mother had died at thirty years of age, +and he was not inclined to make light of the Morland cough. + +“I wish you would come to town to-morrow and see Dr. Leonards,” he +said, by and by, when he and Emily were out of earshot of Mrs. Colton; +“I don’t see why you should go on coughing, or stay by the river, if +Hampton disagrees with you.” + +“Dr. Leonards is the great man for the chest, is he not?” asked +Mrs. Jerningham. “It would be really too absurd for me to see him. +I have nothing whatever the matter with my chest, except a little +pain occasionally, which Mr. Canterham, the Hampton surgeon, calls +indigestion. Dr. Leonards would laugh at me.” + +“So much the better if he does,” answered Laurence. “But I should very +much like you to see him. You will do so, won’t you, Emily, to oblige +me?” + +“To oblige you!” repeated Mrs. Jerningham, regarding him with a +thoughtful gaze. “Why are you so anxious to consult the oracle? Is it +to resolve a doubt, or to confirm a hope?” + +“Emily!” + +“Oh, forgive me!” she cried, holding out her hand. “I am always +thinking or saying something wicked. The Calvinists must surely be +right; for I feel as if I had been created a vile creature, ‘not born +to be judged, but judged before I was born.’ I will go to see your Dr. +Leonards. I will do anything in the world to please you!” + +“My dear Emily! to please me you have only to be happy yourself,” he +answered, with real affection. + +“Ah! that is just the one thing that I cannot do. My life is all wrong +somehow, and I cannot make it right. I have been trying to square +the circle, ever since my marriage--with such unspeakable care and +trouble--and the circle is no nearer being square. The impracticable, +unmeasurable curves still remain, and are not to be squared by my power +of calculation.” + +“Ah, Emily, if you had only trusted in me, and waited!” + +“Ah, Laurence, if you had only spoken a little sooner!” + +“I would not speak till I had secured a certain income. I had been +taught to believe that no woman in your position could exist without a +certain expenditure.” + +“Ah, that is the false philosophy of your modern school! A man tells +himself that with such or such a woman he could live happily all the +days of his life, but his friends warn him that the lady has been +educated in a certain style, and must therefore be extravagant--so +he keeps aloof from her; and some day, necessity, family ambition, +weariness, pique, anger--Heaven knows what incomprehensible feminine +impulse--tempts her to the utterance of the most fatal lie a woman’s +lips can shape. She marries a man she can never love, and she has her +equipage, and her servants, and her house in Mayfair, and all the +splendours _he_ has been told she cannot live without: and she +_does_ live--the life of the world, which is living death.” + +“For God’s sake no more! You stab me to the heart.” + +He covered his face with his hands, and thought of what she had been +saying to him. Yes, it was all true! His worldly wisdom had blighted +that fair young life. Because he had been prudent; because he had taken +counsel with his long-headed friends of the world, and had believed +them when they said that the horrors of Pandemonium were less horrid +than the dismal, muddling torments of a pinched household--because +of these things Emily Jerningham’s mind had been embittered, and her +fair name sullied. And he could not undo the past. No. Strike Harold +Jerningham from the roll of the living to-morrow, and leave those two +free to wed, the haughty woman and the world-worn man who should stand +side by side before God’s altar, would have little more than their +names in common with the lovers who walked arm-in-arm ten years ago in +the garden at Passy. + +“Yes, Emily, my sin is heavier than yours!” he said, presently. “With +both, want of faith was the root of evil. If you had trusted in me, if +I had trusted in Providence, all would have been different. But it is +worse than useless to bewail those old mistakes. Let us make the best +of what happiness remains to us. The pleasures of a real friendship, +and one of those rarest of all alliances--a friendship between man and +woman on terms of intellectual equality.” + +“There are wretched misogynists who say that kind of thing never +has answered,” said Mrs. Jerningham; “but we will try to prove them +miserable maligners. And you will never regret the loss of a wife, or +feel the want of a home, eh, Laurence?” + +“Never, while you abstain from foolish jealousies,” he answered boldly, +and in all good faith. + +Mrs. Jerningham drove into town next day, to see Dr. Leonards, in +accordance with her promise to Laurence Desmond. She was accompanied +by Mrs. Colton, who thought it rather absurd that any one should take +so much trouble about a Morland cough; but who was not ill-pleased to +spend an hour in the delightful diversion of shopping, and to visit one +of the winter exhibitions of pictures, while the horses took their rest +and refreshment. + +Dr. Leonards said very little, except that Mrs. Jerningham’s chest was +rather weak, and her nerves somewhat too highly strung. He asked her +a few questions, wrote her a prescription, enjoined great care, and +requested her to come to him again in a fortnight, or, better still, +allow him to come to her. + +“For now, really, you ought not to be out to-day,” he said, glancing +at a thermometer. “There is the slightest appearance of fever; and +altogether, a drive from Hampton is about the worst possible thing for +you. You ought to be sitting in a warm room at home.” + +“But look at my wraps,” exclaimed Mrs. Jerningham. + +“My dear lady, do you really imagine that your sables can protect +you from the air you breathe? An equable temperature of about sixty +degrees is what you require; and here you are, on a bleak March day, +riding thirty miles in a draughty carriage. I must beg you to be more +careful.” + +Mrs. Colton on this assured Dr. Leonards that the cough was only a +family cough; but the physician repeated his injunction. + +“Prevention is better than cure,” he said. “I can say nothing wiser +than the old adage. Thanks. Good morning.” + +This was the patient’s dismissal; the two ladies returned to their +carriage. + +“I hope Mr. Desmond will be satisfied,” said Mrs. Jerningham; “and now +let us go to see the French pictures.” + +At the French picture-gallery the ladies found Mr. Desmond, absorbed in +the contemplation of a Meissonier. + +“How good of you to be here!” exclaimed Mrs. Jerningham, brightening +as she recognized him; “and so, for once in a way, you really have a +leisure morning.” + +“I never have a leisure morning; at this very moment I ought to be +‘sitting upon’ a sensational historian, who fancies himself something +between Thucydides and Macaulay. But you told me you were coming here, +and so I postpone my sensational historian’s annihilation until next +week, and come to hear what Dr. Leonards says of your cough.” + +“Dr. Leonards says very little. I am to take care of myself. That is +all.” + +“What does he mean by care?” + +“Oh, I suppose I am to go on wearing furs, and that kind of thing. And +I am to see all the pictures of the year; and you are to find plenty of +leisure mornings; and so on.” + +In this careless manner did the patient dismiss the subject; nor +could Laurence extort any further information from her. He attacked +Mrs. Colton next, but could obtain little intelligence from that +lady; and beyond this point he was powerless to proceed. He, Laurence +Desmond, could not interrogate Dr. Leonards upon the health of Harold +Jerningham’s wife. If she had been dangerously ill, interference +was no privilege of his. And as her illness was of a very slight and +unalarming character, he was fain to content himself with the fact that +she had placed herself under the direction of an eminent physician. + +That day was one of the few happy days that had been granted of late to +Emily Jerningham. Mr. Desmond was even more devoted and anxious than +he had shown himself for a long time. He accompanied the two ladies +to picture-galleries, and silk-mercers, florists, and librarians, and +did not leave them till he saw them safely bestowed in their carriage +for the homeward journey, banked-in with parcels, and in an atmosphere +stifling with exotics. + +“What, in the name of the Sphinx, do women do with their parcels?” he +asked himself, as he went back to his chambers. “Mrs. Jerningham comes +to town at least once a fortnight, and she never goes back to Hampton +without the same heterogeneous collection of paper packages. What can +be the fate of that mysterious mass? How does she make away with that +mountain of frivolity, packed in whitey-brown paper? I never see any +trace of the contents of those inexplicable packets. They never seem +to develop into anything beyond their primeval form. To this day I +know not what butterflies emerge from those paper chrysalids. And if +she had been my wife, I must have found money to pay for all those +frivolities. I must have battered my weary brains, and worked myself +into a premature grave, to supply that perennial stream of parcels.” + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + LUCY’S FAREWELL TO THE STAGE. + + +FOR Lucy Alford life’s outlook seemed very dreary after that chill +day in February, when her father’s bones were laid in their last +resting-place. He had not been a good father--if measured by the +ordinary standard of parental duty--but he had been a kind and gentle +one, and his daughter lamented him with profound regret. He had allowed +her to grow up very much as she pleased, taking no pains to educate +her, but suffering her to pick up such stray crumbs of learning as +fell from the table of the professional crammer; but by reason of this +very neglect Tristram Alford had seemed to his child the very centre +of love and indulgence. And, beyond this, he had believed in her, and +admired her, and sustained her fainting spirit, when the theatrical +horizon was darkest--when managers were unkind, and sister-actresses +malevolent--by such prophetic visions of future triumphs, and such +glowing anticipations of coming happiness, as the man of sanguine +temperament can always evolve from his inner consciousness and a +gin-bottle. The poor child had found comfort and hope in those shadowy +dreams, happily unconscious that her father’s fancies were steeped in +alcohol; and now that he was gone, the hopes and dreams seemed to have +perished with him. + +Thus it was that Lucy shrank from the idea of recommencing her +theatrical labours as from a hopeless and a dreary prospect. Nor were +her feelings on this subject uninfluenced by the sentiments of those +two persons who were now her sole earthly friends. Laurence Desmond’s +shuddering horror of the “Cat’s-meat Man,” his furtive glance at the +little red-satin boots in which she was to have danced the famous +comic dance so much affected of late years, had been keenly noted, and +remembered with cruel pain. + +“How can he be so prejudiced against the profession?” she asked +herself. And then she thought of Shakspeare, and of the Greek +dramatists, whose every syllable and every comma had been so +laboriously studied in the cramming season at Henley--and was slow to +perceive that the more a man loves his Shakspeare and his Sophocles, +the less indulgence is he likely to show to the “Cat’s-meat Man.” + +Mrs. Jerningham contemplated the dramatic profession from the +stand-point of a woman who had known poverty, but had never found +herself in the streets of London without an escort, or her brougham, +and who had spent her life in a circle where every woman’s movements +are regulated by severe and immutable laws. + +“How will you pursue your professional career, now that your poor papa +is gone, my dear?” she asked, kindly, when she came to discuss Miss +Alford’s future. “You cannot possibly travel about the country without +a _chaperone_--some nice elderly person, who could take great +care of you, and whose respectability would be a kind of guarantee for +your safety. It is quite out of the question that you should go from +town to town _without_ some such person.” + +Lucy blushed as she thought of the many damsels who did go from town +to town unattended by this ideal representative of the proprieties; +of Miss Gloucester, the walking-lady, who had walked in that ladylike +capacity for the last fifteen years, and knew every town in the United +Kingdom, and every _fit-up_ or temporary temple of the drama in +the British Islands--and who had supported her bed-ridden old mother +in a comfortable lodging at Walworth, and had dressed herself with +exquisite neatness, and preserved a reputation without spot or blemish, +during the whole period, on a salary averaging twenty-five shillings +per week. She thought, with a deeper blush, of the two ballet-dancers, +Mademoiselle Pasdebasque and Miss May Zourka, who wandered over the +face of the earth together, loud, and reckless, and riotous as a +couple of medical students, and who were dimly suspected of having +given suppers--suppers of oysters, and pork-pies, and bottled-beer--to +the officers of different garrisons, in the course of their wanderings. +Of these, and of many other unprotected strollers--some bright, pure, +gentle girls, of good lineage and careful education; many honest, +hardworking, and self-sacrificing bread-winners; others painted and +disreputable wanderers, who made their profession a means to their +unholy ends--did Lucy think, as Mrs. Jerningham laid down the law about +the respectable elderly _chaperone_. + +“Do you know any one of unblemished respectability with whom you could +travel?” Mrs. Jerningham asked, after a pause. + +Miss Alford’s mental gaze surveyed the ranks of her acquaintance, +and the image of Mrs. M’Grudder arose before her, grim and terrible. +Unblemished respectability was the M’Grudder’s strong point. The fact +that she was not an immoral person was a boast which she was apt to +reiterate at all times and seasons, appropriate or inappropriate; +and her spotless fame had furnished her with many a Parthian shaft +wherewith to wound helpless evil-doers of the Pasdebasque and May +Zourka class, in that Eleusinian temple of theatrical life, the +ladies’ dressing-room. Abroad, guilty Pasdebasque has the best of it. +She attends race-meetings in her carriage, and flaunts her silks and +velvets before the awe-stricken eyes of the little country town. The +garrison provides her with bouquets, and applauds her _entrées_ +with big noisy hands and a bass roar of welcome; while her benefits are +favoured with a patronage seldom accorded to the benefits of innocence. +But the Nemesis awaits her in the dressing-room. There the dread Furies +avenge the wrongs of their weaker sisterhood, and retribution takes the +awful voice of M’Grudder. + +Ruthlessly does that lady perform her appointed duty. Loud are her +expressions of wonder at the triumphs of _some_ people; her +bewilderment on perceiving the superb attire which _some_ people +can procure out of a pittance of two guineas per week; her regret +that on the occasion of _her_ benefit the 17th Prancers had held +themselves disdainfully aloof from the theatre, though her Lady Douglas +_had_ been compared to the performance of the same character by +the great Siddons, and by judges _quite_ as competent as the +Prancers; and anon, in the next breath, her inconsistent avowal of +thankfulness to Providence that her dress-circle had been empty, rather +than filled as was the dress-circle of Mademoiselle Pasdebasque. + +Lucy thought of Mrs. M’Grudder, who had at divers times taken upon +herself the chaperonage of some timid young aspirant, and beneath whose +ample wing, if rumour was to be trusted, the hapless neophyte had known +a hard time. No, the dramatic profession at best had its trials; but +life spent in the companionship of Mrs. M’Grudder would have been too +bitter a martyrdom. + +This was the beginning of the end of Miss Alford’s professional career. +She had pondered much upon Laurence Desmond’s evident dislike to her +position, and had taken that dislike deeply to heart. The glamour was +fast fading from the fairy dream of her childhood. She had played at +Electra and Antigone--she had stood before her looking-glass, inspired, +and radiant with passionate emotion, fancying herself Juliet or +Pauline; and all her dreams had ended in--a page’s dress, and a foolish +comic song. + +Mrs. Jerningham’s influence speedily completed the work of +disenchantment; and before Tristram Alford had been dead a month, his +daughter had bidden farewell to the stage--in no brilliant apotheosis +of bouquets and clamorous chorus of enraptured dramatic critics, +eloquent as Pythoness on tripod, but in the sad silence of her own +lonely chamber. She had said her doleful good-bye to the dreams of +her youth, and had begun the practical career of a woman who stands +quite alone in the world, and who has no hope save in her own patient +industry. + +“If I had any one to work for,” she thought, sadly, “it would not seem +hard to me. But to toil and drudge in order that I may prolong my +lonely life, and with no other end or aim----!” + +To Mrs. Jerningham she made no piteous confession of her own +sadness. It was agreed between them that she was to be a governess. +Mrs. Jerningham’s influence would be invaluable in procuring her a +situation; and all she had to do was to make herself mistress of the +accomplishments which that lady assured her were indispensable. Some +of these accomplishments she had already mastered; of others she had +a superficial knowledge. Nothing was required but a little patient +drudgery; two or three hours a day devoted to the piano, an hour or so +to her German grammar. And in the evening she could read _I Promessi +Sposi_ to her kind patroness, by way of polishing her Italian. + +“You shall stay with us till we have made you a perfect treasure in the +way of governesses,” Emily said, kindly, “and then Auntie and I will +take pains to get you a situation with nice people, who will give you +seventy or eighty pounds a year, and with whom you may be as happy as +the day is long; and I am sure that will be better than your dreadful +country theatres. + +Lucy assented to this proposition; but she thought, with a sigh, of +Market Deeping, and her brief triumphs as Pauline. Yes, the dramatic +profession was no doubt a hard one, but she had been happy at Market +Deeping; and that one night of glory, when she had been called before +the curtain after her performance of Pauline, had been a dazzling +glimpse of brightness which shone back upon her through the mists of +the past with supernal radiance. And instead of such bright brief +successes, she was to teach those hideous German declensions, and read +_I Promessi Sposi_, and superintend the performance of Cramer’s +Exercises, for ever and ever. For ever and ever! She was but just +nineteen, and the long blank life before her looked like an eternity. + +Her chief consolation daring the patient, laborious days was the +thought that Mr. Desmond would approve her efforts; her secondary +motive was the desire to be duly grateful for Mrs. Jerningham’s +kindness. Nor were her days all drudgery. Her patroness was too kind +to allow this. There were long drives through the bright pastoral +landscape that lies around sleepy, river-side Hampton; a little, +very little, quiet society; an occasional novel; and a rare--ah, too +rare--visit from the editor of the _Areopagus_. + +The relations existing between that gentleman and Mrs. Jerningham were +quite beyond poor inexperienced Lucy’s comprehension, and they formed +the subject of her wondering meditations. + +Between Mr. Desmond and Mrs. Jerningham there was no tie of +kindred--_that_ fact had long ago transpired; nor could Mr. +Desmond be affianced to a lady whose husband’s existence was a +notorious fact. And yet Mr. Desmond was obviously the especial +property, the moral goods and chattels, of Mrs. Jerningham. Miss +Alford knew something of Plato, but very little of that figment of +the modern brain, entitled Platonic attachment. Friendship between +these two persons would in no manner have surprised her; but, innocent +as she was, her instinct told her that in this association there was +something more than common friendship. If she had been blind to every +subtle shade of tone and manner that prevailed between these two, +she would have perceived the one fact, that Mr. Desmond’s manner to +herself in Emily’s presence was not what it had been in the Islington +lodging-house, where he had first come to her relief. The tender, +half-fatherly familiarity was exchanged for a ceremonious courtesy that +chilled her to the heart. Beyond a few kind but measured sentences of +inquiry or solicitude when he first saw her, he scarcely addressed +her at all during his visits of many hours. She sat far away from the +chess-table or the reading-desk by which Emily’s low easy-chair was +placed, and the subdued murmur of the two voices only came to her at +intervals from the spot where Mrs. Jerningham and her guest conversed. + +At dinner Mr. Desmond’s talk was of that western London, which was +stranger to her than Egypt or Babylon; the music which Mrs. Jerningham +played after dinner was from modern operas, whose every note was +familiar to those two, but of which she knew no more than the names. +The books, the people, the places they talked of were all alike +strange to her. She was with them, but not of them. The sense of her +strangeness and loneliness weighed upon her like a physical oppression. +Every day of Mr. Desmond’s absence she found herself thinking of--nay, +even hoping for--his coming; and when he came she was miserable, and +felt her solitary, hopeless position more keenly than in his absence. + +“Oh, why did I ever see him?” she asked herself. “I should have +struggled on, somehow, at such places as Market Deeping, and might in +the end have succeeded in my profession. And now I have given up all +my hopes to please him--and he does not care! What can it matter to him +whether I am an actress or a governess? I am nothing to _him_.” + +He does not care! This was the note, the dominant of all Miss Alford’s +sad reveries. She toiled on patiently, always anxious to please her +patroness; but it seemed to her very hard that in gaining this new +friend, she should have so utterly lost that old sweet friendship which +had begun in the days when she wore holland pinafores, and fished for +bream and barbel with a wretched worm impaled upon a crooked pin. + +Once, when her sad thoughts were saddest, a faint sigh escaped her +lips as she bent over her work, in her accustomed seat by one of the +windows, remote from the spot affected by Mrs. Jerningham; and, looking +up some minutes afterwards, she saw Laurence Desmond’s eyes fixed upon +her, with a look that penetrated her heart. Ah, what did it mean, that +tender, deeply-mournful look? This inexperienced girl dared not trust +her own translation of its meaning. But that sad regard touched her +heart with a new feeling. + +“He thinks of me; he is sorry for me,” she said to herself. More than +this she dared not hope; but in her dreams that night, and in her +thoughts and dreams of many days and nights to come, the look was +destined to haunt her. In the next minute she heard Mrs. Jerningham +announce her desire for a game of chess, with the tone of an extremely +proper Cleopatra to an unmartial Antony. + +The weeks and months went by, and Mrs. Jerningham was still a kind and +hospitable friend to the helpless girl whom Mr. Desmond had cast upon +her compassion. + +“I am very glad you introduced her to me,” Emily said sometimes to the +editor of the _Areopagus_. “She is really a dear little thing; and +I am growing quite attached to her.” + +“Yes, she is a good little girl,” replied Mr. Desmond, in a careless +tone. + +“And as to jealousy,” resumed Emily, “of course that is quite out of +the question with such a dear, harmless little creature.” + +“Of course.” + +And then Mrs. Jerningham looked at Mr. Desmond, and Mr. Desmond looked +at Mrs. Jerningham, with the air of accomplished, swordsmen on guard. + +Was Mrs. Jerningham jealous of this “dear, harmless little creature”? +She watched Miss Lucy very closely when Laurence was present, and had +a sharp eye for Laurence when he gave Miss Lucy good-day; but if she +had been jealous, she would scarcely have kept Lucy at the villa, where +Laurence saw her very often; on the other hand, if Lucy had not been +at the villa, Laurence might have seen her even more often, and Mrs. +Jerningham could not have been present at their meetings; so there may +have been some alloy of self-interest mingled with the pure gold of +womanly kindness. + +The spring ripened into early summer, and the Hampton villa looked +its brightest; but neither spring nor summer saw the end of Emily +Jerningham’s family cough. She insisted upon making light of the +matter, and as, unhappily, those about her were inexperienced in +illness, the slight but perpetual cough gave little uneasiness. +Before Laurence she made a point of appearing at her best. Excitement +gave colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes. The outline of her +patrician face was little impaired by some loss of roundness, and +her elegant demi-toilettes concealed the fact that she was growing +alarmingly thin. Her maid alone knew the extent of the change, which +she and the housekeeper discussed, with much solemn foreboding of +coming ill. + +“I had to line the sleeves of her last dress with wadding,” said the +abigail; “such a beautiful arm she had, too, when I first came to her; +but she’s been going off gradual-like for the last three years, poor +thing! and as to talking to her about her ’ealth, it would be as much +as my place is worth, for a prouder lady, nor a more reserved in her +ways, I never lived with. You might as well stand behind a statue, and +brush _its_ hair, till you’re ready to drop, for anything like +conversation you can get out of _her_; and when I think of my +last lady--which was a countess, as you know, Wilcox, and the things +_she’d_ tell me, and the way she loved a bit of gossip--it turns +my blood to ice like to wait upon Mrs. Jerningham. And yet as generous +a lady as ever I served; and as kind and civil-spoken, in her own cold +way.” + +Mrs. Jerningham paid several visits to Dr. Leonards; but as she +obstinately or apathetically ignored that distinguished physician’s +counsels, she was no better for those drives to Great George Street. + +Laurence questioned her closely as to these interviews, and would fain +have questioned Dr. Leonards himself, had his position authorized him +to do so. + +Lucy, who knew absolutely nothing of illness, believed her kind +patroness’s cough to be the merest nervous irritation of the throat; +nor was Mrs. Colton in any manner alarmed. No one but Mrs. Jerningham +herself knew of her feverish nights, and daily hours of suffering and +languor, endured in the solitude of her pretty morning-room. Even the +patient herself had no apprehension of danger. The languor had crept +upon her by such slow degrees, the fever had so long been a chronic +disorder. + +“If I were happy, I should soon be well, I dare say,” she said to +herself; “the fever and the weakness are of the mind rather than the +body.” + +In the first week of summer Mr. Desmond gave himself a brief respite +from the cares of the _Areopagus_, and secured bachelor lodgings +at Sunbury, where he kept his boat, and whence he rowed to and from +River Lawn. + +“And this week you are really going to give to me?” said Mrs. +Jerningham. + +“To you and to Father Thames. I hope you are as fond of the river as +you were last summer.” + +“Oh yes. The river has been my companion upon many a lonely summer +day. I have reason to be fond of the river.” + +She glanced with something of sadness to her favourite seat under +the drooping boughs of a Spanish chestnut. Her summer days had been +very lonely, lacking all those elements which make the lives of women +sweet and happy. For her had been no murmur of children’s voices, +no pleasant cares of household, no daily expectation of a husband’s +return from club or senate, office or counting-house; no weekly round +of visits among the poor; no sense of duty done; only a dull, listless +blank, and the last new novel, and the last new colour in _gros de +Lyons_, and the last new monster in scentless, gaudy horticulture, +a chocolate-coloured calceolaria, a black dahlia, a sea-green camellia +japonica. + +“You are going to give me the whole week,” she said. “Oh, Laurence, I +will try to be happy!” + +She said this with unwonted earnestness, and with eyes that were dim +with unshed tears. And she kept her word. She did honestly try to be +happy, and she succeeded in being--gay. If the gaiety were somewhat +feverish, if her harmonious laugh bordered on that laughter whereof +Solomon said “it was mad,” she did for the moment contrive to escape +thought. This was something, for of late, thought had been only another +name for care. + +Mr. Desmond had rowed stroke in the University Eight, and shared the +Oxonian fallacy that to scull from ten to twenty miles under a broiling +sun is the intellectual man’s best repose. He rested his brain from the +labours of the _Areopagus_, and spent his days in pulling a roomy +wherry to and fro between Hampton and Maidenhead, with Mrs. Jerningham +and Lucy Alford for his passengers, and a dainty little hamper of +luncheon for his cargo. + +The weather was lovely. The landscape through which the river winds +between Hampton and Chertsey, between Chertsey and Maidenhead, is a +kind of terrestrial paradise, and a paradise peopled with classic +shades; and all along those pastoral, villa-dotted banks, nestled +little villages and trimly-furnished inns, within whose hospitable +shade the wanderers might repose, while the smart, maple-painted boat +bobbed up and down at anchor in the sun. These peaceful rovers kept +no count of the hours. They left River Lawn at early morning, lunched +among the reedy shores below Chertsey, took their five-o’clock tea at +Staines, and went home with the tide to a compound collation, which +combined the elements of dinner, tea, and supper. + +Mrs. Colton was but too glad to forego the delights of these +water-parties in favour of Lucy; nor was Laurence sorry to resign a +passenger who weighed some twelve or thirteen stone, who at every lurch +of the boat entertained fears of drowning; to whom every weir seemed +perilous as Niagara, and every lock a descent into Hades; and whose +shawls and wraps, and carriage-rugs and foot-muffs, were insufferable +to behold under the summer sun. + +To Lucy, the delight of these excursions was a single ineffable +pleasure. She knew that this bright, brief existence in _his_ +company was to occur once in her life, and once only. Again and again +she told herself this; but she could not help being dangerously happy. +The river, the sunshine, the landscape, the perfumed air that crept +over banks of wild-thyme,--for, thank Heaven, in spite of the builder, +the wild-thyme does still blow on banks we know, not twenty miles from +London,--all these things of themselves would have made her happy; but +to these things Laurence Desmond’s presence, his low, kind voice, his +ever-thoughtful care, lent a new sweetness. + +In plain truth, this penniless orphan-girl had most innocently and +unconsciously fallen in love--or learned to love the man who had +befriended her. Of that kindly, compassionate assistance which Mr. +Desmond had given in all singleness of heart, _this_ was the fatal +fruit. From the first he had felt a vague consciousness that danger +might lurk in this association; but the full extent of that peril he +had never foreseen. It was danger to himself he had dreaded. The +girl’s helplessness had touched him, her gratitude had melted him, her +pretty, innocent, almost reverential looks and tones had flattered him. + +He knew now that the hazard of his own feelings had been less than the +peril of hers. By signs and tokens, too subtle and too delicate for +translation into words, the fatal secret had been revealed to him. +He knew that he was beloved; that this affectionate, innocent heart +was his; that this fresh young life might be taken into his keeping +to-morrow, to brighten and bless his own until the end of his earthly +pilgrimage. Yes; this dear little creature, with her soft, winning +ways, and dove-like eyes, he might have claimed for his wife to-morrow: +if he had been free. But on him there was a tie more binding than +marriage, a chain that no divorce could break--the bondage of his +honour. As Lancelot sadly bade farewell to the lily maid of Astolat, so +Laurence, in the silence of his heart, put away from him the dream and +the hope that he would fain have cherished. + +And all the time he thought of his bondage, the oars dipped gaily into +the water, and the editor and Mrs. Jerningham talked of literature +and art, and fashion and horticulture; and Lucy was satisfied with +the delight of hearing that one dear voice which made the most +commonplace conversation a kind of poetry. There are no limits to the +sentimentality of inexperienced girlhood. Young ladies in society had +calculated Mr. Desmond’s income to a sixpence, and had assessed all the +advantages of his position, his chances of a seat in Parliament by and +by, with every remote contingency of his career. But if he had indeed +been Lancelot, and herself Elaine the fair, Lucy Alford could scarcely +have regarded him with more reverent affection. And all this he had won +for himself by a little Christianlike compassion, and an expenditure of +something under fifty pounds. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + “COULD LOVE PART THUS?” + + +THE happy week went by, and at the close of it came the end of the +world, as it seemed to Lucy Alford. + +“Good news, Lucy!” Mrs. Jerningham said, one morning, as she opened her +letters at the breakfast-table; “good news for you.” + +“For _me_,” faltered Miss Alford, blushing; “what good news can +there be for me?” + +What indeed? Was not Laurence Desmond’s holiday to end to-morrow? This +afternoon they were to have their last row on the Thames. + +“Yes, Lucy. You remember what I told you about Mrs. Fitzpatrick, that +delightful person in Ireland. I wrote to her a few days ago, you know, +telling her of my plans for you,--for she is just one of those good, +motherly creatures who are always ready to help one,--and it happens +most fortunately that she can take you herself. Her own governess--a +young person who had been with her five years--has lately married, and +she has tried in vain to find any one she likes. You are to go to her +at once, dear, with a salary of sixty pounds. The situation will be a +delightful one, you will be quite one of the family, and they live in +a noble old stone house, in a great wilderness of a park, only fifteen +miles from Limerick.” + +“Only fifteen miles from Limerick.” If the noble old stone house had +been fifteen miles from Memphis, or fifteen miles from Timbuctoo, the +name of the locality could scarcely have conjured up more dreary ideas +in the mind of Lucy Alford. She involuntarily made a rough calculation +of the mileage between Limerick and Mr. Desmond’s chambers. _Him_ +she could never hope to see again, if she went to those unknown wilds +of Ireland. And yet what did it matter? A world seemed to divide them, +as it was. Sitting in the same boat with him, the abyss that yawned +between them was profound and immeasurable as eternity. At Limerick or +at Hampton it must be all the same. He was nothing to her at Hampton; +at Limerick he could be no less than nothing. Something in her face, as +she mused thus, told Mrs. Jerningham that the delight afforded by these +tidings was not altogether unalloyed. + +“I dare say the notion of such a journey alarms you,” said Emily, +kindly; “but I will see that all is arranged for your comfort. And I am +sure you will be happy at Shannondale Park. I could not have wished you +better fortune than such a home.” + +No: what could fortune give her brighter than this? A pleasant home and +a kind mistress. She felt like some poor little slave sold to a new +master, to be sent to a strange country. She tried with a great effort +to express some sense of pleasure and thankfulness, but she could not. +The words choked her. Happy, in barbarous wastes of unknown Hibernia, +while _he_ lived his own life in London, serenely forgetful of her +wretched existence! + +“Oh, how ungrateful I am!” she said to herself, while Mrs. Jerningham +watched her sharply, and guessed what thoughts were working in that +sorely troubled brain. + +“Perhaps a situation nearer London would have suited you better, Miss +Alford,” Emily remarked, with biting acrimony; “where your _old +friends_ could have called upon you from time to time.” + +Lucy flushed burning red, and anon burst into tears. + +“I have no friend in the world but you,” she said, piteously. “I know +it is wicked of me not to be pleased with such good fortune, and +I--am--truly--ger--ger--grateful to you, dear Mrs. Jerningham; but +Ireland seems so very far away.” + +The piteous look subdued Emily’s sternness. She took the girl’s hand in +her own tenderly. + +“Yes, it _seems_ far away,” she said, cheerfully; “but I know you +will be happy there. You cannot imagine anything more beautiful than +the river Shannon.” + +Lucy thought of Father Thames and his dipping willows, and _his_ +grave face, sadly regardful of her in the pauses of his talk. She +thought of these things, and shook her head. Ah, no, it was impossible; +for _her_, Shannon could never be what Thames had been. Mrs. +Jerningham comforted her in a grand, patronizing manner, and promised +her unbounded happiness--on the banks of the Shannon. + +“You do not know what the Irish are,” she exclaimed; “so kind, so +hearty, so genial. With them a governess is received as one of the +family. The children love her, and cling to her as if she were an elder +sister. And the Fitzpatricks are of the _vieille roche_, you know; +you will find no parvenu gentility there.” + +Yes, the picture was a fair one; but, for lack of one feature, it +seemed cold and dreary to Lucy Alford. She managed, however, to appear +contented, and thanked Mrs. Jerningham prettily for the kindness +which had procured her this distant home. After this, Emily went out +alone to her garden and hot-houses, to inspect the latest ugliness +in calceolarias; and Mrs. Colton held her morning conference with the +housekeeper, and received a solemn embassy from the kitchen-garden and +forcing-houses. Lucy sat listlessly in the drawing-room, meditating +upon the new estate of life to which it had pleased Mrs. Jerningham, +under Providence, to call her; while Mrs. Jerningham went to see the +new calceolaria, and to reflect at ease upon her late interview with +Lucy. + +“There isn’t one of ’em out as deep a colour as this here, mum,” said +the gardener; “and if I can get the slips to strike--as I believe I +shall--we shall have a rare show of ’em.” + +“Poor little thing, how she loves him!” thought Mrs. Jerningham. “But +in a new country, among new faces, she will soon forget all that.” + +“They strikes a deep root, you see, mum, when they do strike--these +young plants. They send their suckers down into the earth, and you’d +find it hard work to uproot ’em.” + +“A girl of that age is always falling in love,” continued Mrs. +Jerningham. “It’s a mere overflow of juvenile sentimentality, and never +lasts very long.” + +And then, having stared at the flowers in the hothouse with absent, +unseeing eyes, she would fain have departed; but the gardener stopped +her with a request for permission to order more manure. + +“We shall want a few loads more, mum,” he said, in his most insinuating +tone; “I don’t like to be allus askin’--which I know it _do_ +look like that--but I know as you wish a show made with these here +calceolaries; and these young plants require a deal o’ manure. And +then there’s the melons, mum; there ain’t a plant going like melons +for sucking the goodness out of manure--they’re a regular greedy lot, +melons--as you may say, mum; and there ain’t no satisfyin’ ’em. But, +you see, I turns it all into the ground afterwards, mum, and you gets +the good out of it next year, in your sea-kale.” + +Mrs. Jerningham gave her consent for the ordering of the manure, though +she had a dim idea that in the matter of manure she was marked as the +victim of extortion. She looked about her as she went slowly back to +her favourite green walk by the river. She looked at the forcing-pits +and hot-houses, the perfectly trained wall-fruit--which might have +shown beside the symmetrical pears and plum-trees of Frogmore--and she +reflected how much they had cost, and how little happiness they had +given her. + +“One cannot force happiness,” she said to herself. “Or if one does, it +is like the peaches we ripen in February--almost flavourless.” + +She went down to the green, sheltered walk, where the low plashing +murmur of the river seldom failed to tranquillize her spirits. Here +she could think quietly of the one subject which was all-important +to her anxious mind. That Lucy Alford loved Laurence Desmond she was +fully assured: _that_ point she had long settled for herself. The +one portentous question yet unanswered was, whether Laurence loved +Lucy. Mrs. Jerningham had watched the two closely, and she suspected +Laurence with a direful suspicion, but she could not be sure that he +had merited her doubts. + +“If I thought that he loved her, I would end this miserable farce at +once,” she said to herself, “and set him free. How many times I have +offered him his freedom! And he has refused it, and assured me--in +his cold, measured, _friendly_ way--of his unchanging constancy. +Hypocrite!” she muttered, between her clenched teeth. + +And then there came upon her an awful yearning for some death-dealing +weapon, with which, at one fell swoop, she might annihilate the man she +loved. + +“Oh, how dearly I loved him,” she thought; “how dearly I loved him! +How I used to yearn for his coming; how willingly I would have endured +poverty and trouble for his sake--in those old happy days when I was +free to be his wife! And he waited till his income should be large +enough for a suitable establishment, and let another man marry me!” + +Did Laurence love Lucy? That was the question which Mrs. Jerningham +would fain have solved. But to send Lucy to Ireland was scarcely the +way to arrive at a solution. It was rather like begging the question. + +“She will tell him she is going, directly she sees him,” said Mrs. +Jerningham; “and he must be a consummate hypocrite if his manner then +does not betray him.” + +Laurence was expected at noon that day--in half an hour. He was to +come from Sunbury in his boat, to take the two ladies on their last +excursion. Emily determined upon lying in wait for him, in order to be +present at his meeting with Miss Alford. + +“I must see the first effect of the news,” she thought. + +She paced slowly up and down the walk. As twelve o’clock struck from +Hampton church, the boat’s keel ground against the iron steps. Laurence +tied her to the landing-stage, and came bounding on to the green walk, +at the extreme end of which Mrs. Jerningham stood watching him. He +did not glance in her direction, but walked across the lawn to the +drawing-room, where he was accustomed to find the mistress of the +house, and went in through a fernery. + +Emily followed swiftly. She was so eager to perceive the effect of +those tidings which must needs be so important to Laurence, if he were +indeed the traitor she half-believed him to be. At the glass-door +between the fernery and the drawing-room she stopped. She was too late. +The news had been told already. For one moment she deliberated, and +in the next, as far as feminine honour goes, was lost. Laurence was +speaking. She did not want to interrupt him. She wanted to hear what +he said; so she drew back a little, behind the shelter of a gigantic +Australian fern, and watched him, and heard him, from that convenient +covert. + +“To Ireland?” he said, gravely; “and do you like going to Ireland, Miss +Alford?” + +This was very proper; this was as it should be, thought Mrs. +Jerningham,--a cold, measured, guardian-like tone, expressive of a +gentleman-like and Christianlike concern in the young lady’s welfare; +no more. Emily breathed more freely. + +“Ye--yes,” faltered Lucy; “I--I--I am very grateful to Mrs. Jerningham +for her kindness in procuring me such a happy home; only--only I----” + +“Only what, Lucy?” + +Good heavens! what a sudden change of tone! No longer measured and +gentleman-like, but full of a tender eagerness--a fond concern, that +went through Mrs. Jerningham’s heart like a dagger. + +“Only I--oh, it is very wicked of me to be discontented--only--Ireland +is so very, very far away from all the people I ever knew; and every +friend--and--from YOU!” + +And here she broke down, as she had broken down upon a previous +occasion, and burst into tears. + +In the next moment she was clasped in Laurence Desmond’s arms. The +Australian fern was shaken as by a sudden tempest--ah, what a tempest +of passion, and grief, and jealousy, and despair raged in the heart of +her whose trembling caused those leaves to shake! + +“Lucy!” cried Laurence, passionately, “you must not--you must not! I +cannot see you cry. It is not the first time. Once before you tortured +me like this; and I held my tongue. I _could_ keep silence then; +but I can’t to-day. I did not love you then as I do now--my pet, my +dear love. Send you to Ireland! Oh, how cruel!--my tender one alone +among strangers! My dearest, for months I have held myself aloof from +you; I have forbidden my eyes to look at you; and now, after all my +struggles, after all my victories, I break down at last. I love you--I +love you!” + +He kissed her--the fair young brow, the eyelids wet with tears. Mrs. +Jerningham heard that unmistakeable sound, as of song-birds in an +aviary; and if a wish could kill, there would have been a swift and +sudden foreclosure of two fair lives. + +“_You_--YOU love me!” faltered Lucy in a whisper. + +It was too sweet. Ah, yes; a brief delicious dream, no doubt, thought +Miss Alford. + +“Yes, dear, with all my heart I love you,” answered Laurence Desmond, +putting her suddenly away from him, with a solemn gesture, symbolical +of eternal divorcement. “I love you, my dearest and best; but you and +I can never be more to each other than we have been--never again so +much; for at least we have been together--and for me even _that_ +happiness must never be again.” + +Lucy looked at him wonderingly, but she did not speak. She was overcome +by the one stupendous fact of Laurence Desmond’s confession. He loved +her! After this the deluge. If the peaceful rippling river had arisen, +mighty as old Nile, to sweep all the villas of Hampton to the distant +sea, she would have submitted to the swift destruction, and have deemed +herself sufficiently blest in having lived to hear what she had heard. +This is how girlhood loves. Unhappily, or it may be happily, such love +as this--simple, single, passionate as its sister poetry--perishes +with girlhood. The woman’s Love is a compound of many passions, claims +cousinship with Pride and Self-esteem, and owns an ugly half-sister +called, by her friends, Prudence, by her foes, Calculation. + +“My dear, I love you,” continued Laurence with gentle gravity, and +with the air of a man who has resolved on a full confession. “When +first your father called me to your aid, I came, pleased at the idea of +serving an old friend, but with the vaguest possible recollection of +the pretty little girl I had seen running after butterflies at Henley. +I came, and I found my little butterfly-huntress transformed into a +fair and loving creature, whose unselfish nature was revealed in every +look and thought. For a long time I had no thought, no consciousness of +such a thought, except the honest desire to help you, to the best of my +power, in the difficult career you had chosen for yourself. How shall +I tell you at what moment this friendly interest grew into a warmer +feeling, when I cannot explain the change to myself? I only know that +I love you; and that if I were free, as I am not, I should sigh for no +sweeter home than one to which you would welcome me.” + +For a few moments he paused, looking fondly at the sweet blushing face, +downcast eyelids heavy with tears, and then went on steadily: + +“I am not free, Lucy; I am bound hand and foot by the fetters I forged +for myself some years ago; and I think, as I have told you one-half +of the truth, it will be wisest to tell you the other half. Ten years +ago I very dearly loved a young lady, as beautiful, as amiable as +yourself, like yourself the only daughter of a gentleman in reduced +circumstances, but not subjected to the trials which you have borne +so nobly. I loved her dearly and truly; but I was a man of the world, +a haunter of clubs, a little sceptical on the subject of feminine +fortitude and feminine reasonableness; and I told myself that, in +order to insure this young lady’s happiness and my own, I must first +secure an income which would enable us to be dwellers within the pale +of society. I had been taught that, on the outermost side of that +impalpable, conventional boundary, domestic happiness for people of +gentle rearing was impossible. It was not enough that I loved her; it +was not enough that I believed myself beloved; something more than this +was necessary--a brougham, a house in that border-land of Pimlico which +courtesy can call Belgravia, and a fair allowance for the expenses +of my wife’s toilette. Ah, Lucy, you can never imagine what ghostly +shadows of flounced petticoats and voluminous silken trains arose +between me and the image of the girl I loved, and waved me back, and +made a phantasmal barrier between us! If you marry her, said Prudence, +you must pay for those. I _will_ marry her, I answered, when I +feel myself strong enough to cope with her milliner’s bill.” He laughed +a short bitter laugh. + +“Lucy,” he cried, “I think if I had not loved you for yourself, +I should have loved you for your simple dresses. I have been so +suffocated in our modern atmosphere of luxury--stifled with the odour +of Ess. Bouquet, snowed-up in silks and laces, and soft-scented plumes, +and the faint perfume of sandal-wood fans, and the crush and crowd of +modern fashion--that to find a woman who could be pretty without the +aid of Truefitt, and could charm without the art of Descou, was piquant +as a discovery; but I will not stop to speak of these things. While I +waited, the woman whom I dearly loved married another man, older by +many years than herself, in every way unsuited to her. Within a year of +her marriage I met her unexpectedly, and her face told me that I was +not quite forgotten. After that meeting, fate threw us much together; +and oh, Lucy, now I come to the hard part of my confession! Her husband +trusted me, and I wronged him; by no act which the world calls guilt, +but by a sentimental flirtation, licensed by the world so long as it +is unprotested against by the husband. It was pleasant to us to meet, +and we met; it was pleasant to her to read the books I recommended, +to sing the songs I chose for her. Among the costlier gifts of her +husband, her morning-room was sometimes adorned with a rustic basket of +hothouse flowers from me. At the Opera, in picture-galleries, in her +own house, we met, week after week, month after month. No friendship +was ever more intellectual; nothing within the meaning of the word +flirtation was ever less guilty. By and by I wrote to her--letters +about art, about books, about music, about the gossip of the world in +which we lived, with here and there a half-expressed regret for my own +broken life or her uncongenial marriage. Love-letters in the common +sense of the word they were not; but letters so long and so frequent +might, if received by her at her own house, have attracted attention; +so they were directed to a neighbouring post-office. _That_, +Lucy, was our worst guilt; and it wrecked us. One day the letters were +found, and the husband tacitly signed his wife’s condemnation without +having troubled himself so much as to read the evidence against her. +From that hour my life was devoted to the woman who had suffered by my +selfishness and folly; from that hour to this we have been friends in +the fullest sense of the word, and friends only. If ever the day of her +freedom comes, I shall claim her as my wife; if it should never come, I +shall go to my grave unmarried. And now, Lucy, you know all; you know +that I love you; and you know why I have fought a hard fight against my +love, and am angry with myself for being betrayed into this confession.” + +“It was all my fault,” sobbed Lucy, who was ever ready to cry _mea +culpa_; “I had no right to tell you I was sorry to go to Ireland. +But oh, Mr. Desmond, forget that you have ever spoken to me, and be +true to the lady you loved so dearly, long ago! If it is hard for me +to lose you, it would be harder for her. I will go to Ireland; I will +try to do my duty; I will try to be happy. You have been so kind to +me--and--Mrs. Jerningham--has been so kind too; I am grateful to you +both; and when I am far away, I shall think of you both with love and +gratitude, and pray for your happiness every day of my life.” + +She had been quick to identify that lady whom Laurence had so carefully +avoided naming; she understood now, for the first time, the nature of +the tie that bound him to Mrs. Jerningham. + +“I am to go to Ireland in a very few days,” she said, after a brief +pause, during which Laurence Desmond sat motionless, his face hidden +by his hand; “I will say good-bye at once. I shall see you again, of +course--but not alone. Good-bye--and thank you a thousand, thousand +times for all your goodness to me and to my father.” + +She held out her hands, but he did not see them. + +“Good-bye! God bless you, darling!” he said, in a broken voice, and in +the next moment Lucy Alford left the room. + +Mr. Desmond sighed, a heavy sigh; and when he removed his hand from +before his face, that pale watcher behind the fern saw that his cheeks +were wet with tears. For some minutes--slow, painful minutes to the +watcher--he sat meditating gloomily; and then he too departed, with a +listless step, by one of the windows opening on the lawn. + +“O God!” thought the watcher, who had sunk back helpless, motionless, +against the angle of the wall, “am _I_ the only wretch upon earth? +These two think it very little to sacrifice themselves for me; and yet +I cannot let him go--I cannot let him go.” + +She came out from her lurking-place into the drawing-room, and seated +herself by the table at which Laurence had been sitting; and here she +sat with hands clasped before her face, thinking of what she had heard. +Unspeakable had been the pain of that revelation; but the blow had not +been unexpected. For some time she had suspected Laurence Desmond’s +regard for Lucy; for a very long time she had perceived the decline of +his affection for herself. + +“It is my own fault,” she thought; “I harassed and worried him with my +wicked jealousy. I made myself a perpetual care and trouble to him: can +I wonder that I lost his love? Oh, if I could learn to be generous, +if I could be only reasonable and just, if I could let him go! But I +cannot, I cannot!” + +No, indeed: she had made Laurence Desmond a part of herself, the very +first principle of her existence; and to resign her hold upon him was +to make an end of the sole aim and object of her life. For him she +had lived, and for none other. The two commandments of the Gospel +were to her much less than this man. Her love for her God began and +ended with a tolerably punctual attendance at the parish church, and +a half-mechanical utterance of the responses to the orthodox family +prayers which Mrs. Colton read every morning and evening to the little +household of River Lawn. Her love for her neighbour was summed-up in +a careless compliance with any parochial demand on her purse. All the +rest was Laurence Desmond. And now conscience told her she must give +him up. She sat thinking, with tearless eyes and a pale, still face, +until the subject of her thoughts came to the open window, and told her +that the boat was ready. + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + A SUMMER STORM. + + +MRS. COLTON entered the drawing-room by the door as Laurence Desmond +came in by the window. “I have given you the sparkling Rüdesheimer +instead of champagne, Mr. Desmond,” she said, cheerily: “Donner has put +it in a basket of rough ice; and Vokes has brought me in the finest +peaches I have seen this year, Emily. He is quite proud of them.” + +After this came Lucy, pale and grave, but looking the picture of +innocence and prettiness, in her white dress, and little sailor hat +with ribbon of Oxford blue. + +“Not dressed, Emily!” exclaimed Laurence, as he shook hands with Mrs. +Jerningham. + +The exclamation was purely mechanical. His mind must indeed have been +pre-occupied, or he would have noticed the icy coldness of the hand +that lay so listlessly in his own. + +“I have only my hat to put on. Wilson has seen to the shawls and +cloaks, no doubt. I am quite ready.” + +Mrs. Jerningham took her hat from the sofa, where she had thrown it +an hour before; a very archetype of hats, bordered with the lustrous +plumage of a peacock’s breast. Of these glories she had tasted to +satiety; all the bliss that millinery can give to the heart of woman +had been hers. But there comes a time when even these things seem +vanity. To-day the peacock’s plumage might have been dust and ashes, +for any pleasure it afforded her. + +They went out to the boat. The day was warm to oppressiveness, and Mrs. +Jerningham’s attire of the thinnest. + +“I hope you have plenty of wraps,” said Laurence; “there’s rather an +ugly cloud to windward.” + +“Oh yes; Wilson always gives us an infinity of that kind of thing,” +Mrs. Jerningham answered, glancing at the bottom of the boat, where lay +a heap of shawls and cloaks of the burnous order, just a little less +gauzy in texture than the dresses of the two ladies. + +“I really am almost afraid of the day,” muttered Lawrence, looking to +the south-west, where a stormy darkness brooded over the landscape. + +“I am not afraid,” replied Emily; “it is to be our last day, remember, +Laurence. Let us have our last day together.” + +Something in her tone startled and touched him. He looked at her +earnestly, but the proud face gave no sign. + +“It shall be as you please,” he said; “but I must not forget that you +are not out of the hands of Dr. Leonards, and you have told me he +enjoined you to be careful.” + +“Oh yes; a physician always says that when he can find nothing else to +say.” + +There was a little more discussion, and presently the boat shot away, +swift as a dart, with the strong sweep of the sculls. They were to +land at Chertsey, picnic at St. Ann’s Hill, and come home to Hampton +in the evening. Laurence Desmond had the proprietorial mandate in his +pocket, that for him and his friends the gates of St. Ann’s should be +opened. + +Only a few big, splashing drops of rain overtook them between Hampton +and Chertsey, and when they landed, the stormy darkness seemed to +have vanished from the south-western horizon. Mr. Desmond had made +all his arrangements; a fly was in waiting, and in half an hour the +little party were wandering in the groves which have been sanctified to +history by the fame of Fox. + +The picnic was to all appearance a success. The almost feverish gaiety +which had distinguished Emily Jerningham of late was especially +noticeable in her manner to-day. _Carpe diem_ was the philosophy +which sustained her in this bitter crisis. This last day would she +snatch. It was her festive supper on the eve of execution. Like +that bright band whose laughter echoed in Trophonian caves of grim +Bastille, before the dawn that was to witness their slaughter, did +Emily Jerningham pour out the sparkling vintage of the Rhineland as a +libation upon that altar where she was so soon to sacrifice her selfish +love. + +The western sky was dark and louring when the revellers left the groves +of St. Ann, and were driven back to the boat-builder’s yard, where they +had landed. + +“I really think it might be better to go back by road,” Laurence said, +doubtfully, as he looked at the cloudy horizon. Six o’clock chimed +from the tower of Chertsey Church as he spoke. “It will be nearly nine +o’clock before I can get you home, you see,” he added; “and if there +should be rain----” + +“We will endure it without a murmur,” interposed Emily. “I am bent on +going back by water.” + +“Would Dr. Leonards approve?” + +“I will not hold my life on such terms as Dr. Leonards would dictate. +We shall have moonlight before we reach Hampton. Come, Laurence, I am +quite ready.” + +Mr. Desmond submitted, and placed his fair companions in the boat with +all due care. Then, after the preliminary pushing-off, the oars dipped +softly in the water, and the boat sped homewards. + +Mrs. Jerningham’s gaiety left her with a strange abruptness. She leant +back against the cushioned rail of the boat, silent and thoughtful, and +with fixed, dreamy eyes. + +“You are tired, I fear,” Laurence remarked by and by, wondering at her +silence. + +“Yes; I am a little tired.” + +It would seem as if Lucy too were tired, for she also was silent, and +sat watching the changing landscape with a thoughtful gaze. But upon +her silence Laurence Desmond made no remark. She had, indeed, been +silent and thoughtful all the day, and yet not unhappy. Unhappy!--he +loved her! She had been telling herself that fact over and over again, +with ever-delightful iteration. He loved her! To know that it was so +constituted an all-sufficient happiness. + +The water-journey with one pair of sculls between Chertsey and Hampton +is a long one, and many are the locks which arrest the swift progress +of the voyager, and often echoes the cry of “Lo-o-óck!” over the quiet +waters; but so bright and changing is the landscape, so soothing the +influence of the atmosphere, that the voyager must be dull indeed who +finds the way too long. + +The changing banks shifted past Mrs. Jerningham like pictures in a +dream. A profound silence had fallen upon the boat. The rower dipped +his oars with a measured mechanical motion, and his grave face might +have been the countenance of Charon himself, conveying a boatload of +shadows to the Rhadamanthine shore. To Emily it seemed as if they were +indeed voyagers on some mystic, symbolical river, rather than on the +friendly breast of Thames. The end of her life had come. What had she +to do but die? All that she held dear--the one sustaining influence of +her weak soul, the very keystone of the edifice of her life--this she +was to lose. And what then? + +Beyond this point she could not look. That a dismal duty, a bitter +sacrificial act, must be performed by her, she knew. But that by the +doing of that act she might possibly attain peace, consolation, release +from a long and harassing bondage, she could not foresee. + +“I will give him up,” she said to herself; “soon--to-night. It is like +the bitter medicine they made me take sometimes when I was a child. I +cannot take it too soon.” + +And then she looked at Lucy, and her lip curled ever so little as she +scrutinized the fair but not altogether perfect face. + +She measured her charms against those of her happier rival, and told +herself that all the advantage was on her own side. And yet, and +yet--this fair-faced girl was dearer to him, by an infinite degree, +than she who had loved him so many years. + +While silence still held the voyagers as by a spell, the rain came +splashing heavily down, and the perils of the journey began. They had +not yet reached Sunbury, and some miles of winding water lay between +them and Hampton. + + +“I am afraid we are in for it,” Laurence said. “We had better land at +Sunbury, and get back in a fly.” + +Mrs. Jerningham was opposed to this. She declared that she had not +the slightest objection to the rain; she was wrapped up to an absurd +degree; and she drew her gauzy burnous round her in evidence of the +fact, while Lucy adjusted a second cloak of thin scarlet fabric over +the gauzy white burnous. Laurence, however, insisted on landing, and +did his utmost to procure a vehicle; while the two ladies shivered in a +chilly inn-parlour, their garments already damp with the heavy rain. He +came back to them in despair. No fly was to be had at Sunbury for love +or money. There was a Volunteer ball at Chertsey that very evening, and +every vehicle was engaged. + +“I had much rather go back in the boat,” said Emily. + +“But the doctor said you were to be so careful,” suggested Lucy. + +“I do not believe in the doctor. Come, Laurence, it is better to +encounter another shower than to wait shivering here for unattainable +flies.” + +To this Mr. Desmond unwillingly assented. There was a pause in the +summer storm--a faint glimmer of watery sunlight low in the cloudy +west. The boat seemed the only possible means of getting home. + +“If you would stay here all night,” he suggested, “it would be better +than running any risk.” + +“I could not exist a night in a strange hotel,” replied Mrs. +Jerningham, glancing round the bare, bleak-looking room, with a +shudder. “Please take us home, Mr. Desmond, if you are not afraid of +the rain yourself.” + +There seemed no alternative; so Laurence assented to an immediate +return to the boat, comforting himself with the hope that the gleam of +sunlight was the harbinger of a fine evening. He insisted, however, +upon borrowing a thick shawl and a railway rug from the landlady at +Sunbury, in case of the worst. + +For half a mile the faint streak of sunshine lighted the voyagers, +and then the worst came; the floodgates of the sky were opened, and a +summer deluge descended upon the quiet river. Mr. Desmond packed his +two charges in the borrowed wraps, and sculled with a desperate vigour. + +“It’s most unlucky,” he said; “there’s nothing for it between this and +home.” + +The rain fell in torrents and without ceasing, until the lights of +Hampton shone upon them, blotted and blurred by the storm. Long peals +of thunder grumbled in the distance; vivid lightnings lit the pale +faces of the women; while Mr. Desmond pulled steadily on, lifting the +boat over a broad sweep of water with every swoop of his sculls. + +One of the voyagers in that boat took a kind of pleasure in the storm. +To Emily Jerningham this splashing of rain and sonorous pealing of +thunder seemed better than the summer twilight, the calm June sky, and +glassy water--that outward peace which had so jarred upon the tempest +within. + +“Oh, if we could go on through storm and rain to the end! if we could +drift out of this earthly river into the thick darkness of the great +ocean!” she said to herself; “if the tangled skein of life could be +severed with one stroke of the witch’s scissors! But we have to unravel +the skein with our own weary fingers, and lay the threads smoothly out +before we dare say our work is done, and lie down beside it to die.” + +They were at River Lawn by this time, drenched to the skin, despite the +borrowed wraps. Mrs. Jerningham’s butler was waiting at the top of the +landing-stage with umbrellas, and within there were fires burning and +warm garments ready for the drenched travellers. Wilson took forcible +possession of her dripping mistress in the hall. + +“Oh, mum, with your cough!” she exclaimed, in tones of horror; while +Mrs. Colton assisted in drawing off the pulpy mass of limp gauze that +had been such airy silken fabric in the morning. + +“Never mind my cough, Wilson,” said Mrs. Jerningham, impatiently. +“Pray see to Lucy, aunt; she was less protected by the railway-rug +than I. Good-night, Laurence, since I suppose I shall not be allowed +to appear again this evening. Mr. Desmond will stop here to-night of +course, aunt; will you see that he has a warm room, and that he drinks +brandy-and-water, and that kind of thing? Let me see you to-morrow, +please, Laurence; good-night.” + +After this Mrs. Jerningham consented to be carried off by the devoted +Wilson, who did all she could to undo the mischief done by that watery +voyage from Sunbury. + +More than one dweller beneath the pretty, fantastic roof of that +river-side villa lay wakeful and restless throughout the summer night, +listening to the pattering of the rain, the sobbing gusts of wind among +the trees, and at daybreak the shrill clamour of distant farmyards. +Three there were in that house for whom life’s journey seemed to lie +through the thick wilderness--a wilderness unlighted by sun, moon, or +stars; pathless, painful obscurity. + +In the breakfast-room that morning there was no sign of Mrs. +Jerningham. Wilson sent to say that her mistress had slept very little, +and was altogether too ill to rise; and on this Mrs. Colton repaired +to her niece’s room, leaving Lucy and Laurence alone together at the +breakfast-table, sorely embarrassed to find themselves so left. + +Lucy looked down at her plate, and to all appearance became absorbed +in a profound meditation upon the pattern of the china. Laurence cut +open the _Times_, and made a conventional remark upon the previous +night’s debate, concerning the subject whereof Lucy knew about as much +as she knew of lunar volcanoes. + +Mrs. Colton returned very quickly, much alarmed by her niece’s +condition. She sent a messenger for the local doctor immediately, while +Lucy ran away from the breakfast-table to see if she could be of any +use to the invalid. + +“I trust Emily is not much the worse for last night’s business,” said +Laurence, alarmed by Mrs. Colton’s evident anxiety. + +“I fear it has done her great harm,” replied the matron; “her cough is +very trying, and she is in a high fever. I hope Mr. Canterham will come +at once.” + +“I will wait to see him, and then run up to town for Dr. Leonards,” +said Laurence. + +The local doctor came speedily. He looked very grave when he returned +from his patient’s room. He confessed that there was fever, and some +danger of inflammation. + +“I will bring down Dr. Leonards,” said Laurence. + +“I think it would be wise to do so,” replied the Hampton surgeon, +wondering who this gentleman was who took so decided a part. + +Mr. Desmond lost no time in carrying out his intention; and Dr. +Leonards arrived at River Lawn at four o’clock that afternoon, +accompanied by Laurence, who could not rest in London. + +“I warned Mrs. Jerningham of her danger,” said the physician, gravely. + +“Indeed? I never heard that there was any cause for alarm. Did you make +her understand as much?” + +“I spoke as plainly as one dares speak to a patient, and I begged her +to let me talk to her aunt. But she forbade this, and promised to take +all possible care.” + +“And she has taken no care. Great God, it is a kind of suicide!” + +The passionate exclamation startled the doctor, and he looked at +Laurence, wondering what relationship he bore to the lady of whom they +had been speaking. Laurence saw the wondering look, and divined its +meaning. + +“I have known Mrs. Jerningham for many years,” he said. “Her father was +one of my oldest and closest friends. It was at my instigation that she +consulted you, but I had no idea there was danger.” + +There was no more said. Dr. Leonards saw the patient, and conversed +with the Hampton surgeon. That there was danger he made no attempt to +deny, when closely questioned by Mrs. Colton, who was half-distracted +by this sudden calamity. He did not indeed say that the case was +hopeless, but his manner was by no means hopeful. + +“The cough has been obstinately neglected for months,” he said; “and +the maid tells me there has been frequent spitting of blood.” + +“And it has all been hidden from me,” cried Mrs. Colton; “how +cruel--how cruel!” + +“Yes, it is sad that there should have been such concealment. I was +very angry with the maid; but she told me she dared not disobey her +mistress. I cannot conceal from you that there has been great mischief +done.” + +This interview took place in the drawing-room, while Mr. Desmond paced +to and fro the lawn, outside the open windows, anguish-stricken. + +This sudden peril to the woman he had loved--to whom he was so +closely bound by a tie so binding, so intangible--came upon him as an +overwhelming calamity. A sense of guilt, remorse unspeakable, smote his +heart. He had grown weary of his bondage; yet the possibility of his +freedom appalled him. There was grief, there was horror in the thought +of liberty so regained. In this hour of Emily Jerningham’s peril, the +man who had loved her forgot everything except that she had been dear +to him. The old tenderness was re-awakened in his breast. He forgot her +jealousies, her sneers, her caprices, her fretfulness,--everything but +the one alarming fact of her illness. + +He intercepted Dr. Leonards, and obtained from him a clearer statement +than the physician had cared to make to Mrs. Colton. The great man +admitted that the symptoms were as bad as they could be. + +“I shall see Mrs. Jerningham again to-morrow,” he said. “If we can get +her safely through this crisis, and send her to a warmer climate for +the autumn, we may patch her up. But a permanent cure is quite out of +the question; _that_ was hopeless from the first.” + +“From the first? From the time of her first visit to you?” + +“Yes.” + +Laurence went back to London sorely distressed. The remorseful sense +of shortcoming that oppresses the mourner in every earthly severance +weighed heavily upon him. Few and infrequent had been the reproaches +that had escaped his lips; but in his heart he had often rebelled +against Emily Jerningham’s tyranny. And she had loved him only too +dearly; her jealousy, her despotism, had been alike the evidence of +that too-exacting affection. Could he be so ungrateful as to revolt +against so tender a tyranny, so flattering a despotism? + +He had rebelled; he had found his chains almost intolerable; and he +could not forgive himself this secret treason. + +For a fortnight he went to and fro between London and River Lawn, +neglecting everything, except the indispensable work of his paper, for +these daily journeys; but in all those fourteen days he saw neither the +invalid nor her faithful nurse, Lucy Alford. He heard from the doctors +that Miss Alford’s fidelity was beyond all praise, and from Mrs. Colton +he also heard of Lucy’s devotion. For a week the patient continued in +extreme danger, then there came a happy change,--nature rallied. At +the end of the fortnight the Hampton doctor was triumphant, the London +physician gravely satisfied. Mrs. Jerningham was able to come down to +the drawing-room, to take a slow turn once a day on the sunlit strip of +lawn before the windows, to eat a few mouthfuls of chicken or jelly, +with some faint show of appetite. It was settled that she and her aunt +should go to Madeira for the autumn and winter, and for the immediate +benefit of the sea-voyage, as soon as she could well be moved. + +“In the meantime I have a little business to arrange,” said Mrs. +Jerningham. + +“Let the business wait till next spring, my dear Emily,” pleaded Mrs. +Colton. + +“I think not, auntie,” the invalid answered, with a mournful smile. + +On the following day she wrote her husband a brief note, which was +addressed to Park Lane, and forwarded thence to Greenlands. The letter +ran thus: + + “DEAR MR. JERNINGHAM,--I have been very ill, and my doctors + insist on my spending the autumn abroad. As there is always in such + cases a risk of one’s not returning, I should like much to see you + before I go. Please come to Hampton at your earliest convenience, and + oblige yours faithfully, + + E. J.” + +Having despatched this letter, Mrs. Jerningham abandoned herself to the +delight of a long, quiet afternoon with Mr. Desmond, who was to see +her that day for the first time since her illness. + +He found her much changed; but the change had only increased her +beauty. An almost supernal delicacy of tint and spirituality of +expression characterized the thin face, the large, luminous eyes. The +first sight of that loveliness, which was not of this earth, sent +a sharp anguish to his heart. It cost him a struggle to return the +invalid’s greeting with a cheerful countenance, and to speak hopefully +of her improved health. + +“I shall never forgive myself that water-journey,” he said. + +“You have no cause to reproach yourself with that. It was I who +obstinately faced the danger from first to last. But the doctors say +the water-journey was only my culminating imprudence.” + +She changed the subject after this, and begged that no one would talk +to her of her health. Laurence was surprised to find her so serene, so +cheerful, so thoughtful of others, and forgetful of her own weakness. +Never had she appeared to him more beautiful, never so estimable. Her +manner to Lucy was peculiarly kind and tender. + +“You can never know what this dear girl has been to me!” she said, +holding Lucy’s hand in both her own as she praised her. “In those long, +miserable nights of delirium--I was delirious every night for more than +a week, Laurence--I used to see her kind, pitying face watching me; and +there was comfort in it when I was at the worst. Wilson was very good, +and Aunt Fanny all that is kind and devoted; but this dear child seems +to have been created to comfort the sick.” + +“I used to nurse poor papa when he was ill,” the girl answered, simply. +“He was often delirious--much worse than you, Mrs. Jerningham; and he +used to want to throw himself out of the window, or to kill himself +with his razors. And then he would grow angry, and say that flies were +tormenting him, and try to catch them,--when there were no flies, you +know. It was very dreadful.” + +By and by Mrs. Jerningham asked to be left alone with her friend. + +“I want to ask Mr. Desmond’s advice about business affairs, auntie,” +she said. “He knows as much law as most lawyers, you know.” + +Mrs. Colton discreetly withdrew, accompanied by Lucy. + +“It is nearly ended, Laurence,” said Mrs. Jerningham, when they were +gone. She looked up at Mr. Desmond with a tender, earnest look, and +held out her wasted hand. He took the pale, semi-transparent hand and +raised it to his lips. + +“What is nearly ended, my dear Emily?” he asked, gently. + +“Your bondage.” + +“God forbid, if that means that I am to lose you.” + +“Yes, Laurence, that is inevitable. I doubt if the knot could ever have +been disentangled; but it can be cut. Death makes an easy end of many +difficulties; and I think nothing less than death could have ended our +perplexities. I am not going to preach a sermon, dear friend. I only +want you to understand that my doom is sealed, and that I know it is +so, and am not altogether sorry.” + +“Oh, Emily, what a bitter reproof to me!” + +“No, Laurence, a reproof to myself. My own short-sighted selfishness +has been the cause of all our sufferings; for we have suffered acutely, +both of us. I had no right to absorb your life; no right to hinder you +from forming ties without which the most prosperous life seems blank +and dreary; no right to stand between you and a home. But it is all +over. I am drifting out of the troubled sea into a quiet harbour, and I +can afford to be, not generous, but just.” + +“Emily!” + +“Hear me patiently, dear. I will not talk of these things again. I know +where your heart has been given, and what a pure unselfish love you +have, almost unconsciously, won for yourself. I knew of that innocent +love months ago; but I only knew your sentiments on the day of our +Chertsey picnic. I was in the fernery when you told Lucy your secret. +Yes, Laurence, I listened. It was a contemptible act, of course; but +I was too desperate to consider that. I heard all you said--all. I +heard enough to know your devotion, your generosity; to hate my own +selfishness. All that day I felt myself the vilest of creatures. +I knew that it was my duty to set you free; but I shrank, with a +miserable cowardly shrinking, from the sacrifice. I knew that for you +and me together there could be no such thing as happiness, either in +the present or the future; but I was capable of chaining you to my +wretchedness rather than of seeing you happy with another. All that is +most base and selfish in my nature was in the ascendant that day. No +words can tell how I struggled with my wickedness. I was not strong +enough to vanquish it. I knew that it was my duty to surrender every +claim upon you; but I could not bring myself to face that duty. From +the maze of my perplexities, extrication seemed impossible. Happily for +all of us, Providence has given me a means of escape. I may keep you +my prisoner to the end of my life, Laurence, and yet be guilty of no +supreme selfishness, for my days are numbered.” + +“My dear Emily, why imagine this?” + +“I know it, Laurence. I did not need to read it in the faces of my +doctors, as I have read it. For a long time I have felt a sense of age +creeping upon me; a weariness of life, which is not natural to a woman +of thirty. Death has approached me very slowly, but his hold is so +much the more sure. Comfort me as much as you like, Laurence, but do +not delude me. I know that I have a very short time to spend upon this +earth; let me spend some of it with you.” + +“I will be your slave, dear.” + +“And when I am gone you will forget how sorely I have tried you? You +will remember me with tenderness? Yes, I know you will. And your young +wife shall be no loser by my friendship, Laurence. I have the power +to will away some of the money settled on me by Mr. Jerningham, and +I shall divide it between my aunt and Lucy. My aunt has a very good +income of her own, you know, and needs nothing from me, except as a +proof of my affection for her. Your young wife shall not come to you +dowerless, Laurence! Your wife! How sweet that word ‘wife’ can sound! I +can fancy you in your home. You will not marry _very_ soon after I +am gone, Laurence?” + +“My dearest,” cried Laurence, with a sob, “do you think old ties are +so easily broken? No, Emily, the love I have borne for you is a part +of my manhood. It cannot be put away. That innocent girl, with her +tender homelike sweetness, stole my heart before I was aware it could +change; but she cannot blot out the past. If ever she is my wife, I +shall love her dearly and faithfully, and a home shared with her will +be very pleasant to me; but in the sacred corner of my heart must for +ever remain the image of my first love. Men do not forget these things, +Emily; nor is the second love the same as the first; and the man who +outlives the faith of his youth feels that ‘there hath passed away a +glory from the earth.’” + +“You will remember me, and there will be some regret in the +remembrance. I ask no more of Fate. Oh, Laurence, we have had some +happy hours together! Try to remember those. My life within the past +year or two has been a long disease. Try to forget how I have worried +you with my causeless jealousies, my selfish exactions.” + +Very tender and reassuring were the words which Laurence Desmond spoke +to his first love after this. An almost extinguished affection revives +in such an hour as this. As the candle of life burns brightest at the +close, so too Love’s torch has its expiring splendour, and flames anew +before we turn it down for ever. + +When Lucy and Mrs. Colton returned from their walk they found the +invalid unusually cheerful. The voyage to Madeira was discussed, and +Emily talked with delight of that distant island. Mr. Desmond was well +up in the topography of the remote settlement, and planned everything +in the pleasantest manner for the avoidance of fatigue to the invalid. + +“I wish Potter were more used to travelling,” said Mrs. Colton, of the +River Lawn butler. “We shall have to take him with us, I think; but he +will be quite lost among Spaniards and Portuguese, and I don’t know +how he will be able to arrange affairs for us with regard to hotel +accommodation, and so on.” + +“I will relieve Potter from all responsibility upon that question,” +said Mr. Desmond. + +“You!” cried Emily. + +“Yes, if you will permit me to be your escort. I spent a week in +Madeira when I was on my Spanish wanderings.” + +“And you will leave London and your literary work in order to make our +journey pleasant for us?” + +“I would hazard more important interests than those I have at stake.” + +Mrs. Jerningham’s eyes grew dim, and she had no words in which to +thank the faithful slave from whom a few months before she would have +haughtily demanded such allegiance, and bitterly resented its refusal. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + A FINAL INTERVIEW. + + +MR. JERNINGHAM was prompt to comply with his wife’s request. On the +second morning after the despatch of Emily’s letter, the master of +Greenlands appeared at River Lawn; and this, allowing for time lost in +the reposting of the letter, was as soon as it was possible for him to +arrive there. + +The change in his wife was painfully obvious to him, and shocked him +deeply. + +“I am sorry to see you looking so ill, Emily,” he said, concealing his +surprise by an effort. + +“Do you think I should have sent for you if I had not been very ill? +It was very good of you to come so promptly. I have to thank you for +much generosity, for much thoughtful kindness, during the years of our +separation. Believe me, I have fully appreciated your kind feeling, +your delicacy. But since my illness, there has come upon me the feeling +that something more was due to me than kindness or delicacy; something +more due from me to you than quiet submission to your wishes. Do not +think that I have entrapped you into this visit in order to reproach +you, or to exalt myself. Justification for my conduct there is none. I +can never hope to rehabilitate myself in your eyes or in my own; all I +desire is that you should know the whole truth. Will you kindly listen +to me and believe me? I have kept silence for years; I speak now under +the impression that I have but a few weeks to live; you cannot think +that I shall speak falsely.” + +“I am not capable of doubting your word, even under less solemn +circumstances. But I trust you overrate your danger; convalescence is +always a period of depression.” + +“We will not talk of that; my own instinct and the sentence of my +doctors alike condemn me. They talk about the restorative effect of a +sea-voyage, and send me to Madeira for the autumn and winter; and that, +for a woman of my age, is a sentence of death.” + +“Let us hope it is only a precautionary measure.” + +“I have no eager desire for life; I can afford to submit to Providence. +And now let me speak of a subject which is of more importance to me +than any question as to the time I have to live. Let me speak to you +of my honour--as a woman and as a wife. When you decreed that all ties +between us except the one legal bond should be severed, your decree +was absolute. There was no room left for discussion. You sent me your +solicitor, who told me, with much delicate circumlocution, that your +home was no longer to be my home. There was to be neither scandal, nor +disgrace, nor punishment for me, who had sinned against my duty as a +wife. I was only to be banished. I was too much in the wrong to dispute +the justice of this sentence, Harold; too proud to sue for mercy. I +let judgment go by default. You banished your wife from the fortress +of home; you deposed her from an unassailable position to a doubtful +standing; and you did this upon the strength of a packet of letters, +which a bolder offender would have received at her own address, and +which a more experienced sinner would have burned. I want you to grant +me one favour, Harold,--read those letters before I die.” + +“I will read them when you please. Yes, I dare say I did wrong in +cancelling our union upon such trifling evidence of error; but I acted +from my own instinct. I have been a Sybarite in matters of sentiment; +and to live with a woman whose heart and faith were not all my own, +would have been unutterably hateful to me. I jumped at no conclusions. +I did not suffer my thoughts to condemn you unheard. But you had been +living under my roof in secret correspondence with a man who called +himself my friend. What could I do? Could I come to you and say, +‘Please do not receive any more secret letters from Desmond; that is +a kind of thing which I object to?’ You would of course have promised +to oblige me, and Desmond would have addressed his letters to another +office. Having deceived me once, you see, I could hardly hope you +would not deceive me again. That sort of thing grows upon one. On +the other hand, why should I make a foolish scandal, read Desmond’s +letters,--which would have been an ungentlemanly thing to do,--subpœna +your maid, your footman, make myself ridiculous, and humiliate you, +for the profit of lawyers and the amusement of newspaper readers; and +failing in convicting you of the last and worst of infamies, take you +back to my home and heart a spotless wife? It seemed to me that there +could be no course for us but a tranquil and polite separation.” + +“If you had read the letters you might have thought differently.” + +“My dear girl, with every wish to be indulgent, I can scarcely admit +that. To my mind there are no degrees in these things. A woman is +faithful or unfaithful. If the letter she receive contains but few +lines about an opera-box, they should be lines which she can show her +husband without a blush. There must be no lurking treason between the +lines. She must not pose herself _en femme incomprise_, and call +herself a faithful wife, because her infidelity does not come under the +jurisdiction of the Divorce Court. You will say, perhaps, that this +comes with a bad grace from me, whose life has been far from spotless. +But, you see, spotlessness is not a man’s speciality; and however vile +he may be himself, he has a natural belief in the purity of woman. She +seems to him a living temple of the virtues, and he scarcely expects to +find a pillar-post lurking in the shadow of the sacred portico.” + +“I was very weak, very wicked,” murmured Emily; “but I have some +excuses for my error which other women cannot claim. If I had thought +that you loved me,--if I had seen reason for believing that our +marriage had brightened your life in the smallest degree, or that +my affection, howsoever freely given, could ever have been precious +to you, it might have been otherwise with me. Oh, believe me, Mr. +Jerningham, you might have made me a good wife, if you had cared to do +so. Men have a power to mould us for which they rarely give themselves +credit. It was not because of the twenty years’ difference between +our ages that I grew weary of my home, and sighed for more congenial +society, for sympathy I had never found there. _That_ was not the +gulf between us. It was because you did not love me, and did not even +care to pretend any love for me, that I welcomed the friendship of my +father’s old friend, and forgot the danger involved in such sympathy. +Your marriage was an act of generosity, a chivalrous protection of a +helpless kinswoman, and I ought to have been grateful. I was grateful; +but a woman’s heart has room for something more than gratitude. A man +who marries as you married me is bound to complete his sacrifice. He +must give his heart as well as his home and fortune. You gave me your +cheque-book, but you let me see only too plainly that in the bargain +which made us man and wife there was to be no exchange of hearts. What +a union! How many times did we dine _tête-à-tête_ in the two years +of our wedded life?--once--twice--well, perhaps half a dozen times; and +I can recall your weary yawns, our little conventional speeches, on +those rare occasions. For two years we lived under the same roof, and +we never even quarrelled. You treated me with unalterable generosity, +unchanging courtesy, and you held me at arm’s length; yet if you had +wished to make yourself master of my heart, the conquest would have +been an easy one. I was wounded by Mr. Desmond’s silence; I was melted +by your kindness. It would not have been difficult for me to give you a +wife’s devotion.” + +“I dare say you are right, Emily,” Mr. Jerningham answered, with +a little, languid sigh. His wife’s earnestness had taken him by +surprise, and a new light had broken in upon his mind as she spoke. + +It was possible that there was some truth in these earnest, passionate +words. He admitted as much to himself. Something more might have been +required of him than a gentlemanly toleration of the woman he had +chosen to share his home, to bear his name. The higher, Christian idea +of man’s accountableness for the soul of his weaker partner was quite +out of the region of Mr. Jerningham’s ethics; but, on purely social +grounds, he felt that he had done his cousin and his wife some wrong. + +“I had exhausted my capacity for loving before I married,” he thought; +“and I gave this poor creature a handful of ashes instead of a human +heart.” + +After a few minutes’ silence he addressed his wife with an unaccustomed +tenderness of tone. + +“Yes, my dear Emily, you have just ground for complaint against me. +My error was greater than yours; and now we meet after a lapse of +years--both of us older, possibly wiser--I can only say, forgive me.” + +He held out the hand of friendship, which his wife accepted in all +humility of spirit. + +“No, no,” she exclaimed, “there can be no question of forgiveness on +my part. You have been only too good to me, and my complaints are +groundless and peevish. I suppose it is natural to a woman to try to +excuse herself by accusing some one else. But, believe me, I have been +no stranger to remorse. I could not die until I had thanked you for +your indulgent kindness during the years of our separation, and asked +you to forgive me. But before I ask for pardon, I beg you to read those +letters.” + +She took a little packet from her work-basket and handed it to her +husband. + +“I will do anything to oblige you,” said Mr. Jerningham, kindly; “but I +assure you it is very unpleasant to me to read another man’s letters.” + +He took the packet to a distant window, and there began his task. The +letters were long--such clever, gossiping, semi-sentimental letters +as a man writes to a lady with whom he is _aux petits soins_, +without ulterior motive of any kind, for the mere pleasure involved +in opening his mind and heart to a charming, sympathetic creature, +whom he holds it better for himself “to have loved and lost, than +never to have loved at all.” Such letters are little more than the +vehicles by which a man lets off the poetic gases of his brain, the +herbals wherein he preserves the rarer flowers of his mind. Into such +letters a man can pour all his caprices of fancy, all his audacities +of thought; and as he writes, his mind is divided between tenderness +for the dear recipient of his outpourings and a lurking consciousness +that his letters will adorn his biography, and hold their place in +polite literature, when the hand that runs along the paper to-day has +mouldered in a coffin. In such letters every writer appears at his +best. In the present he is writing for only one indulgent critic; in +the future he fancies himself revealed to posterity with an audacious +freedom forbidden by the natural reserve of the man who knows he will +have to read a hundred and twenty reviews of his book. + +Mr. Jerningham read Laurence Desmond’s letters very patiently. He +smiled faintly now and then, in polite recognition of some little +playful flight of the writer’s fancy; but he was far from being amused. +More than one smothered but dismal yawn betrayed his weariness, and it +was with a sigh of supreme relief that he at last returned them to his +wife. + +“They are really clever,” he said, “and hardly objectionable. They are +the kind of thing that a Chateaubriand might have written to a Madame +Récamier, and she was the very archetype of female virtue. I can only +regret the one fact that they were not addressed to your own house.” + +“My foolish cowardice was the sole cause of that error. I thought you +would object to my receiving Mr. Desmond’s letters, and they were a +great pleasure to me.” + +“My poor child, if you had only examined my library in Park Lane, you +would have found a hundred volumes of letters, from Pliny downwards, +all of them better than Mr. Desmond’s effusions. But I suppose there is +a charm in being the sole recipient of a man’s confidences. Every man +writes that kind of thing once in his life; I have done it myself.” + +“And can you forgive me freely?” + +“Forgive you! Why, my dear child, you have been freely forgiven from +the hour in which we parted. I thought it best and wisest to end a +union which had been too lightly made. It is possible I was wrong. +Unhappily, I had exhausted my fund of hope before I met you, and had +acquired an unpleasant knack of expecting the worst in every situation +of life. I did not take those letters as conclusive evidence of guilt; +on the contrary, I was quite able to believe their existence was +compatible with innocence. But I told myself that such letters must be +the beginning of the end, and I took prompt steps to avert an impending +catastrophe. I did not want to be a spectacle to men and angels as the +husband of a runaway wife. ‘There shall be no running away,’ I said. +‘We will shake hands, and take our separate roads, without noise or +scandal.’ I suppose it was a selfish policy; and again I am reduced to +say, forgive me.” + +After this Mr. Jerningham spoke no more of the past. He talked of his +wife’s health, her future movements. He tried to inspire her with +hope of amendment, in spite of her physician’s ominous looks, her own +instincts; nothing could be kinder or more delicate than the manner in +which he expressed himself both to Emily and to Mrs. Colton, who came +in from the garden presently, and whom he thanked, with emphasis, for +her devotion to his wife. + +A quarter of an hour afterwards he was seated alone in a railway +carriage, speeding London-wards by express train, and meditating +profoundly upon the interview at River Lawn. + +“Dying,” he said to himself; “of that there can be no doubt. Of all +the hazards of fate, this was the last I should have expected. And +I shall be free; free to marry again, if I could conceive so wild a +folly; free to marry Helen de Bergerac; free to inflict the maximum of +misery upon an innocent girl, in order to secure for myself the minimum +of happiness. And yet, O God, what happiness there might be in such a +union, if I could be loved again as I once was loved!” + +He clasped his hands, and the day-dreamer’s ecstasy brightened his face +for a moment. The setting sun shone red upon the river over which the +train was speeding, and Harold Jerningham remembered such a rosy summer +sunset five-and-twenty years ago, and a sweet girl-face looking up at +him, transfigured by a girl’s pure love. + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + + TIMELY BANISHMENT. + + +BEFORE Eustace Thorburn could nerve himself for the self-sacrificial +act which was to accomplish his banishment from that Berkshire Eden +known as Greenlands, Fate took the doing of the deed out of his hands, +and brought about his departure in the simplest and most natural manner. + +For the completion of M. de Bergerac’s ponderous work, it was necessary +that certain rare manuscripts in the Imperial Library of Paris should +be examined, and for the examination of these Mr. Thorburn’s daily +increasing knowledge of Sanscrit rendered him fairly competent. For the +exile, Paris was a forbidden city, but to this young man, recommended +by Mr. Jerningham, the Imperial Library would be open. M. de Bergerac +had long meditated asking this favour of his secretary, and had +watched the young student’s progress in the Oriental dialects with +impatient longing. The time had now arrived when he felt that Eustace +was qualified to undertake the required work, and he took an early +opportunity of sounding him upon the subject. + +“There is work for some months,” he said; “but Paris is at all times +a pleasant city, and I do not think you would be tired of a residence +there. I can give you introductions to agreeable people, who will +receive my friend with all kindness. You can find some airy apartment +near the library, and take your life easily. Your limited means will +secure you from the temptations and dissipations of the capital, but +not deprive you of its simpler pleasures.” + +“My dear sir, you are all goodness. I shall be only too happy to work +for you in Paris, and on the most moderate terms. I have no wish for +pleasure. Life is so short, and art so long; and I have such an +impatient desire to succeed in the only career that is open to me.” + +“It is a noble impatience, and I will not stand in your way; give me +four hours a day of such work as you have given me here, and the rest +of your time will be your own.” + +After this interview there was nothing to hinder Mr. Thorburn’s +departure. He waited only for his employer’s instructions, and his +familiarity with all the details of the work made these instructions +very easy to him; while frequent correspondence with his patron would +enable him to work in perfect harmony with the author of the great +book. Within a week of his perusal of his father’s book, he bade his +friends at Greenlands farewell, and started for London _en route_ +for Paris, provided with a letter from Mr. Jerningham to the chiefs of +the British Embassy, which would insure his free use of the Imperial +Library. + +Helen’s face told him that she was sorry to lose her friend and +instructor. But the depth of that sorrow he could not fathom. + +“Papa says it is likely you will be away three or four months,” she +said. “How much of my Greek I shall lose in that time! Papa never +can find time for me to read to him now; and you will forget your +piano-forte music, for I don’t suppose you will take the trouble to +practise in Paris. And I shall have no one to play the basses of my +overtures.” + +Eustace murmured something to the effect that for him the cessation of +those basses would be desolation and despair, but more than such vague +protestations he dared not trust himself to utter. + +“It is fortunate for me that I am sent away,” he thought. “I could +not keep silence much longer; and I know not when I could have found +courage to tear myself from this sweet home.” + +Helen’s thoughtful eyes looked up at him, wonderingly, as he stood +before her, with her hand retained in his just a little longer than +their relative positions warranted. But when they met his, the +dark-blue eyes fell again, and the two stood silent, as if spellbound. + +The spell was broken by the voice of M. de Bergerac calling from the +porch. + +“The fly has been waiting ten minutes,” he cried. “Come, Thorburn, if +you want to catch the 4.30 from Windsor.” + +“Good-bye, Miss de Bergerac--God bless you! Thank you a thousand times +for all your goodness to me!” said Eustace; and in the next instant he +was gone. + +“_My_ goodness! And he has been so kind to me,” murmured Helen. + +She went to the open window and watched the fly drive away, and waved +a parting salutation to the traveller with her pretty white hand. When +the sound of the wheels had melted into silence, she went back to her +books and her piano, and wondered to find how much there seemed wanting +in her life now that Mr. Thorburn was gone. + +“What will papa do without him?” she asked. The Newfoundland came into +the room panting and distressed as she spoke. He had followed the +vehicle that bore Eustace away, and had been repulsed by the driver. + +“And what shall _we_ do without him, Heph?” asked the young lady, +hopelessly, as she embraced her favourite. + + +Eustace found his Uncle Dan waiting dinner for him in the comfortable +room in Great Ormond Street; and in that genial companionship he +spent the eve of his departure very pleasantly. The two men talked +long and earnestly of the book which both had read. Eustace told his +uncle of his idea about a Scotch marriage; and they went over the +significant passages in the autobiographical romance together, with +much deliberation. + +“Yes, lad; I believe you’ve hit it,” said Daniel Mayfield at last. +“These vague hints certainly bear out your notion. I know not how far +this domicile of something less than a year may constitute a Scotch +marriage, for the laws of Scotland upon the marriage-question have +been ever inscrutable; but it is evident the man believed himself in +your sister’s power.” + +“I should like to find the scene of my mother’s sorrow,” said Eustace. +“Will you take a holiday when my work is done in Paris, Uncle Dan, and +go to the Highlands with me, to look for that spot?” + +“My dear boy, how can we hope to identify the place?” + +“By means of this book, and by inquiry when we get to the +neighbourhood.” + +“The book gives us nothing but initials.” + +“No; but if the initials are genuine, as it is most likely they are, we +may easily identify the spot with the aid of a good map.” + +“I doubt it.” + +“I assure you the thing is possible,” said Eustace, earnestly. “There +are several initials indicative of different localities. Let us start +with the supposition that these are genuine; and if we can fit them to +localities within a given radius, we may fancy ourselves on the right +track. We have the general features of the place--a wild, mountainous +district, steep cliffs, sands, and lonely shanties. See, I have jotted +down the places indicated by initials. Here they are: + +‘1st. H. H. The head-quarters of Dion. + +‘2nd. D. P. A craggy headland, crowned by a little classic temple. + +‘3rd. The most uninteresting ruins in A. A. would seem, therefore, to +be the initial of the country. + +“There are your indications, Uncle Dan; the map or a guide-book must +do the rest. You would take as much trouble to decipher a puzzle in +arithmetic, or to work a difficult problem in Euclid. My mother’s fate +is more to me--nearer to your heart, I know--than all Euclid.” + +“But if we find the scene and identify it, what then?” + +“The scene may tell me the name of the man.” + +“What, Eustace! still the old foolish eagerness to know what is better +left unknown?” + +“To the very end of my life, Uncle Dan. And now let us look at your map +of Scotland.” + +“I have no map worth looking at. No, Eustace, there shall be no +attempts at discovery to-night. Leave me that scrap of paper, and while +you are away I will try to identify these places. When you return, +we will take our Highland holiday together, come what may. It will +be fresh life to me to get away from London, and I will not say how +pleasant it will be to me to take my pleasure with you.” + +“Dear, true friend.” + +They shook hands, in token that to this plan both were irrevocably +bound. + +The morning’s mail-train carried Eustace to Dover, and on the next +night he slept at a humble hotel near the Luxembourg. He had no +difficulty in finding a commodious lodging within his modest means, +and he began his work at the great library two days after his arrival. +The people to whom he brought letters of introduction were people of +the best kind, but Eustace availed himself sparely of their hospitable +invitations. His days were spent in the library; his nights were given +to the great poem, which grew and ripened under his patient hand. + +“If it should be a success!” he said to himself; “if it should go home +to the hearts of the people--as true poetry should go--at once--with an +electric power! It has brought the tears to my eyes, it has quickened +the beating of my heart, it has kept me awake of nights with a fever +of hope and rapture; but for all that it may be only fustian. A man’s +dreams and thoughts may be bright enough, but the translation of them +cold and dull; or the thoughts themselves may be worthless--rotten +wood, not to be made sound by any showy veneer of language.” + +The poem which was to make or unmake Mr. Thorburn was no metaphysical +treatise done into rhyme--no ambitious epic, ponderous as Milton, +without Miltonic grandeur. It was a modern romance in verse--a +love-story--passionate, tender, tragical, and the heart of the poet +throbbed in every line. + +His life in Paris was eventless. Very dear to him were the letters +that came from Greenlands--letters in which Helen’s name appeared very +often,--letters in which he was told that his absence was regretted, +his return wished for. + +“It is like having a home,” he said to himself; “and I dare not return +to that dear home, or must return only to confess my secret and submit +to a decree of banishment!” + +One of the letters from Greenlands--a letter that came to him when he +had been about six weeks in Paris--brought him startling news: Harold +Jerningham was a widower. The handsome young wife, whom Eustace had +heard of from his employer, had died at Madeira. + +“They met before the lady left England,” wrote M. de Bergerac, “and +parted excellent friends. Indeed, they had never quarrelled. The reason +of their separation was never revealed to the world, but Harold has +half-admitted to me that he was to blame.” + + + + + CHAPTER X. + + SIT TIBI TERRA LEVIS. + + +FOR Emily Jerningham life’s fitful fever was ended. The change to a +softer climate, the welcome warmth of southern breezes, had given her a +brief respite, but her doom had been sealed long ago, and her existence +had been only a question of so many weeks more or less. + +The journey by sea and the first two weeks in the strange island were +very sweet to Emily Jerningham. Laurence Desmond accompanied her on +that final voyage, and friendship, sanctified by the shadows of the +grave, attended her closing days. + +This seemed the natural solution to the enigma of her perplexed +existence. Death alone could make an easy end of all her difficulties, +and she accepted the necessity as a blessed release. + +“It has been made easy to me to resign you, Laurence,” she said, “and +to pray for your future happiness with another. That poor little girl! +I know she loves you very dearly. She reverences you as a heroic +creature. Upon my word, sir, you are very fortunate. With me, had +Fate united us, you would have been compelled to endure all manner of +jealousies and caprices; and from that simple Lucy you will receive the +pious worship that is ordinarily given only to saints.” + +Mrs. Jerningham would not allow Laurence to remain with her until the +last dread hour. When they had been a fortnight on the island, and had +exhausted the little excursions and sights of the place, she persuaded +Mr. Desmond to return to England. + +“I know you cannot afford to remain so far away,” she said. “What may +happen to the _Areopagus_ in your absence! I have always heard +that sub-editors are a most incorrigible class of people. They insert +those things which they should not insert, and so on. You may find +yourself pledged to something appalling in the way of politics when +you get back to London; or discover that one of your dearest friends +has been flayed alive by your most savage operator. And, you see, I am +so much better. I shall return to England in the spring quite a new +creature.” + +In this manner did Mrs. Jerningham cajole her friend to abandon her. It +was the final sacrifice which she offered up--the sacrifice of her sole +earthly happiness. + +She stood at her window watching the steamer as it left the island, and +her heart sank within her. + +He was gone out of her life for ever. Thus faded all the glory of her +world. She sat alone till long after dusk, thinking of her wasted, +mistaken life; while Mrs. Colton fondly believed her charge was +enjoying a refreshing slumber. + +The English doctor, who attended Mrs. Jerningham daily, found his +patient much worse when he made his call upon the morning after Mr. +Desmond’s departure. + +“I am afraid you were guilty of some imprudence yesterday,” he said; +“for you are certainly not looking quite yourself to-day.” + +“Yesterday was one of the quietest days I have spent on the island,” +replied Mrs. Jerningham; “I did not stir out of doors.” + +“That was a pity; for you ought to enjoy our good weather while it +lasts. The rains will set in soon, and you will be a prisoner. But +after our rainy season we have a delicious winter; and the voyage from +England has done such wonders for you, that I really expect great +things between this and the spring.” + +“Do you mean that you really think I am to live?” asked Mrs. +Jerningham, looking at him earnestly; “to drag my life on for weeks and +months, and perhaps for years?” + +“Upon my honour I have strong hopes, as I told your aunt yesterday; +the improvement since your arrival has been so marked that I can hope +anything. You do not know what Madeira can do for weak lungs.” + +“Then I wish I had never come here.” + +“My dear madam, you--” cried the doctor, alarmed. + +“That sounds very horrible, does it not, Mr. Ransom? But, you see, +there is a time when one’s life comes to a legitimate end--one’s +mission is finished. There is no room for one any more upon the earth, +as it seems. The priest has said, ‘_Ite, missa est_;’ the end is +come. I do not want to prolong my life beyond its natural close; and +that has come.” + +Mr. Ransom looked at his patient as if doubtful whether she were +altogether in her right mind. But he did not discuss the subject; he +murmured some little soothing commonplace, and departed to warn Mrs. +Colton that the patient was disposed to depression of spirits, and +must, if possible, be roused and diverted. + +“I do not consider it altogether a bad sign,” he said, cheeringly; +“that low state of the nerves is a very common symptom of +convalescence.” + +To rouse and divert her invalid niece Mrs. Colton strove with +conscientious and untiring efforts; but failed utterly. From the hour +of Laurence Desmond’s departure Emily drooped. A depression came upon +her too profound for human consolation. In devout studies, in pious +meditations alone she found comfort. Her aunt read to her from the +works of the great divines, and in the eloquent and noble pages of +Hooker and Taylor, Barrow and South, as well as in the Gospel’s simpler +record, the weak soul found comfort. But with earthly comfort she had +done. A stranger, alone in a strange land, she waited the coming of +that awful stranger whom all must meet once--he who “keeps the key of +all the creeds.” Utter desolation of spirit took possession of her. +She was thrown back upon the spiritual world, and was fain to seek a +dwelling-place among those shadowy regions, like a shipwrecked mariner +cast upon a desert island, and rejoiced to find any refuge from the +perils of the great ocean. + +Letters came to the lonely invalid, in token that she was not quite +forgotten by the world she would fain forget; letters, and papers, and +books from Mr. Desmond, who wrote with much affectionate solicitude; +notes of condolence and inquiry from the few friends with whom she was +on intimate terms. But these were only the last salutations which life +sent to her who dwelt by the borders of death--the last farewells waved +by friendly hands. + +“He is good and self-devoted to the last,” she thought, as she read Mr. +Desmond’s letters; “and I do not think I should have induced him to +leave me if he had not believed it would look better for me to be here +alone with my aunt.” + +In this supposition Mrs. Jerningham was correct. Mr. Desmond was too +much a man of the world not to be mindful of how things would appear to +the eyes of the world, and it had seemed to him better that he should +not prolong his stay at Madeira with the invalid. + +He had returned to London, therefore, and had gone back to his work, +which seemed very weary at this period of his life. + +It was not possible that this utter severance should come to pass +between him and Emily Jerningham without pain to himself. A man does +not change all at once. However deeply he is bound to the new love, +some frail links of the chain that tied him to the old hang about him +still, some corner of his heart still holds the first dear image; +and to the love that has been, the sorrow of parting lends a kind of +sanctification. + +Before leaving England Mrs. Jerningham had taken pains to provide for +Lucy’s future. The girl would gladly have accompanied her patroness to +Madeira, but this Emily would not permit. + +“You have had trouble enough in nursing me,” she said, kindly; “and we +must now try and find you a home in some pleasant, cheerful family. +You must not be exposed any longer to the depressing influence of an +invalid’s society.” + +The pleasant family was easily found. Are there not always a hundred +cheerful families eager to enlarge their home-circle by the addition of +an agreeable stranger? Mrs. Jerningham showed herself very particular +in her choice of a home for her _protégée_; and she was not +satisfied until she had discovered an irreproachable clergyman’s +family, some miles northward of Harrow, who were willing to receive +Miss Alford, and beneath whose roof she would have opportunities of +improving herself. + +“But, dear Mrs. Jerningham, had I not better go to the lady in Ireland, +or to some other lady who wants a governess?” remonstrated Lucy. “I +ought to be getting my own living, you know. Why should I be a burden +upon your kindness? If I were of any use to you, it would be different; +but you will not let me be your nurse.” + +“My dear girl, you are no burden! It is a pleasure to me to provide in +some measure for your future. I promised Mr. Desmond that I would be +your friend. You must let me keep my promise, Lucy.” + +Of the interview which had taken place between Emily and Laurence, +Lucy knew nothing. Neither did she know that there had been a listener +during that never-to-be-forgotten half-hour in which Mr. Desmond had +told her his secret. + +What her own future might be she could not imagine; and this +arrangement for placing her with a clergyman’s family beyond Harrow +seemed to her a generous folly upon the part of Mrs. Jerningham. + +She submitted only to please that lady; it would have seemed ungracious +to refuse such kindness; but Lucy fancied she would have been happier +if she had been permitted to renew her old struggles with fortune. + +“Remember you are to improve yourself, Lucy,” said Mrs. Jerningham; “I +want you to become the most accomplished and ladylike of women.” + +And thus they kissed and parted. Emily breathed more freely when the +girl had left her. That daily and hourly companionship with her happy +rival had not been without its bitterness. + +“The poor little thing has been very good to me,” she thought; “but I +cannot forget that she will be Laurence Desmond’s wife when I am lying +in my grave. And the winter winds will blow among the churchyard-trees, +and the pitiless rain will fall upon my grave, and those two will sit +beside their fire, and watch their children at play, and he will forget +that I ever lived.” + +Lucy went to her new home a few days before Mrs. Jerningham and her +following sailed for Madeira. Between Lucy and Laurence there was +no farewell. Mrs. Jerningham told Mr. Desmond what she had done for +his old friend’s daughter, and he approved and thanked her; but he +expressed no wish to see the young lady, or to be introduced to the +family with whom she had taken up her abode. + +He made no attempt to see Lucy on his return from Madeira. In this he +was governed by a supreme delicacy of feeling. + +“While Emily lives I belong to her,” he said to himself. “I am bound by +a tie which only death can loosen.” + +The hour in which that tie was to be loosened came very soon. A +heart-broken letter from Mrs. Colton told Laurence that he was a free +man. + +“She spoke of you a few minutes before her death,” wrote Emily +Jerningham’s aunt. “‘Tell him that one of my last prayers was for +his future happiness,’ she said. She suffered much in the last week; +but the last day was very peaceful. I can never tell you all her +thoughtfulness for others--for you, for me, for Lucy Alford, for her +servants, the few poor people at Hampton of whom she knew anything. Her +long illness worked a great change in her--a holy and blessed change. +Generous, affectionate, and noble-minded she had always been; but +the piety of her closing hours was more than I should have dared to +hope, remembering her somewhat careless way of thinking when she was +in health. In death she is lovelier than in life; there is a divine +smile upon her face now which I never saw before. I have received +instructions from Mr. Jerningham. My beloved niece is to be buried +in the family vault in Berkshire. Oh, Mr. Desmond! what a mournful +homeward voyage lies before me! I know not how I am to endure the rest +of my life without my more than daughter!” + +Laurence Desmond’s tears fell fast upon the letter. The old familiar +vision of the little garden at Passy, the proud, young face, the +slim, white-robed figure, came back to him; and he recalled one +summer afternoon, when his lips had almost shaped themselves into the +portentous question, and he had restrained himself with an effort, +remembering what his mentors of the smoking-room had said about the +impossibility of marriage amongst a civilized community without a due +provision for the indispensabilities of civilized existence. + +“This comes of planning one’s life by the ethics of the club-house!” he +said to himself, bitterly. + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + + HIDDEN HOPES. + + +UPON Mr. Jerningham the tidings of his wife’s death came suddenly, +but not unexpectedly. He hastened to arrange that all honour should +be paid to the ashes of this fair scion of the house of Jerningham. +The ponderous doors of the vault which had not been opened since his +father’s death unclosed to receive his wife’s coffin. The bells which +had rung a merry peal of welcome when she first came to Greenlands +tolled long and dismally upon the day of her burial. All deference +and ceremony that could have attended the burial of a beloved wife +attended the funeral rites of her who had been only tolerated by her +husband. Harold Jerningham was chief mourner at that stately, yet quiet +ceremonial. His own hand had addressed the invitation that summoned +Laurence Desmond to the funeral. + +“The world shall read how we stood, side by side, at the door of the +vault,” thought Mr. Jerningham; “and the lips of Slander shall be mute +about the poor soul’s friendship for her father’s friend.” + +Mr. Desmond understood and appreciated the delicacy of mind which +had inspired the invitation. Even in that last dread ceremonial it +was well that there should be some votive offering to Society. That +deity has her shrine in every temple, and must be propitiated alike at +wedding-feast or funeral. She is the modern successor of those nameless +goddesses whom the men of old called amiable, and worshipped in mortal +fear. + +Theodore de Bergerac was present at the opening and closing of the +vault, and invited Laurence Desmond to dinner when they left the +church; but his invitation was declined. + +“I will run down to dine with you in a week or two, if you will allow +me,” he said; “but to-day it is impossible. I have business that will +take me back to town.” + +And so they parted; Laurence to go back to his chambers and spend +the evening in dreary meditation, looking over the letters that had +been written to him by that hand which now lay cold in the Berkshire +vault. He had a photograph of the never-to-be-forgotten face, a few +water-colour sketches of the river-scenery about Hampton; and these +were all his memorials of the dead. + +He packed them carefully in white paper, sealed the packet with many +seals, and laid it in the most secret drawer of his desk. + +“Thus ends the love of my youth,” he said, to himself; “God grant the +love of my manhood may come to a happier ending!” + + +The first two months of his widowhood Mr. Jerningham spent abroad. For +some subtle reason of his own he preferred to be away from Greenlands, +and from his friends at the cottage, during that period of conventional +mourning. Perhaps he would have been less inclined to absent himself +from that beloved retreat if Eustace Thorburn had still been a dweller +in M. de Bergerac’s household. + +That gentleman’s residence in Paris threatened to extend itself to +several months. The work found for him amongst old manuscripts and rare +Oriental books increased every day, and the notes of the great history +seemed likely to become as voluminous as Gibbon’s _Rome_. Like +Gibbon, M. de Bergerac had bestowed the greater part of his lifetime +upon the collection of materials for his great book; but the materials, +when collected, were more difficult to deal with than those upon which +the matchless historian founded his massive monument of human genius; +or it may be that M. de Bergerac was something less than Gibbon. In +earnestness, at least, he was that great man’s equal. + +“Do not leave Paris until you have completely sifted the Oriental +department of the library,” he wrote to his secretary; “and if it is +necessary for you to have the aid of a translator, do not hesitate to +engage one.” + +To this Mr. Thorburn replied, modestly, that his own knowledge of +the Oriental languages was increasing day by day; that he had been +fortunate enough to fall in with a learned, though somewhat shabby, +pundit among the frequenters of the Imperial Library; and that he had +induced this person to work with him for an hour or two every evening +on very reasonable terms. + +“I cannot tell you what pleasure it has been to me to conquer the +difficulties of these languages,” he wrote to his kind employer. And, +indeed, to this friendless young man every grammatical triumph had +been sweet, every tedious struggle with the obscurities of Devanagari +or Sanscrit a labour of love. Riches or rank he had none to lay at the +feet of the fair girl he loved; but by such dryasdust studies as these +he could testify his devotion to that service which of all others was +most dear to her affectionate heart. + +Weeks and months slipped by in these congenial labours. The notes for +the great book, and Eustace Thorburn’s poem, grew side by side, and the +young man had no leisure hour in which to nurse despondent thoughts. +He was happier than he could have imagined it possible for him to be +away from Greenlands. His work was delightful to him, because he was +working for her. Yes; for her! His patient industry at the library was +a tribute to her. His poem was written for her; since, if it won him +reputation, he might dare to offer her the name so embellished. + +To Helen those autumn months seemed very dull. Her father’s secretary +had made himself so completely a part of the household as to leave a +blank not easily filled. Both father and daughter missed his bright +face, his earnest, enthusiastic talk, his affectionate but unobtrusive +devotion to their smallest interests. + +“We shall never have such a friend again, papa,” Helen said, naïvely; +and the little speech, with the tone in which it was spoken, inclined +M. de Bergerac to think that Harold Jerningham’s fears had not been +groundless. + +“You miss him very much, Helen?” + +“More than I thought it possible I could miss any one but you?” + +“And yet he only came to us as a stranger, my dear, to perform a +stipulated service. In France a young lady would scarcely care to +express so much interest in her father’s secretary.” + +The girl’s innocent face grew crimson. What! had she said more than was +becoming? Had she deserved a reproof from that dear father whom she +lived only to please? After this she spoke no more of Eustace Thorburn; +but her father’s mild reproof had awakened strange misgivings in her +mind. + +Mr. Jerningham returned to Greenlands before Christmas, and spent that +pleasant season at the cottage. A peace of mind which he had not known +since boyhood possessed him in that calm abode, now that he was a free +man, and Eustace Thorburn no longer exhibited before him the insolent +happiness of youth. + +“This is indeed home!” he exclaimed, as he sat by M. de Bergerac’s +hearth, and heard the carol-singers in the garden. “It is more than +thirty years since Christmas was kept at the great house yonder. I +wonder whether it will ever be kept there again within my life?” + +“Why not?” asked his old friend; “you are young enough to marry again.” + +“Do you think so, Theodore?” inquired Mr. Jerningham, earnestly. + +“Do I think so? Who should think so more than I? Was there ever a +happier marriage than mine? And I do not ask you to make so bold a +venture as I made in marrying a dear girl twenty years my junior. There +are handsome and distinguished widows enough in your English society; +women who, in the prime of middle age, retain the fresh beauty of their +youth, with all the added graces given by experience of life.” + +“Thanks,” said Mr. Jerningham, coldly; “I should not care to entrust +the remnant of my life to a middle-aged person, however well preserved. +I can exist without a wife. If ever I marry again, I shall marry for +love.” + +He stole a glance at Helen. She was sitting by the fire, with an +open book upon her lap, her eyes fixed dreamily. Where her wandering +thoughts might be Harold Jerningham knew not; but he perceived they +were not given to him. “Has the hour gone by?” he asked himself. “Has +my hour gone for ever?” + +“Nobly spoken, my friend,” said Theodore; “you will marry for love. And +why not? God gave me a fair young bride, and seven years of happiness +more complete than a man dare hope for on earth.” + +No more was said upon a subject so delicate. But from this conversation +Mr. Jerningham derived considerable comfort; for he perceived that his +old friend found no incongruity in the idea of his seeking something +more than a marriage of convenience in a second union. + +After this he came to the cottage with something akin to hope in his +breast. Helen received him always with the same sweetness. He was her +father’s friend, and had been her father’s protector in the hour of +evil fortune. This fact was ever present to her mind; it imparted to +her manner a sweetness which was fatal to Harold Jerningham. + +Theodore de Bergerac watched the two together; and one day, as if by +inspiration, the secret of his old friend’s frequent visits flashed +upon him. The danger that had existed for the young secretary existed +also for the weary worldling, and girlish sweetness and simplicity had +won a heart sated with life’s factitious joys. + +Within a week after the student achieved this brilliant discovery, +Harold Jerningham made a full confession of his weakness. + +“I know that at present I am no more to her than her father’s old +friend,” he said, when he had told his story, and had discovered that +M. de Bergerac was neither surprised nor shocked by the revelation; +“but give me only sufficient time, and I may win that pure heart, +which already half belongs to me by right of my affection for you. +Earnest feeling in a man who is not quick to feel must count for +something. Do not judge me by my past, Theodore. Dissever me from that +past, if you can; for, as I live, I am a new man since I have loved +your daughter. To love a creature so pure is a spiritual baptism. +If I can win that innocent heart, you will not stand between me and +happiness, will you, old friend?” + +“If you can win her heart, no; but I will not sacrifice my daughter, or +persuade her. I will confess to you that the uncertainty of her future +is a constant perplexity to me, and that I would gladly see that future +secured. I will say even more than this; I will admit that I should be +proud to see my only child allied to a race so distinguished as yours, +the mistress of a home so splendid as your Greenlands yonder. But by no +word of mine will I influence her to a step so solemn. The difference +between your ages is greater than in the case of myself and my dear +wife; but the world might possibly have augured ill for the result of +our union. Again, I say, if you can win my child’s heart, I will not +refuse you her hand.” + +This was all Mr. Jerningham desired. A reluctant bride, sacrificed on +the altar of ambition, would have been no bride for him. He was too +much a gentleman not to have recoiled from the brutality involved in +such an union. All he desired was the liberty to woo and to win; to +set his many gifts against that one obvious disadvantage of his fifty +years, and to triumph in spite of that stumbling-block. + +“Time and I against any two,” said Philip II. of Spain. Mr. +Jerningham’s chief reliance was on time; time, which might first render +his society habitual, and then necessary, to Helen; time, which would +familiarize her with the difference between their ages, until that +difference would scarcely seem to exist; time, which by demonstrating +his constancy and devotion, must in the end give him a claim upon +Helen’s gratitude, a right to her compassion. + +Time might, perhaps, have done all this for Mr. Jerningham but for one +small circumstance: the stake for which he was playing this patient +game had already been won. It remained no more upon the table for +gamblers to venture its winning. The girl’s innocent heart had been +given unconsciously to a silent adorer; and while Harold Jerningham +was hanging upon her looks and studying her careless words, all her +tenderest thoughts and dreams were wafted across the Channel to +the industrious exile clearing his way through the great jungle of +Arianism, in the Imperial Library of Paris. + +Winter passed, and the early spring brought news to Mr. Jerningham. +A noble Scottish kinsman had died, leaving him a handsome estate in +Perthshire. It was necessary that he should visit this new acquisition, +and make all arrangements for its due maintenance; but he was sorely +averse from leaving Greenlands, and the simple household in which he +had learned to be happy. + +“I suppose I must go,” he said; “Lord Pendarvoch was a confirmed miser, +and I know he kept the place in a most miserable condition. When I +was last in the neighbourhood, many years ago, there was not a fence +fit for a civilized country, or a boundary-wall that kept out his +neighbour’s cattle. Yes, I suppose I must go and take possession, and +shake hands with my tacksmen, and establish my claim to be regarded +as a scion of the true blood--though it comes to me zigzag fashion, +through a female branch of the old house. My mother’s mother was an +aunt of the last lord.” + +Mr. Jerningham lapsed into reverie. It was early April; green buds +already bursting in the old-fashioned garden, and a wealth of pear and +plum-blossom, snowy white; but the rich red of the apple-trees not yet +opened. Tulip and hyacinth, polyanthus and primrose, were bright in the +borders; rich red wallflowers bloomed on the old wall; all the garden +was gay with the fresh spring blossoms. + +“Do you remember what you said about Switzerland, Helen?” Mr. +Jerningham asked, abruptly, after rather a long silence. + +“I remember saying a great deal about Switzerland.” + +“And of your desire to see that country?” + +“Yes, indeed! but that is too bright a dream. Papa confesses that his +book is the kind of book that never _is_ finished. William Mure of +Caldwell did not live to finish his book, you know, though the subject +is a narrow one compared to the theme of my dear father’s labours; +and Müller’s book was left unfinished. How can I ever hope to go to +Switzerland, since I should care nothing for the most beautiful land +unless papa was my fellow-traveller?” + +“We will persuade your father to publish the first two volumes of his +book some day, and then we can all start for Switzerland together. But +in the meantime allow me to inquire if you have ever thought about +Scotland?” + +“I have read Sir Walter Scott’s delightful stories.” + +“Of course,” cried Mr. Jerningham, with unwonted vivacity; “and those +charming romances have inspired you with an ardent desire to behold the +scenes which they embellish--the land of mountain and of fell, the land +of Macgregor and Ravenswood, of heart-broken Lucy Ashton and weird Meg +Merrilies. Do not think of Switzerland till you have seen the Scottish +highlands.” + +“But the snow!” urged Helen. + +“Snow! In Scotland I will show you mountain-peaks upon which the snows +have never melted since the days of the Bruce; and from those snow-clad +hills you shall look down into no dazzling abyss of awful whiteness, +but out upon the waste of waters, with all their changeful play of +light and shade, and varying splendour of colour, and animated motion. +In Switzerland, remember, you have no sea.” + +“But the ice-oceans--the glaciers?” + +“Better in the descriptions of Berlepsch than in reality; and even he +admits that they are dirty. Upon my honour, the highlands of Scotland +are unsurpassable.” + +“And then?” inquired Helen, laughing. “Why this sudden enthusiasm +for Scotland, Mr. Jerningham? Oh! I forgot; you are now a proprietor +of the northern soil, and I suppose this is only a natural burst of +proprietorial pride.” + +This accusation Mr. Jerningham disdained to answer. + +“Helen!” he said, with mock solemnity, “has it never occurred to +you that your father must require change of scene--some relief from +the monotonous verdancy of sylvan Berkshire--some respite from +those eternal spreading beeches which provoke from commonplace lips +ever-recurring allusion to the hackneyed Tityrus? That you yourself +have languished for bolder scenery--snow-clad mountain-top, and wide +blue lake--I am well aware; but do you think our dear scholar does not +also require that mental and physical refreshment which comes from the +contemplation of unknown lands and the breathing of unfamiliar breezes; +or, in two words, do you not think that a brief spring holiday in the +highlands would be of great advantage to my dear friend?” + +The student came out of the porch in time to hear the conclusion of Mr. +Jerningham’s speech. The master of Greenlands and Helen de Bergerac had +been strolling up and down the lawn in front of the cottage during this +conversation. + +“What are you talking about, Harold?” asked the Frenchman. + +Helen was prompt to answer his question. + +“Oh, papa, Mr. Jerningham has been saying that you must require change +of air and scene, and that a trip to Scotland would do you wonderful +good. And so I am sure it would.” + +“Yes, Theodore, I want you to go with me to Pendarvoch. The place +itself is scarcely worth showing you, but the surrounding scenery is +superb; and Helen informs me she languishes to behold the Scottish +highlands.” + +“Oh, Mr. Jerningham!” cried Helen; “when did I ever say----” + +“Not a minute ago. And you know the advantage to your father will be +unspeakable.” + +“But my book?” urged the student. + +“You will return to it with renewed vigour after your holiday. You told +me only the other day that you had of late experienced a languor, a +distaste for your work, which denoted physical weakness; and----” + +“Oh, papa!” cried Helen, alarmed; “you do not confess these things +to me! It is quite true; you have been looking tired lately. Nanon +remarked it. Pray let us go to Scotland.” + +“Can you refuse her?” asked Mr. Jerningham. + +“When did I ever refuse anything to this dear child?” + +“And when did she ever ask anything that you should refuse? Come, +Theodore, it is the first favour I have asked of you for a long time. I +must go to Pendarvoch; and I cannot bear to leave this place, where I +have been so happy, unless I can take those with me who have made the +spot so dear.” + +To a woman of the world, the tone of these words, and the look which +accompanied them, would have spoken volumes. To Helen they told +nothing, except that Mr. Jerningham was sincerely attached to her +father and herself. She had always thought of him as her father’s +devoted friend, and it seemed to her only natural that she should be +included in that friendship. She liked Harold Jerningham better than +she liked any one, except those two people who reigned side by side in +her heart; and the line which divides the outer tokens of liking and +loving is so narrow a demarcation, that Harold Jerningham might easily +be betrayed into fond hopes that were without foundation. Her manner +to this friend of her father’s was all sweetness. His tender accents, +his fond, admiring looks, she accepted as the natural gallantries of a +man so much her senior. Her very innocence made her more dangerous than +the most accomplished of coquettes. And at this notion of a trip to +the Highlands she brightened and sparkled, and placed herself at once +on Mr. Jerningham’s side. For so many reasons the plan was delightful +to her. First and chiefest of such reasons, it promised to benefit her +father; secondly, she had long known and rejoiced in the romances of +the northern enchanter, and the very sound of Scottish names conjured +a hundred visions of romance before her mind’s eye; thirdly, there had +come upon Greenlands, upon her garden, her poultry-yard, her books, +her piano, the river, the woods--nay, over the very sky that arched +the woods and river, a shadow of dulness from the hour of Eustace +Thorburn’s departure. The old places had lost their familiar charm--the +old pursuits had become wearisome. She fancied that amidst new scenes +she would be less likely to miss her old companion; and then, in the +next breath, said to herself, “How _he_ would have liked to see +Scotland!” + +A great deal of argument was required to convince Theodore de Bergerac +that it could be for his benefit to uproot himself from the spot he so +dearly loved in order to travel to remotest regions of the north. He +had the Frenchman’s natural horror of foreign countries; and having +once niched himself at his nest at Greenlands, cared not to stir +thence, how fair soever might be the distant lands he was invited to +visit. The argument which at last prevailed was that urged by Helen’s +pleading face. _That_ entreaty the tender father was powerless to +resist. + +“My darling, it must be as you wish,” he said, and the rest was easy. +Mr. Jerningham did not suffer the grass to grow under his feet. He was +prompt to make all arrangements, and three days after the subject had +been mooted, the travellers were on their northward way, speeding to +Edinburgh by express. + +They were to spend three days in Edinburgh, then onward by easy stages, +“doing” all the lions in their way, to the village and castle of +Pendarvoch, which lay half in Perthshire, half in Aberdeenshire. + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + + NORTHWARD. + + +THE travellers had not left Greenlands two days when Eustace Thorburn +arrived there. He had finished his work in Paris a month sooner than +he had expected to do so, and had been glad to hurry home, in order to +complete his arrangements with an eminent publishing firm, who, after +considerable hesitation, had agreed to publish his poem without hazard +of capital on his part, though not without foreboding of loss on theirs. + +M. de Bergerac had not forgotten to write to his secretary, announcing +the Scottish expedition; but he had only written an hour before +starting, and the letter and the secretary had crossed each other +between Dover and Calais. Eustace came to Greenlands full of hopeful +agitation. He had not forgotten the promise made his uncle. He had not +forgotten that he was pledged to make a full confession to his kind +patron, and to accept his banishment, if need were. His Parisian exile +had only deferred the evil hour; it must come now, and speedily; and +the decree would be spoken, and he and Helen must in all likelihood +part for ever. But in the meantime he would see her once more, and it +was for this unspeakable blessing he languished. For the last night of +his sojourn in Paris sleep had been impossible. He could think only +of the delight to which he was hastening--to see her once again! His +love had grown day by day, hour by hour, during these long months of +absence. As the train ploughed onwards through dusty flats, as the +steamer danced across the sunlit waters, this one traveller counted the +miles, and calculated the moments until he should near the beloved spot +where his idol dwelt. + +He knew that his Uncle Dan would have been glad to see him, even for +a brief exchange of greetings and shaking of hands; but he could not +bring himself to spend the half-hour that it must have cost him to call +in Great Ormond-street. Swift as a hack-cab could take him, he rushed +from station to station, was so lucky as to catch a fast train for +Windsor, and entered the shady avenues of Greenlands within fourteen +hours of his departure from Paris. + +How fresh and verdant the spring landscape seemed to him!--the cowslips +and bluebells, the hawthorn buds just beginning to whiten the old +rugged trees, gummy chestnut husks scattering the ground, and from afar +the rich odour of newly-opened lilacs. + +“And to think that for its master this place has no charm!” he said to +himself, wonderingly. + +His heart beat fast as he opened the gate of the bailiff’s garden. +Here all things looked their brightest and prettiest. The birds were +singing gaily in the porch. The deep voice of Hephæstus boomed from the +hall, and the dog ran out to repel the intruder, but changed his bass +growl of menace into a noisy demonstration of delight at sight of the +traveller. + +Even this welcome Eustace was glad to receive. It seemed a good omen. +The door stood wide open; he went into the hall, with the dog leaping +and bounding about him as he went. No one appeared. There was no sound +of voices in any of the rooms. He opened the drawing-room door softly, +and went in, prepared to see Helen bending over her books at a table +in the window. But Helen was not there, and the room looked cold and +dreary. Never had he seen the books so primly arranged, the piano so +carefully closed. No cheery blaze brightened the hearth, no flowers +perfumed the atmosphere. His instinct told him that a change had fallen +upon the pleasant home. He rang the bell, and a fresh country housemaid +answered his summons. + +“Lor’ a mercy, sir, how you did startle me!” she said. “I a’most +thought it was ghostes, which they do begin sometimes with ringin’ o’ +the bells.” + +“Is your mistress away from home?” asked Eustace. + +“Yes, sir, and master, too. They both be gone to Scotland for a month, +or more. Didn’t you get the letter as master sent you, sir? I heard him +say as he’d wrote to tell you they was gone.” + +They had gone to Scotland! To find them absent from Greenlands was in +itself a wonder to him; but it seemed to him a kind of miracle that +they should have gone to Scotland, that country which he was bent upon +exploring in his search for the scene of his mother’s sorrows. + +“What part of Scotland has your master gone to, Martha?” he asked the +housemaid. + +The girl shook her head despondently, and replied that she had not +“heard tell.” They were to travel with Mr. Jerningham, she believed. +That gentleman had come into property in Scotland, and they were going +to see it. This was the utmost she had “heard tell on.” + +With Mr. Jerningham! What should make that gentleman Helen’s +travelling companion? A sudden pang of jealousy rent Eustace Thorburn’s +heart as he thought of such a companionship. What could have brought +about this Scottish journey? Having possessed himself of Martha’s +slender stock of information on this point, Eustace went to the kitchen +to question Nanon; but with little more success. The Frenchwoman was +voluble, but she could tell him scarcely anything. + +They were to visit many places, she said, but she knew not where. The +names of those barbarous countries had slipped from her memory. It +was far, very far; and they were to be absent a month. Oh, but it was +dismal without that sweet young lady! Nanon had nursed her as a baby, +and never before had they been so long asunder. + +“For a month! It is frightful to think of it,” shrieked Nanon. She +invited Mr. Thorburn to rest and refresh himself--to dine, to sleep, +to make the place his home as long as he pleased. M. de Bergerac had +left instructions to that effect. But the disappointment had been +too bitter. Eustace could not endure to remain an hour in the house +which had been so dear to him, now that the goddess who had glorified +it dwelt there no longer. He declared that he had particular business +to do in London, and must return thither immediately. He was eager to +arrange for the Scottish expedition which had been planned by himself +and his uncle--eager to start for the country to which Helen was gone, +as if he would thereby be nearer her. + +Before bidding old Nanon good-day, he made a final effort to extort +from her some information. + +“Surely M. de Bergerac must have left you some written address,” he +said, “in the event of your having occasion to write to him?” + +“No, sir; if I wanted to write, I was to give my letter to Mr. +Jerningham’s steward; that was all. They will be going from place to +place, you see, sir. It is not one place they go to see, but many.” + +With this answer Eustace was compelled to be satisfied. He could not +push his curiosity so far as to go to Mr. Jerningham’s steward, and ask +him for his master’s whereabouts. And again, what benefit could it have +been to him to know where Helen had gone? He had no right to follow her. + +He hastened back to London, and to Great Ormond Street, where he was +doomed to wait three dreary hours, turning over his Uncle Dan’s books, +before that individual made his appearance, somewhat flushed from +dining, and jovial of manner, but in nowise the worse for his dinner +and wine. + +“I have been dining in St. James’s Street, with Joyce of the +_Hermes_, and Farquhar of the _Zeus_,” he said. “A thousand +welcomes, dearest boy! And so you come straight from the station to +find your faithful old Daniel? Such a token of affection touches this +tough old heart.” + +“Not straight from the station, Uncle Dan,” the young man answered, +with a guilty air. “I have been down to Berkshire. M. de Bergerac and +his daughter have started for Scotland with Mr. Jerningham.” + +“What takes them to Scotland in such company?” + +“Mr. Jerningham has just succeeded to an estate in the north; that is +all I could discover from the servants at the cottage. This Scottish +expedition must be quite a new idea, for there was no allusion to it in +M. de Bergerac’s last letter to me.” + +“Strange!” + +“And now, Uncle Dan, I want you to keep your promise, and start for +your Highland holiday with me.” + +“What! we are to rush post-haste for the Highlands, in search of your +Helen?” + +“No; on a more solemn search than that.” + +“Alas, poor lad! On that one subject you are madder than Prince Hamlet. +Every one has his craze. But I pledged myself to be your companion, and +I must keep my promise. You are really bent upon going over the ground +on which that sad drama was enacted?” + +“Fixed as fate, Uncle Dan.” + +“So be it. Your faithful kinsman has been at work in your absence, and +has made things smooth for you.” + +“Is it possible, dear friend?” + +“There’s nothing a man of the world can’t do when he’s put to it. A +reperusal of Dion’s autobiography enabled me to identify the divine +Carlitz of that narrative with a lady who took the town by storm when +I was a young man, and who afterwards married a nobleman of eccentric +repute. Once possessed of this clue, it was easy for me to identify +her _fidus Achates_, the amiable H., as Mr. Elderton Hollis, a +gentleman connected with dramatic affairs for the last quarter of a +century, and still floating, gay and _débonnaire_, upon the border +land of the theatrical world,--a gentleman with whom I myself have some +acquaintance. To make a long story short, I contrived to throw myself +in Hollis’s way at the Quin Club; and after a glance at the theatrical +horizon of to-day, drifted into the usual commonplaces about the decay +of dramatic talent. ‘Where are our Fawcetts, our Nisbetts, our Keeleys, +our Carlitzes?’ I sighed; and at the last familiar name, the old fellow +pricked up his ears, like a hound at the huntsman’s ‘Hark forward!’” + +“‘Ah, my dear Mayfield, that _was_ a woman!’ he exclaimed. ‘You +are, of course, aware that I was her secretary, her adviser, her +treasurer,--I may say, her guardian angel,--before her brilliant +marriage; and now, sir, she cuts me, though I give you my word of +honour that marriage could never have taken place but for my management +of her affairs.” + +“This bears out the autobiography,” cried Eustace, eagerly. + +“To the letter. I first sympathized with Mr. Hollis, and then pumped +him. I found him somewhat reserved upon the subject of that northern +expedition; but after some beating about the bush, I got from him the +admission that the lady whom we will still call Carlitz was in Scotland +just before her marriage with Lord V.; and by and by he let slip that +the spot was in the extreme north of Aberdeen. This much, and no more, +could I obtain. Examination of a tourist’s map showed me a headland +called Halko’s Head, in the north of Aberdeenshire. This is likely to +be the H. H. of Dion’s book, and thither we must direct our steps.” + +“My dear uncle, you have done wonders!” + +“And when you find the place, what then?” + +“I shall discover the name of the man.” + +“Who knows? The chase of the wild-goose is a sport congenial to youth; +but April is a cold month in Scotland, and I wish the expedition could +have been contrived later.” + +Eustace would fain have started next morning, had it been possible; but +two days were necessary for Mr. Mayfield’s literary affairs, and the +agreement with the editors as to what contributions he was to send to +the _Areopagus_ and another journal during his absence, and so on. + +“I must scribble _en route_, you see, Eustace,” he said; “the mill +will not stop because I want a holiday.” + + + + + CHAPTER XIII. + + HALKO’S HEAD. + + +A SEVENTEEN hours’ journey conveyed Mr. Mayfield and his nephew to the +granite city of Aberdeen, with only a quarter of an hour’s pause at +Carlisle, where the travellers were turned out upon the platform at the +chillest hour ’twixt night and morning, and tantalized by the sight of +blazing fires in a luxurious waiting-room. + +The travellers arrived at Aberdeen at noon, and devoted the remainder +of that day and the next to the exploration of the city, dismantled +cathedral, and sparse relics of the old town; the narrow street where, +over a grocer’s shop, still exist the rooms once inhabited by the boy +Byron and his mother. They made an excursion to the old bridge of +Don--an easy walk from the city--and loitered there for some time, +leaning on “Balgounie’s brig’s black wall,” and talking of the poet +whose one line has made it famous. + +To Eustace every hour’s delay was painful. He longed to push on to that +remote point of the shire where Halko’s stormy headland showed grim and +gray against the broad blue sea. They had made all inquiries about this +culminating point of their journey, and had been informed that Halko’s +Head was a very wild place, where there were but just a few fishermen’s +cottages, but where folks sometimes went in the summer for fishing +and such-like. Railroad to Halko’s Head there was none; but the rail +would convey them about two-thirds of the way, and thence they could +doubtless obtain some mode of conveyance. + +“We can walk, if need be,” said Eustace, cheerily; and to this Mr. +Mayfield assented. + +“Though ’tis somewhat long since I have distinguished myself as a +pedestrian,” he added, doubtfully. + +“You can take your ease at your inn, Uncle Dan, and spin copy for your +ravening editors, while I push on to that place.” + +“Perhaps it would be best so, Eustace,” answered Mr. Mayfield, +thoughtfully. + +He divined that the young man was anxious that his first visit to that +scene should be made companionless. The memories connected with that +spot were too sad for sympathy--too bitter for friendly commune. + +After an evening which the indefatigable essayist, devoted to a review +of a new translation of Juvenal for the _Areopagus_, and Eustace +to meditations of the most sombre hue, they left Aberdeen at daybreak +next morning, and went on to a small station, which was their nearest +point to Halko’s Head. + +This nearest point proved five-and-twenty miles distant from the +fishing-village; but on inquiry the travellers discovered that there +was a comfortable halting-place at a village or small town eighteen +miles farther on, and only seven from the wild headland to which +Eustace Thorburn’s steps were bent. + +Vehicles were not easily to be obtained at this remote station, and +the travellers decided upon walking the eighteen miles at a leisurely +pace, stopping to examine anything worth seeing which they might find +on their route. + +The day was bright and clear, and their road lay across the short turf +of broad uplands overhanging the wide northern sea. + +They reached the little town at set of sun, and found the chief inn +a somewhat rude but not comfortless hostelry. Here they dined upon +liberal Scottish fare, and sat long after their meal smoking by the +wide hearth, where sea-coal and odorous pine-logs made a glorious fire. + +Even his Uncle Dan’s talk could not distract the younger man’s +thoughts from that one subject upon which he had of late pondered so +deeply. Within seven miles lay the spot where his mother had lived and +suffered, something less than a quarter of a century ago. All day he +had been thinking of her. The wild scene on which he looked was the +landscape over which her sad eyes had wandered wearily, looking for +some faint star of hope where hope was none. The waves of this northern +sea had sounded the monotonous chorus of her melancholy thoughts. + +“O mother!” he said to himself, “and of all your young day-dreams, +your girlish sorrows, there were none which you dared speak of to the +son you loved so dearly! Even this bitter penalty you had to pay--the +penalty of a lifelong silence. For your grief there was no sympathy, +for your memories no confidant.” + +He left the mountain-shanty quietly at daybreak next morning. Host and +hostess were stirring, but Daniel was sleeping profoundly in his humble +nest--a mere cupboard in the wall of the room where the travellers had +dined. Eustace had occupied a similar cupboard, and was not sorry to +exchange so stifling a couch for the fresh breath of the north wind +blowing over the red mountains. + +The path from Killalochie to Halko’s Head traversed a wild and +picturesque country, high above the sea. Eustace looked down from the +mountain-road, across the edge of precipitous cliffs, upon a broad +sweep of sand--the sands on which his nameless father had walked full +of fear on the night of his mother’s disappearance. Before noon he +entered the little village, if village it could be called, a straggling +group of rude stone cottages, inhabited by fishermen, whose nets hung +on the low granite walls, and lay on the stunted turf before the +doors. Two or three cottages of a better class were to be seen on +the outskirts of the little colony, but even these presented small +attraction to the eye of the English traveller. + +This was Halko’s Head. Eustace questioned a rough fisher-boy before +he could convince himself that he did indeed tread the scene of his +mother’s sad experiences--of his father’s selfish perfidy. + +For artist or poet the place had ample charm, but for the ordinary +pleasure-seeker it would have appeared as barren as it was remote. +Wilder or less fertile landscape was not to be found in North Britain; +and to this untravelled wanderer the rough fishermen and brawny +fisherwives seemed as strange as the inhabitants of Central Africa. + +How was he to find the house in which his mother had lived, the people +who had known her, after the lapse of four-and-twenty years? This was +a question which he had not asked himself until this moment, when he +stood a stranger amongst that scanty population, upon the headland he +had come to explore. + +He walked about the little place, descended a steep flight of steps cut +in the cliff, which he identified as the Devil’s Staircase of Dion’s +narrative; walked about half a mile along the sands, and then saw, +glimmering in the sunlight, high above him, the little white temple, +where his mother had so often sat alone and pensive, looking out at the +barren sea. + +From the sands where he was walking, this classic summer-house was +inaccessible; but Eustace had no doubt of its identity with the temple +described by Dion. How such an elegant affectation as this classic +edifice should exist among those barren moorlands, peopled only by +grouse and ptarmigan, was in itself an enigma, and one which Eustace +was anxious to solve. + +As the temple was unapproachable from the sands, the traveller was +fain to retrace his steps to the Devil’s Staircase, and thence to the +village. Here he found a humble place of entertainment, where he asked +for such refreshments as the house could afford him, in order that he +might use the privileges of a customer in the way of asking questions. +A healthy-looking matron, past middle life, neatly clad in linsey +petticoat and cotton bedgown, with snow-white muslin headgear and +brawny bare feet, brought him his meal, and with her he began at once +to converse, though the worthy dame’s dialect sorely puzzled him, and +but for his familiarity with the immortal romancer, would most probably +have baffled him altogether. + +Happily, his intimate acquaintance with the Gregoragh, and the Dougal +Creature, his long-standing friendship for Caleb Balderstone and Douce +Davie Deans, with many others of the same immortal family, enabled him +to comprehend the greater part of the guidwife’s discourse, though he +had occasional difficulty in making himself intelligible to her. + +The gist of the conversation may be summed-up thus. Did gentlefolks +from the south ever come to Halko’s Head? Yes, some, but not many. +There were but three houses suitable to such folks--Widow Macfarlane’s, +the cottage beyond the Devil’s Staircase; Mistress Ramsay’s on the +Killalochie road; and a shooting-box of Lord Pendarvoch’s. But this +latter had been suffered to fall into decay many years ago. It had been +shut up for the last quarter of a century, except now and then, when my +lord had lent it to one of his friends that came for the shootings. All +the shootings round about, farther than you could see, belonged to Lord +Pendarvoch. But he was just dead, poor old body! and little loss to any +mortal creature, for he had been nothing better than a miser since his +young days, when he was wild and wasteful enough, if folks spoke true. +That “wee bit stone hoosie” on the cliff had been put there by my lord, +who brought the stone “posties” from foreign parts. + +Here was the mystery of the classic temple fully explained. Eustace +knew very little of the peers of the realm, and Lord Pendarvoch was to +him only as other lords--an unfamiliar name. + +“You have lived here many years, I suppose?” he said to the hostess. + +She told him with a pleasant grin, that she had never lived anywhere +else. That pure mountain air she had breathed all her life. On Halko’s +Head her eyes had first opened. + +On this Eustace proceeded to question her closely as to her +recollections of any strangers who had made their abode at the +fishing-village about four-and-twenty years before. He described the +young couple--a gentleman and lady--“bride and bridegroom,” he said, +with a faint blush. + +After much questioning from Eustace, and profound consideration upon +the worthy dame’s part, a glimmer of light broke in upon her memory. + +“Was it at Lord Pendarvoch’s they lived?” she asked. + +“That I cannot tell you. But since you say there are only three houses +suitable to strangers of superior condition, I suppose it was at one +of those three the lady and gentleman had lived. They were here some +months. The lady was very young, very pretty. She left suddenly, and +the gentleman followed her a few days afterwards.” + +“Ay, ay, puir thing! I mind her the noo!” exclaimed the woman, nodding +her head sympathetically. + +After this she told Eustace how such a couple as he described--the +lady “as bonny a lass as ye’d see for mony a lang mile”--had lived for +some months at Lord Pendarvoch’s shooting-box; and how the lady had +been very sad and gentle, and much neglected towards the last by the +gentleman, until she ran away one day, in a fit of jealousy, as it was +thought, because the gentleman had been seen riding and driving with a +strange foreign woman from London; and the gentleman had thought she’d +drowned herself, and had been well-nigh mad for a night and a day, till +news came that quieted him, and then he went away. + +This much--full confirmation of Dion’s story--the woman could tell +Eustace; but no more. The name of these southern strangers she had +never heard, or, having heard, had utterly forgotten. Of their +condition, whence they came, and how they had obtained license to +occupy Lord Pendarvoch’s house, she was equally ignorant. Nor could +she direct Eustace to any inhabitant of the village likely to know +more than herself. There had not been for years any care taken of the +shooting-box. Lord Pendarvoch was just dead. His old steward had died +six years before, and a new man from the south--“folks were all for +southrons noo”--had succeeded to his post. + +Pendarvoch Castle was a day’s journey off, on the other side of the +county. + +To obtain further information seemed hopeless; but Eustace was +determined to leave no stone unturned. Why should he not go to +Pendarvoch Castle before he left Scotland, see the old servants?--for +old servants there must be in a large household, whatever changes time +and death might have brought about in four-and-twenty years. Some one +there might be who would remember to whom Lord Pendarvoch had lent his +house in that particular year. It was at least a chance, and Eustace +resolved upon trying it. + +He questioned his hostess as to the way back to Killalochie. She +told him that there were two ways, one by the sands at low tide, +the shorter of the two, since there was an inlet of the sea between +Halko’s Head and Killalochie, which was dry at low tide. It was a +place that strangers went to see, the dame told Eustace, because of a +cavern dug in the face of the cliff, that a saint lived in once upon a +time--“joost a wee bit cavey,” the good woman called it. + +Eustace thanked his hostess for her civility, paid her liberally for +his humble refreshment, and bade her good-day, after inquiring his way +to the disused abode of Lord Pendarvoch. + +This dwelling he found easily enough. It was built in a hollow of the +cliff, about a quarter of a mile from the village, midway between the +fishermen’s cottages and the classic temple. The house was small, but +built in the Gothic style, and with some attempt at the picturesque. +“Decay’s effacing fingers,” however, had done their worst. The stucco +had peeled off wherever there was stucco to peel; the stone was stained +with damp, and disfigured with patches of moss; the woodwork rotted for +want of an occasional coat of paint. A scanty grove of firs sheltered +the house on its seaward side, and tossed their dark branches drearily +in the spring breeze, as Eustace opened the rusty iron gate and entered +the small domain. No element of desolation was wanting to the dreary +picture. A bony goat cropped the stunted grass pensively, but fled at +sound of the intruder’s footfall. + +No barrier defended the deserted dwelling. Eustace walked round the +house, and peered in at the casements, whereof the shutters gaped open, +as if their fastenings had rusted and dropped off with the progress +of time. Within the traveller saw scanty furniture of a remote era, +white with dust. He pulled the rusty handle of a bell, and a discordant +jangle sounded in the distant offices; but he had no hope of finding +any inmate. The abode bore upon its front an unmistakable stamp of +abandonment. + +After pulling the jangling bell a second time, Eustace tried one of +the windows. Half a dozen broken panes gaped wide, as if in invitation +to the burglar’s hand. He unhasped the sash, pushed open the spurious +Gothic window, and went in. The room in which he found himself had once +been gaily decorated; but little except the tawdry traces of vanished +colour and tarnished gilding remained in evidence of its former +splendour. The furniture was battered and worn, and of the scantiest +description. Lank, empty book-cases of painted and gilded wood stood +in the recesses of the fire-place. He tried to picture his father +and mother seated together in that dreary room; his mother watching +by that dilapidated casement. The room might have been bright enough +five-and-twenty years ago. + +On the same floor there was another room, with less evidence of +departed decoration; above there were four bed-chambers, and here the +furniture was piled pell-mell, as in a lumber-room. The view from +the windows was sublimity itself, and Eustace did not wonder that a +Scottish nobleman should have chosen to build himself a nest on so +picturesque a spot. + +He walked slowly through the rooms, wondering where _her_ aching +head had lain, where _her_ sad heart had stifled its griefs, where +_her_ penitent knees had bent to the Heaven her sin had offended. +To tread these floors which she had trodden, to look from these windows +whence she had gazed, seemed to him worth the journey the barren +privilege had cost him. + +He lingered in the dusty rooms for some time, thinking of that one sad +inhabitant whose presence had made the house sacred to him as the holy +dwelling of Loretto to faithful pilgrims, and then softly and slowly +departed, pausing only to gather a few sprigs of sweet-brier that grew +in a sheltered corner of the neglected garden. With these in his breast +he went back to the road leading to Killalochie, and bent his steps +towards that humble settlement. He looked at his watch as he regained +the road. It was three o’clock, and by six he could be with his uncle, +who would scarcely care to dine until that hour. + +“I can take him to that house to-morrow,” he said to himself, “if he +would like to see it. And I dare say it would be a mournful pleasure +to him to see the rooms, as it has been to me. It is like looking at a +grave.” + + + + + CHAPTER XIV. + + HOPELESS. + + +BETWEEN Killalochie and Halko’s Head the road was of the loneliest. +On his morning journey Eustace Thorburn had encountered about three +people, sturdy mountaineers, who gave him friendly greeting as they +passed him. For the first few miles of his return he met no one; and +when he seated himself to rest on a rough block of stone near the +junction of two roads, the wide expanse of land and sea which the spot +commanded was as solitary as if he had been the first man, and the +world newly-created for his habitation. + +It is not to be supposed that even on this day every thought of Helen +de Bergerac had been banished from the wanderer’s mind. He had too +long and too habitually indulged himself with tender memories of the +pleasant hours they had spent together. Thoughts of her were interwoven +with all other thoughts and all other memories. + +Upon that lonely road he had found ample leisure for meditation; and +now, as he sat alone amidst the solitary grandeur of that mountain +district, it was of Helen and of the future he thought. Nor were his +meditations hopeful. Alone, nameless, his task well-nigh finished for +the one kindly patron whom fortune had sent him, with nothing but a +manuscript poem and a publisher’s half-promise between him and poverty, +was he a fitting suitor for Theodore de Bergerac’s only daughter? +By what right could he demand her father’s confidence? What promise +could he make? what hopes advance? None. To sum up his best claim, his +brightest aspiration, would be only to say, “Sometimes, when the demon +of self-doubt ceases for the moment to torment me, I believe I am a +poet. Of my chances of winning the world to believe as much, I know +nothing. Assured income in the present or expectation in the future, I +have none.” + +He considered his position with a gloomy hopelessness that was almost +despair. What could he do but despair? He knew that his patron liked +him; nay, indeed, had honoured him with a warm regard; but would that +regard stand him in good stead should he presume to offer himself as +a husband for his patron’s only daughter? Mr. Jerningham’s influence +would, he knew, be exercised against him, since, for some mysterious +reason, that gentleman had chosen to regard him with a malignant eye. +And he knew that Mr. Jerningham’s counsel would not be disregarded by +his old friend. + +“No; there is no ray of hope on the dark horizon of my life,” thought +the young man. “Better for me that I should never see Helen again.” + +The sound of carriage-wheels startled him from his reverie. He looked +up, and saw a landau and pair approaching him by the cross-road. The +apparition of such an equipage in that rugged district surprised him. +He stood up and looked at the advancing carriage, and in the same +moment recognized its occupants. + +They were M. de Bergerac, his daughter, and Mr. Jerningham. + +The Frenchman was quick to recognize his secretary. + +“_Holà!_ Stop, then!” he cried to the coachman; and then to +Eustace, “Come hither, young wanderer. To see the ghost of the +Chevalier--your hapless Charles Edward--standing by that stone, would +not more have surprised me. Jump in, then. There is no objection to his +taking the fourth place, I suppose, Harold?” + +Mr. Jerningham bowed, with an air which implied that, upon a subject so +utterly indifferent to him as the secretary’s movements, he could have +no opinion but that of his friend. + +“Why, how bewildered you look, Eustace!” exclaimed M. de Bergerac, as +the young man took his place in the carriage with the manner of a +sleep-walker. “And yet you must have expected to see us. You followed +me down here with your papers. What foolish devotion!--Tell your man to +drive on, Harold.” + +Eustace had recovered himself a little by this time, and had shaken +hands with Helen, whose too expressive face betrayed an emotion no +less profound than his own. Nor were those eloquent glances lost upon +Mr. Jerningham, who watched the young people closely, from beneath +thoughtful brows. + +“And so you thought your French documents worth a pilgrimage to +Scotland?” said M. de Bergerac. + +“No, indeed, sir. This meeting is only a happy accident for me. I knew +you were in Scotland. They told me as much in Greenlands; but they +could tell me no more.” + +“But in that case, what brings you here?” cried the Frenchman. + +“I am here with my uncle--on business.” + +“On business!” exclaimed M. de Bergerac, looking at his secretary, in +amazement. + +Harold Jerningham also regarded the young man, with a new sharpness of +scrutiny. + +“On business!” repeated M. de Bergerac. “But what business could +possibly bring you into these remote wilds?--to the utmost limits of +your civilization.” + +“Perhaps it can scarcely be called business,” replied Eustace. “It +would be nearer the mark to call it a voyage of discovery. I came from +Paris when my work was done, and found Greenlands deserted. My time was +my own, awaiting your return. My uncle and I had a fancy for a holiday, +and we came here.” + +“It is, at least, a remarkable coincidence.” + +“Very remarkable,” said Mr. Jerningham, with a suspicious look. + +He was not inclined to regard the meeting as a coincidence. The young +adventurer had, no doubt, been informed as to their whereabouts, and +had followed them. And yet of their _precise_ whereabouts he could +not have been informed, for beyond the border of Aberdeenshire neither +Mr. Jerningham’s steward nor any one else had been apprised of their +movements. + +“Unless there were secret communications between Helen and him,” +thought Harold Jerningham. And this seemed utterly impossible. To +suspect Helen--to suspect the girl whom he had learned to adore as the +very type of all feminine excellence, the incarnate ideal of womanly +innocence! Great heaven, to discover deceit _there_! + +“It would be a fitting end to my career,” he thought, bitterly. + +“Your uncle is travelling with you, then?” said M. de Bergerac. + +“Yes; he is now at the inn yonder, at Killalochie, where I must rejoin +him; so I must ask you not to take me too far off the right road.” + +“But is it imperative that you rejoin him to-day? Do you think I am not +eager to question you about the work you have done for me in Paris? Can +you not dine with us? Mr. Jerningham will, I know, be charmed to have +you.” That gentleman bowed an icy assent. “Can’t you spare us this +evening?” + +To refuse this invitation Eustace Thorburn must have been something +more than mortal. Happily for his honour he had told his uncle that it +was just possible he might find his explorations at Halko’s Head too +much for one day’s work, and might sleep at that village. He was thus +free. + +“We dine and sleep at a village ten miles from here,” said M. de +Bergerac. “The people of the inn can give you a bed, no doubt; and you +can get back to Killalochie to-morrow.” + +Eustace accepted the invitation, and was then favoured with some +account of his employer’s wanderings. + +“We have rested nowhere, but have seen everything worth seeing between +the Tweed and these mountains,” said M. de Bergerac. “I begin to think +that Jerningham is the original Wandering Jew. He knows everything, +every trace of Pictish camp, and every relic of the early convents, +from St. Columba to St. Margaret. There is a cave on this coast +which we are to see before we leave the neighbourhood; a cave cut in +the face of the cliff, with outer and inner chamber, in which one of +the Scottish saints spent the evening of his pious days, among the +sea-gulls.” + +“Yes; I heard of that cave at Halko’s Head,” said Eustace. + +“You have been to Halko’s Head?” asked Mr. Jerningham. + +“I was returning from that place when your carriage picked me up.” + +“Why do we not go to Halko’s Head, if it is worth seeing?” asked M. de +Bergerac. + +“It is not worth seeing. A mere handful of fishermen’s cottages, on a +craggy headland;” replied Mr. Jerningham. + +“And yet Mr. Thorburn goes there?” + +“I cannot help Mr. Thorburn’s bad taste; but we can drive to Halko’s +Head to-morrow, if you please. I told you, when we came into this part +of the country, that there was little calculated to interest any one +but a sportsman.” + +“But I was determined to see Aberdeenshire,” replied M. de Bergerac, +with playful insistence. “Why not Aberdeenshire? Why should we explore +all other shires of Scotland, and neglect Aberdeenshire? I had read of +the Cairn-gorm mountains, and wanted to behold them.” + +“You know Halko’s Head, Mr. Jerningham?” said Eustace, thoughtfully. + +“I know every inch of Scotland.” + +“Did you know Halko’s Head four-and-twenty years ago?” + +For some reason the question startled Harold Jerningham more than he +was wont to be moved for any insignificant cause. + +“No,” he answered, shortly. “But what motive had you for such a +question?” + +“I want to find some one who knew that place four-and-twenty years ago.” + +“Why?” + +“Because a person very dear to me was living there at that time.” + +“An insufficient reason for such curiosity about the place, I should +think,” replied Mr. Jerningham, coldly. “But you are a poet, Mr. +Thorburn, and are not bound by the laws of reason.” + +Helen interposed here, and began to question Eustace about his Parisian +experiences. She had felt that Mr. Jerningham’s tone was unfriendly, +and was eager to turn the current of the conversation. + +The two young people talked together during the rest of the drive, and +Mr. Jerningham listened and looked on. He had fancied himself gaining +ground rapidly during this northern tour; and now it seemed to him all +at once as if he had gained no ground, as if he were no nearer to the +one dear object of his desires. What delight these two seemed to find +in their frivolous discourse! To listen and look on,--was that to be +his lot for the rest of his weary days? + +“O God, am I an old man?” he asked himself, with passionate +self-abasement. + +The consciousness that his days of hope and pride are over,--the +wretched revelation that for him there are to be no more roses, no +more spring-time, no more of the brightness and glory of life,--will +come upon a man suddenly like this, in brief, bitter gusts, like the +breath of an east wind blowing in the face of midsummer. + +M. de Bergerac had watched his old friend and his daughter with +pleasure during this Scottish tour. It seemed to him also as if Harold +Jerningham was gaining ground, and it pleased him that it should be so. +To him the master of Greenlands appeared no ineligible suitor, for of +the darker side of his friend’s life and character he knew nothing. + +The ten miles’ drive upon a very indifferent road, uphill and downhill, +occupied more than two hours, and it was seven o’clock when the +carriage entered the little town where the travellers were to dine. At +the inn all was prepared for them. They dined in a room commanding a +noble view of the sea, and having a half-glass door which opened on a +rude kind of terrace-walk. + +Here M. de Bergerac and his secretary strolled after dinner, talking of +Oriental manuscripts in the spring moonlight, while Harold Jerningham +and Helen played chess, upon a little board which the travellers +carried, in the room within. + +“And when we return to Greenlands, which we are to do in a week, shall +I find you at your post?” asked M. de Bergerac, kindly. “A great deal +of work remains to be done before my first two volumes will be ready +for publication. Jerningham strongly recommends my publishing the first +two volumes as soon as they are ready. We shall have plenty to do in +giving them the final polish. Much that I have now in the form of notes +must be interwoven with the text. The frivolous reader recoils from +small type. You are not tired of your work, I hope?” + +On this Eustace spoke. He felt that the time had come, and that he dare +not longer keep silence. + +“Tired of my work! Oh, if you knew how delightful my service has been +to me!” he exclaimed; and then in the next breath added, “but I fear I +shall never again inhabit Greenlands.” + +And then he made full confession of his offence. He told how this mad +folly had grown upon him in the happy days of the previous year. + +“I was counting my chances as you drove up to me to-day,” he said, +“little thinking I was so soon to see your daughter’s sweet face. I was +fighting with despair as I sat by the mountain-road. Speak plainly, +dear sir, you cannot say harder things to me than I have said to +myself.” + +“Why should I say anything hard? It is no sin to love my daughter. +I ought to have known that it was impossible to live near her, and +refrain from loving her. But do not talk to me of despair. What is a +young man’s love but a fancy which is blown to the end of the earth +by the first blast of Fame’s mighty trumpet. My dear young friend, +I am not afraid that you will break your heart, or, at least, that +the heart-break will kill you. I broke my heart at your age. It is an +affair of six weeks; and for a poet a broken heart is inspiration.” + +“Oh, sir, for God’s sake, do not trifle with me!” + +“My dear friend, I am telling you the truth, I thank you for your +candour, and in return will be as candid. I admire and love you, almost +as I could have loved a son. If you could give my daughter a secure +position--a safe and certain home, however unpretending--I would be +the last to oppose your suit. But you cannot do this. You are young, +hopeful, ambitious. The world--as your poet says--is your oyster, which +with your sword you’ll open. But the oyster is sometimes impenetrable. +I have seen the brightest swords blunted. I am an old man and an exile; +my sole possession in the form of _rentes viagères_. You would +promise my child a home in the future. I cannot wait for the future. I +am an old man, and I must see my darling provided with a safe shelter +before I die, so that, when death crosses my threshold, I may be able +to say, ‘Welcome, inevitable guest. The play is finished. _Vale et +plaudite._” + +“God grant you may live to see your grandchildren’s children.” + +“I will not gainsay your prayer. But when it is a question of +grandchildren, a man is bound to be doubly circumspect. What is the +meaning of an imprudent marriage, of which the world talks so lightly? +It is not my daughter only whom I doom to care and poverty, but how +many unborn innocents do I devote to misfortune? Forgive me if, upon +this subject, I seem hard and worldly. I would do much to prove my +regard for you; but my child’s future is the one thing that I cannot +afford to hazard.” + +“You are all goodness, sir,” replied Eustace, with the gentle gravity +of resignation. “I scarcely hoped for a more favourable sentence.” + +He said no more. He had, indeed, cherished little hope; but the +agony of this utter despair was none the less acute. M. de Bergerac +compassionated this natural sorrow, and was conscious that he was in +some wise to blame for having brought the two young people together. + +“If she, too, should suffer!” he thought. “I have seen her interest in +this young man--her regret when he left us. Great heaven! how am I to +choose wisely for the child I love so well?” + +He looked to the window of the room where Harold Jerningham and Helen +sat together in the dim light of two candles. The man’s patrician +face and the girl’s fresh young beauty made a charming picture. M. +de Bergerac had no sense of incongruity in the union of these two. +The accomplishments and graces of middle age harmonized well with the +innocent beauty of youth, and it seemed to him a fitting thing that +these two should marry. + +“Not for worlds would I sacrifice her to a father’s ambition,” he said +to himself; “but to see her mistress of Greenlands, to know that her +life would be sheltered from all the storms of fate, would comfort me +in the hour of parting.” + +Eustace bade his patron good-night presently, making some lame excuse +for not returning to the sitting-room. In vain did the kindly Frenchman +essay to comfort him in this bitter hour. + +“I thank you a thousand times for your goodness to me on this and every +other occasion,” the young man said, as they shook hands. “Believe me, +I am grateful. I shall be proud and happy to go on working for you in +London, if you will allow me; but I cannot return to Greenlands--I +cannot see your daughter again.” + +“No, it is better not. Ah, if you only knew how short-lived these +sorrows are!” + +“I cannot believe that mine will be short-lived. But I do not want to +complain. Once more, good night, and God bless you! I shall leave this +place at daybreak to-morrow.” + +“And when shall you return to London?” + +“That will rest with my uncle. I will write to you at Greenlands +directly I do return. Good night, sir.” + +“Good night, and God bless you!” + +Thus they parted. Eustace did not go back to the house immediately, +but wandered out into the little town, and thence to the open country, +where he indulged his grief in solitude. It was late when he went back +to the inn, and made his way stealthily to the humble garret-chamber +which had been allotted to him. + +Here he lay, sleepless, till the cock’s hoarse crow blent shrilly +with the thunderous roll of the waves. At the first faint streak of +daylight he rose, dressed, and went softly down stairs, where he +found a bare-footed servant-girl opening the doors of the house. By +one of these open doors he departed unobserved, while the bare-footed +damsel was sweeping in some mysterious locality which she called +“Ben.” The morning was dull and drizzling; but what recks despair of +such small inconveniences? The young man set out on his lonely walk, +breakfastless and hopeless, scarce knowing where his steps led him. + +After walking about a mile, he took the trouble to inquire his +whereabouts from the first person he encountered, who informed him that +he was fifteen miles from Killalochie, and fourteen from Halko’s Head. + +On this he determined to walk to Halko’s Head. He wanted to see that +place once more, and to visit the little classic temple on the cliff, +which on the previous day he had omitted to examine. He was in no +humour for even his uncle’s society, and dreaded a return to the little +inn at Killalochie, where genial Dan would question him about his +adventures, and where he must perhaps reveal his disappointment, if +that could be called a disappointment which had annihilated so frail a +hope. + +“A day’s solitude will do me good,” he thought, as he turned his face +towards Halko’s Head. “I can get back to Killalochie by nightfall, +before my uncle can alarm himself about my absence.” + +The walk occupied some hours, and when the traveller entered the little +fishing village nature asserted itself in spite of despair, and he was +fain to order breakfast at the humble hostelry where he had lunched the +day before. + +The same woman waited upon him: she was the mistress of the house, and +again he questioned her about the lady and gentleman who occupied Lord +Pendarvoch’s house four-and-twenty years ago; but she could tell him +no more to-day than yesterday. No new facts had returned to her memory +during the interval. + +As Eustace Thorburn sat alone after this unprofitable conversation, +the first anguish of despair yielded to the sweet whispers of hope. +Was his case indeed utterly hopeless? M. de Bergerac asked security +for the future. That he could not now offer; but if his poem should +win recognition, the pathway of literary success would be opened to +him, and on his industry and perseverance alone would depend his speedy +achievement of a secure position in the world of letters. Such an +income as his Uncle Daniel earned with ease, and squandered with even +greater facility, would support a home which M. de Bergerac’s simple +taste would not despise. + +“Why should I not win her as fair a home as she has at Greenlands,” he +said, “and if she loves me she will wait. Ah, if I had only seen her, +if I had but told her how devotedly she is loved!” + +And then he reproached himself for his precipitancy. In his desire to +act honourably, he had played too much the part of a little boy who +asks a boon of his schoolmaster. He had at least the right to plead his +own cause with Helen de Bergerac. + +He told himself that if his poem should be a success, he could go to +Greenlands once more to entreat permission to speak to his divinity. +Armed with the talisman of success, he could ask as much. And then he +thought of Helen’s youth. What might he not achieve in a few years? +He remembered what his uncle had said to him--“If her love is worth +winning, she will wait.” + +He took a manuscript volume from his pocket, and turned the leaves +thoughtfully. It was the fair copy of his _magnum opus_, which he +had brought with him on this journey for leisurely revision, but on +which he had as yet worked little. From these manuscript pages he tried +to obtain comfort. If the world would only listen! He measured his +strength against the minor poets of his day. Surely there was something +in these verses that should win him a place among the younger singers. + +He left the inn by and by, and walked slowly along the cliff to the +little classic temple. The April day had brightened, and the sun shone +upon the waves, though there were ugly black clouds to windward. + +The temple on the cliff could tell him nothing. But it was the scene +of his mother’s loneliest hours, and he contemplated it with a tender +interest. The mountain weeds--such wild flowers as flourish in the +breath of the sea, had clustered thickly round the bases of the slim +Ionian pillars; gray moss and lichen defaced the marble, white as it +looked from the distance. Eustace seated himself on the crumbling +stone bench, and lingered for some time, looking out over the sea, and +thinking now of his mother, now of Helen de Bergerac, anon of that +unknown father whose sin had made him nameless. + +From this long reverie he was disturbed by the soft thud of hoofs upon +the short turf, and looking landwards, he saw a horseman trotting +towards the temple. Within a few yards of the spot he dismounted, +and came to the temple, leading his horse. Before this Eustace had +recognized Mr. Jerningham, the man who had surprised him reading +_The Disappointments of Dion_, the man who bore some resemblance +to himself, and must therefore resemble his father--the man who, by a +series of coincidences, seemed involved in that mystery of the past +which he was so eager to penetrate. + +If Mr. Jerningham’s appearance here was surprising to Eustace, the +presence of Eustace at this spot seemed no less astounding to Mr. +Jerningham. + +“They told me you had returned to Killalochie,” he said. + +“No; I wanted to see this place before I left this part of Scotland.” + +“I cannot imagine what interest you can possibly have in a spot so +remote.” + +“The interest of association,” Eustace answered. “But have I not as +much reason to wonder what should bring you here, Mr. Jerningham?” + +“That question is easily answered. A proprietor is generally anxious to +examine his newly acquired possessions. This summer-house comes to me +with the rest of my kinsman Pendarvoch’s property.” + +“Lord Pendarvoch was related to you!” exclaimed Eustace. + +“He was.” + +“Strange!” + +“What is there so strange in such a relationship?” + +“Nothing strange except to me. It is only one more in a sequence of +coincidences which concern me alone. I came to this part of Scotland +to discover a secret of the past, Mr. Jerningham, and perhaps you can +help me to penetrate that mystery. Four-and-twenty years ago, Lord +Pendarvoch lent his shooting-box yonder to a gentleman whose name +I want to know. Can you tell me if I shall find any old servant at +Pendarvoch likely to be able to answer this question for me, or do you +yourself know enough of your kinsman’s friends at that period, as to be +able to give me the information I seek.” + +To these inquiries Mr. Jerningham had listened gravely, with his face +somewhat averted from the speaker. + +“No,” he replied, coldly, “I knew very few of Pendarvoch’s friends. I +cannot help you to identify the person who may have borrowed his house +a quarter of a century ago. Every man makes a _tabula rasa_ of +his memory half a dozen times within such a period. Existence would be +unbearable if our memories wore so well as you seem to suppose they +do. As to my cousin’s old servants, they are all dead or imbecile. If +you want information, you may spare yourself the trouble of going to +Pendarvoch, and question these marble columns. They will tell you as +much as the Pendarvoch servants.” + +“Do not think me obstinate if I put that to the test. I have determined +not to leave a stone unturned.” + +“I cannot understand your eagerness to pry into the secrets of the +past. I begin to fancy you are hunting some lost estate--perhaps +plotting to dispossess me.” + +“No, Mr. Jerningham, it is not an estate I am hunting; it is a lost +name.” + +“You appear to delight in enigmas. I do not.” + +“I will not bore you with any further talk of my affairs. And this +temple is yours, Mr. Jerningham. I may never see it again. Forgive me +if I ask you not to pull it down. Let it stand. For me it is sacred as +a tomb.” + +Harold Jerningham stared aghast at the speaker. A question rose to his +lips, but his voice failed him, and it remained unspoken. He stood +pale, breathless, watching the young man as he bent his knee upon one +of the steps of the temple, and gathered a handful of the wild flowers +that clustered about the stone. + +“Your friends and I are to dine at Killalochie,” he said, presently, +while Eustace’s head was still bent over the flowers; “we both return +by the same road, I suppose?” + +“I think not; the tide is low, and I have set my heart upon going back +by the sands.” + +“Do you think it quite safe to venture?” + +“I should imagine so. At Halko’s Head they told me the way was safe at +low tide.” + +“But are you sure the tide is on the ebb?” + +“It looks like it.” + +“I would warn you to be cautious. The tide upon this part of the coast +is dangerous, at least I have heard people say as much.” + +“I am not afraid,” answered Eustace, with some touch of bitterness. “A +man whose life is hardly worth keeping may defy fortune.” + +“Life at five-and-twenty is always worth keeping. Take my advice, Mr. +Thorburn, and ask advice from the fisher-folk before you set out on +your walk.” + +“Thanks; you are very good; I will take your advice. And M. de Bergerac +and his daughter are to dine at the Killalochie Inn, where I am pledged +to rejoin my uncle to-day. I did not think I should see them again +before I left Scotland.” + +After this, Eustace Thorburn bade Mr. Jerningham good morning, and +departed in the direction of that rough flight of steps known as “The +Devil’s Staircase.” Harold Jerningham tied his horse’s bridle to one of +the marble columns, and paced to and fro upon the short grass, darkly +meditative. + +“What does it mean?” he asked himself, “this young man’s appearance +at this spot--his searching inquiries about the people who occupied +Pendarvoch’s house four-and-twenty years ago? The very time! A spot so +remote, so rarely visited--a house so seldom inhabited! Can he be any +relation of--_hers_? A nephew, perhaps. And yet, is that likely? +Her father and mother died more than twenty years ago. Who should +have set this man upon the track? And he gathered those wild flowers, +and put them in his breast, with the air of a man whose associations +with the spot were of the closest and most tender. And in Berkshire +I came upon him reading _that_ book--that wretched record of +heartlessness and folly. Yes, it is the spot. When I last stood here I +was young and beloved. I, who now hang upon the looks of a girl less +lovely than she who gave me a kind of worship. Nothing that I possess, +nothing that I can do, will win me such a love as that I spurned. O +God! the bitterness of late remorse! I let her go, broken-hearted, +and I know not how long she lived or how she died. I cannot think a +creature so tender could long survive sorrow and ignominy, such as +I made her suffer. Here we have sat side by side, and I have grown +weary of her company. If she could arise before me now--pale, faded, +in rags--I would fall upon my knees before her, and claim her as my +redeeming angel. ‘Welcome back, sweet spirit!’ I would cry. ‘In all +these years I have sought for happiness, and found none so pure and +perfect as that you offered me. In all these years I have sought the +love of women, and have never been loved as you loved me.’” + +Alas! that the dead cannot return! To her whose fate had been so +dreary, what warm welcome, what atoning tears, might have been given if +she could have come to claim them! A cold gust of wind swept along the +cliff as Mr. Jerningham invoked the departed spirit. It seemed to him +like a breath from the grave. + +“She is dead,” he said to himself; “I call her in vain.” + +He, too, stooped to gather a few of the yellow hill-flowers, and put +them in his breast. Then, after one long, mournful look at the deserted +summer-house, he mounted his horse, and rode slowly to the dilapidated +shooting-box which had come to him with the rest of his kinsman’s +estate. At the gate of this humble domain he dismounted again, and +left his horse cropping the rank grass in the neglected garden, while +he made his way into the house, very much after the manner in which +Eustace Thorburn had penetrated it upon the previous day. + +He walked quickly through the rooms, and left the house hurriedly. To +him the gloom of the dust-whitened chambers was almost intolerable. + +“Why do I grope among dry bones and dead men’s skulls?” he asked +himself. “Can any man afford to retrace his steps over the ground he +trod in his youth? Shall I, above all men, dare the phantoms of the +Past?” + +He mounted his horse, and rode away without a glance behind him, as +if he had, indeed, encountered some ghostly presence in that empty +dwelling-place. + +“I will have it rased to the ground next week,” he said to himself. +“Why should it stand for ever as a monument of my faults and follies? +And that young man, de Bergerac’s _protégé_, entreated me to spare +the summer-house yonder, because it is sacred to him! To him? What +should make it sacred in his eyes? What connexion can he have with +_that_ dark story! And they say he is like me--indeed, I have +myself perceived the resemblance. I will question him closely to-night +at Killalochie.” + +At Halko’s Head Mr. Jerningham stopped to refresh his horse, and +ordered refreshment for himself, for the benefit of the humble hostelry +where he stopped. Here he dawdled away an hour and a half very +drearily, for the repose of his steed. The weather had changed for +the worse when he emerged from the little inn. Ominous black clouds +obscured the horizon, and a shrill east wind whistled across the +barren hills. Looking seaward from the lofty headland, Mr. Jerningham +saw that the tide had risen considerably since he had last looked at +the sands. + +“When did the tide turn, my man?” he asked, of the lad who brought him +his horse. + +“Above two hours ago, sir.” + +“Two hours ago! It was turning then when Thorburn went down to the +sands,” thought Mr. Jerningham. And then he again questioned the boy: +“I suppose any one setting off by the sands for Killalochie at turn of +tide would get there safely?” he asked. + +The boy shook his head with a doubtful grin. + +“I dinna ken, sir. Folks fra’ Halko’s Head mun start when the tide +wants an hour o’ turning, if they’d get to Killalochie dry-shod.” + +“Great heaven!” cried Harold Jerningham, “and that young man is a +stranger to the coast.” + +He left his horse in the care of the lad, and went to consult a little +group of idle fishermen congregated before one of the cottages. From +these men he received the most dismal confirmation of his fears. The +walk from Halko’s Head to Killalochie could not be done between the +turning of the tide and its full. Between the two places there was no +way of getting from the sands to the cliffs, or only points so perilous +and difficult of ascent, as to be impossible to any but the hardiest +samphire-gatherer, or boldest hunter of eaglets, bred on those rough +coasts. What was just possible for a Highland fisherman, would be, of +course, impossible to a literary Londoner. + +“Do you tell me that the distance cannot be walked in the time?” asked +Mr. Jerningham, desperately. + +The answer was decisive. Captain Barclay himself could not have walked +from Halko’s Head to Killalochie within the given period. The hardiest +of these villagers were careful, at this time of year, to start an hour +before the turn of the tide. The more cautious among these good folks +left Halko’s Head as soon as the ebbing waves left a dry path upon the +sand. + +“Then he is doomed!” Mr. Jerningham said to himself. “But what is his +doom to me? I am not his keeper.” + +He did his uttermost, however, towards the rescue of the unwary +pedestrian from the peril he had tempted. To the fishermen he offered a +noble reward should they succeed in saving the imprudent stranger. The +men ran to their boats, and in five minutes had pushed off, and were +making all the way they could against a heavy sea. But those who stayed +behind told Mr. Jerningham that the chances were against the boats +overtaking the pedestrian, if he were anything of a walker. They told +him there was a stiff wind blowing from the land, and it was as much as +the rowers could do to make any way against it. This, indeed, he could +see for himself, and those dark clouds in the windward quarter boded +ill. Mr. Jerningham lingered for some time, talking with the two men +who had stayed on shore. He questioned them closely as to the measures +to be taken for the rescue of the stranger; and they assured him that +in sending the boats he had done all that mortal aid could do. + +With this assurance he was obliged to be satisfied. What could it +matter to him whether Eustace Thorburn lived or died; or would not the +young man’s untimely end be for his advantage? He had seen, the day +before, only too plainly, that all his patient devotion, his watchful +anxiety to please her, had not made him as dear to Helen de Bergerac +as this hired secretary had become without an effort. And all the old +envy, and the old anger had returned to Harold Jerningham’s breast as +he made this discovery. + +“Will she lament his death?” he asked himself, “or is her love for +him only a girlish fancy, that will perish with its object. She +seemed tolerably happy in his absence, and I hoped she had completely +forgotten him, and was learning to love me. Why should I not win her +love? And he comes back, and in the first moment of his return I +discover that I have been building on sand. The divine attraction of +youth is with my rival, and all my dreams and all my hopes are so much +foolishness and self-delusion.” + +This is what Mr. Jerningham thought as he rode across the barren +hills towards Killalochie, whither he went as fast as his horse could +carry him, but not faster than the dark storm-clouds which overtook +him half-way, and drenched him with heavy rain. The sky grew black as +Erebus, and looking seaward every now and then, he saw the breakers +leap and whiten as they rolled in. + +That common humanity which prompts a man to help his direst foe in +extreme peril, made Mr. Jerningham eager to reach Killalochie. There, +perhaps, he might find he had been deceived by the gloomy presages of +the fishermen, or thence he might send other means to help the missing +traveller. He rode up to the little inn an hour after leaving Halko’s +Head. M. de Bergerac and his daughter had arrived some time before, and +Mr. Jerningham was informed that dinner would be served immediately. + +“Put it off for a quarter of an hour,” he said to the servant, “and do +not let my friend or his daughter know of my arrival. I want to see the +landlord on most urgent business.” + +The landlord was in the bar, talking to a portly, middle-aged +gentleman, who was lounging against an angle of the wall, smoking a +cigar. + +“I really wish my nephew were safe in this house,” said this person, +“for I think we are in for a rough night.” + +Mr. Jerningham told the landlord of his fears, and asked whether the +walk from Halko’s Head to Killalochie by the sands were indeed as +perilous as it had been represented by the fisherman. + +The landlord confirmed all he had heard. + +“Is there anything to be done?” cried Mr. Jerningham; “a gentleman, +whom I met at Halko’s Head, set out to walk here at the turn of the +tide. I sent boats after him, but the men seemed to fear the result.” + +“From Halko’s Head,” exclaimed the lounger, taking his cigar from his +mouth, and staring aghast at Harold Jerningham. “I expect my nephew +from Halko’s Head. Do you know the name of the man you met there?” + +“He is my friend’s secretary, Mr. Thorburn.” + +“O God,” cried Daniel, “it’s my boy!” + +For a few moments he leant against the wall, helpless, and white as +death. In the next instant he called upon them hoarsely to help him, to +follow him, and ran bare-headed from the house. + +“Who is that man?” asked Mr. Jerningham. + +“He’s fra the south, sir; Mayfield by name.” + +“Mayfield!” muttered the questioner. “Of _her_ blood.” + +Daniel Mayfield came back to the inn. “Is no one going to help me?” he +cried. “Are you going to let my sister’s son perish, and not stir a +foot to save him?” + +The landlord caught Daniel’s strong arm in his own muscular grip. + +“You joost keep y’rsel quiet,” he said. “It’s no guid to fash y’rsel. +Whatever mon can dee, I’ll dee. It is’na runnin’ wild in the street +as’ll save y’r nevy. I ken the place, and I ken what to be doin’. Leave +it to me.” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Jerningham, huskily; “you can do nothing. Let the good +man manage things his own way. And mind, my friend, I will guarantee +fifty pounds to the man who saves Eustace Thorburn. I want to speak +to you, Mr. Mayfield. Come in here.” He opened the door of a little +sitting-room, and would have led Daniel in; but Daniel shook off his +grasp roughly. + +“Do you think I can talk of anything while _his_ life is in +peril?” he cried. + +“Yes, you can--you must talk of _him_. I tell you that your help +is not wanted. You can do nothing. The men, who know the coast, will do +their utmost. Come! I must and will be answered.” + +He half led, half dragged, Daniel Mayfield into the little room. The +journalist was much the stronger man of the two, but at this moment he +was helpless as a child. + +“Your name is Mayfield? You do not know what feelings _that_ name +awakens in my mind, heard in this place, and after my meeting that +young man where I did meet him this morning. For God’s sake tell me if +you are in any way related to a Mr. Mayfield who----” + +“My father kept a circulating library at Bayham,” answered Daniel, with +angry abruptness. “I am a journalist, and get my bread by scribbling +for newspapers and reviews.” + +“And that young man--Eustace Thorburn--is your sister’s son? You must +have had more than one sister?” + +“No, I had but one.” + +“And she is dead?” + +“She is.” + +“And this young man--Eustace Thorburn--is the son of your sister, Mrs. +Thorburn?” + +“He is the son of my only sister, Celia Mayfield.” + +“His father--Mr. Thorburn--is dead, I suppose?” + +“I can answer no questions about his father,” answered Daniel, sternly; +“nor do I care to be catechized in this manner at such a time.” + +“Pardon me. Your name has painful associations for me, and I thought it +possible you might be related to----One question more, and I have done. +In what year was your nephew born?” + +“He was born on the 14th November, 1844.” + +“Then he is not twenty-four years of age. You are quite sure of the +date?” + +“I am; and if you care to verify it, you may find the registry of his +baptism in St. Ann’s Church, Soho.” + +“Thanks. That is all I have to ask. Forgive me if I seem impertinent. +And now let us go to the jetty together; and God grant this young man +may come back to us in safety.” + +Daniel uttered no pious aspiration. There are terrors too profound for +words--periods of anguish in which a man cannot even pray. He followed +Harold Jerningham out of the house, both men pale as death, and with +an awful quiet fallen upon them. They went silently down to the little +wooden jetty where the fishing boats were moored. + +The tide was at the flood, the rain driving against their pale, +awe-stricken faces, the waters leaping and plunging against the timbers +of the jetty. Nothing could be more hopeless than the outlook. + +The landlord of the inn was there. He had sent off a boat’s crew in +search of the missing stranger. + +“How do we know that he has not returned by some other way?” asked Mr. +Jerningham; while Daniel Mayfield stood, statue-like, staring seaward. + +The men pointed significantly to the perpendicular cliffs on each side +of the jetty. The only cleft in these grim barriers, for miles along +the coast, was that opening in which the little harbour and jetty had +been made. Only by this way could the traveller have approached the +village, and no traveller had come this way since the turning of the +tide. This was the gist of what the men told Harold Jerningham, in +cautious undertones, while Daniel Mayfield still stood, statue-like and +unlistening, staring out at the roaring waste of waves. + +There the two men waited for upwards of an hour. The rain fell +throughout that dreary interval. Mr. Jerningham paced slowly to and fro +the little jetty. He could scarcely have recalled another occasion upon +which he had exposed himself thus to the assaults of those persistent +levellers the elements, but he was barely conscious of the rain that +drifted in his face, and drenched his garments. The greatest mental +shock that had ever befallen this man had come upon him to-day. A +revelation the most startling had been made to him: and with that +strange revealment bitter regret, vain remorse, had taken possession +of his mind. He had borne himself with sufficient calmness in his +interview with Daniel Mayfield, but the tempest within was not easily +to be stilled. As he paced the jetty, he tried to reason with himself, +to take a calm survey of the day’s events, but he tried in vain. All +his thoughts travelled in a circle, and perpetually returned to the +same point. + +“I have a son,” he said to himself; and then, with a sudden shudder, +and a glance of horror towards the pitiless sea, he told himself, “I +_had_ a son.” + +While he walked thus to and fro, oblivious alike of Daniel Mayfield and +of the patient, lounging fishermen, Daniel came suddenly to him, and +laid a strong hand upon his shoulder. + +“Where is my nephew?” he asked. “Where is my only sister’s only child? +You saw him at Halko’s Head this morning, and parted from him there. +Why did you let him return by the perilous route, while you travelled +safely?” + +“I did not know the danger of the road. I took prompt measures enough +when I discovered the hazard. I sent two boats from Halko’s Head, in +search of your nephew. Please God, he may return in one of them!” + +“Amen!” cried Daniel, solemnly; and then, for the first time, he seemed +to awake from the stupor that had come upon him with the dread horror +of his kinsman’s peril. He began to question the men closely as to the +distance between the two places, and the time in which the boats might +be expected to make the voyage. By the showing of the fishermen, the +boats were already due. + +After these questions and calculations, the watchers relapsed into +silence. Daniel still stood looking seaward, but no longer with +the blank stare of stupefaction. He watched the waves now with +eagerness--nay, even with hope. + +The night closed in, cold, wet, and stormy, while he watched; and by +and by, through the thick darkness, and above the roar of the waves, +came the voices of the boatmen, calling to the men on the jetty. + +One of these men had lighted a lantern, and swung it aloft to a mast, +at the end of the rough landing-place. By the red glimmer of this +light Daniel Mayfield saw the boats coming in, and the faces of the men +looking upward, but no face he knew. The wonder is that humanity can +survive such anguish. He called to the men hoarsely-- + +“Is he found?” + +“No.” + +Short phrases best fit such announcements. + +“There is the boat that set out from here,” murmured Mr. Jerningham; +“he may be picked up by that.” + +“Not if these have failed to find him. These men had the start by an +hour and a half, and have come close along the shore. Oh, damnable, +ravenous waves, roar your loudest for evermore, and overwhelm this +miserable earth!--You have swallowed up my boy!” + +He fell on his knees, and beat his forehead against the rough timber +rail of the jetty. In broad daylight he would, perhaps, have shown +himself a stoic; but in the darkness, and amidst the thunder of the +stormy sea, he abandoned himself to his despair. + +Nor did Mr. Jerningham attempt to console him. To him also the return +of the boats had brought despair, but he betrayed his grief by no +passionate word or gesture. + +“I had a son,” he said to himself; “a son borne to me by the only +woman who ever loved me with completely pure and disinterested love; +and I never looked upon his infant sleep; I never shared his boyish +confidence; and I met him in the pride of his manhood and hated him +because he was bright, and young, hopeful, and like myself at my best. +And I put myself between him and the girl who loved him,--I, his +father,--and tried to steal her heart away from him. O God! to think +of his uncherished childhood, his uncared-for boyhood, his friendless +manhood! My only son! And I have squandered thousands on old coins, +I have locked up the cost of half a dozen university educations in +doubtful intaglios. My son! made after my own image--my very self--the +reproduction of my youth at its brightest--the incarnation of my hopes +and dreams when they were purest! O Celia! this is the vengeance which +Fate exacts for the wrongs of the forgiving. Here, on this dreary +shore, which that poor girl fled from in her despair--here, after +four-and-twenty years, the hour of retribution sounds, and the penalty +is exacted!” + +Thus ran Harold Jerningham’s thoughts as he waited for the return of +the boat that was still away on its vain, desperate errand. It came +back too soon, a lantern at the prow gleaming bright through the +rainy darkness. No, the men had found no one--no trace of the missing +wanderer. + +“What if he went back to Halko’s Head by the sands, and is kept there +by stress of weather?” cried Daniel, suddenly; “there is that one +chance left. O God! it is but a chance. What vehicle can I get to take +me to that place? I must go at once!” + +“There is the horse I rode this morning,” said Mr. Jerningham. “I will +go to Halko’s Head.” + +“Why should you do my duty?” asked Daniel, angrily. “Do you think I +am afraid of a strange road or a shower of rain, when I have to go in +search of my dead sister’s son?” + +To this Mr. Jerningham made no reply. He would fain have gone himself +to the fishing village on the headland, to see if, by any happy chance, +Eustace had returned thither. But he, Harold Jerningham, had no right +to put himself forward in this search. Acknowledged tie between him and +the missing man there was none. He could only submit to the natural +desire of Daniel Mayfield. + +Upon inquiry, it appeared that the landlord of the “William Wallace” +inn possessed a vehicle, which he spoke of vaguely, as a “wee bit +giggy,” and which, with the sturdy steed that drew it, was very much +at the service of Mr. Mayfield. A hanger-on of the inn could drive +the gentleman to Halko’s Head, and would guarantee his safe conduct +thither, and safe return to Killalochie, despite of the darkness and +foul weather. + +Daniel was only too glad to accept the offer, and in ten minutes the +gig--a lumbering, obsolete vehicle of the hooded species, on two +gigantic wheels--was ready for departure. The driver clambered into his +seat, Daniel followed, and the big, bony horse, and clumsy carriage +went splashing and plunging through the night. + +Mr. Jerningham stood at the inn-door, watching its departure. Then, for +the first time since his arrival at the humble hostelry, he thought of +the dinner that had been prepared for him, and the friends with whom he +was to have eaten it. + +He went up to the sitting-room, where he found Helen alone, waiting the +return of her father, who had gone down to the harbour. She sat in a +meditative attitude, anxious and dispirited. Some hint of the ghastly +truth had reached this room, in spite of Mr. Jerningham’s precautions, +and Theodore de Bergerac had gone out to ascertain the extent of the +calamity. + +“Oh, I am so glad you have come!” cried Helen, eagerly, as he entered +the room. “You can tell us the truth about this dreadful rumour. The +people here say that there has been some one--a stranger--lost on the +sands to-night. Is it true?” + +“My dear Helen, I----” Mr. Jerningham began, but the girl stopped him, +with a faint shriek of horror. + +“Yes, it is true,” she cried; “your face tells me that. It is deadly +white. Is there no hope? Is the traveller really lost?” + +“It would be too soon to suppose that,” answered Mr. Jerningham, with +calmness that cost him no small effort. “The whole business may be +only a false alarm. The young man may have chosen another path. After +all, no one _saw_ him go down to the sands. There is no cause for +despair.” + +M. de Bergerac came into the room at this moment. He, too, was ghastly +pale. + +“This is dreadful, Jerningham,” he said. “There is every reason to fear +this poor young fellow has been drowned. I have been talking to the men +on the jetty--men who know every foot of the coast--and they tell me, +if he went by the sands, there is no hope. Poor fellow!” + +“Papa, in what a tone you speak of him!” cried Helen. “It is natural +you should be sorry for a stranger, but you speak as if you had +known this young man--and there are so few travellers in this part +of Scotland. Oh, for pity’s sake, tell me!” she exclaimed, looking +piteously from one to the other, with clasped hands. “Did you know him? +did we know him? Your secretary was in this neighbourhood yesterday, +papa, and was to meet his uncle here at Killalochie. Oh, no, no, no! it +cannot be him. It cannot be Eustace Thorburn!” + +“Dear child, for God’s sake restrain yourself. There is no +certainty--there is always hope until the worst is known.” + +“It _is_ Eustace Thorburn,” cried Helen. “Neither of you will deny +that.” + +A stifled shriek broke from her lips, and she fell senseless, stretched +at the feet of her father and Harold Jerningham. + +“How she loves him!” murmured Mr. Jerningham, as he bent over her, and +assisted her father in carrying her to the adjoining room. “So ends my +dream!” + +At midnight the lumbering, hooded gig returned with Daniel +Mayfield--and despair. He had been into every dwelling-place at Halko’s +Head, had roused drowsy fishermen from their beds, but no trace or +tidings of Eustace Thorburn had reached that lonely village. He came +back when all possible means of finding the lost had been exhausted. + +Mr. Jerningham was up, and watching for him. More than this had he +done. He had hired a couple of men, provided with lanterns, who were +ready in the inn, prepared to accompany Harold Jerningham and Daniel +Mayfield on an exploration of the coast, for the tide was now out. The +rain had ceased, and faint stars glimmered here and there on the cloudy +sky. + +“Will you go down to the sands with these men and me?” asked Mr. +Jerningham, when Daniel had described his bootless errand. + +To this proposal Daniel assented, almost mechanically. In his utter +despair he had ceased to wonder why Harold Jerningham should take so +keen an interest in his nephew’s peril. He was glad to do anything--he +knew not, cared not what. That seemed like action. But since his +useless journey to Halko’s Head hope had left him. + +They went down to the sands and wandered there for hours, examining +every turn and angle of the rugged cliff that towered above them, dark +and gloomy as the wall of some fortress-prison. The exploration only +strengthened their despair. Against that iron-bound coast how many a +helpless wretch must have been crushed to death! Between the swift +advancing wall of waters, and that perpendicular boundary what was +there for the traveller but a grave! They pored upon the sand, lighted +by the fitful glare of the lanterns, looking for some trace of the +lost--a handkerchief, a glove, a purse, a scrap of paper--but they +found no such token. + +Harold Jerningham remembered the yellow wild flowers which the young +man had put in his breast. With those poor memorials of his mother’s +youth he had gone to his untimely death. + +“If the superstitions of priests have any foundation, and my son and I +shall meet before the judgment-throne, surely I shall see those wild +flowers in his hand,” thought Mr. Jerningham, as he remembered the last +look of the bright young face which had been said to resemble his own. + +He thought also of such a night as this four-and-twenty years ago, when +he had searched the same coast, with terror in his mind. Then his fears +had been wasted. Oh, that it might be so now! + +They paced the dreary sands until daybreak, and for an hour after +daybreak; and by that time the tide was rolling in again, and they +had to hasten back to the little harbour. As the fierce waves dashed +shorewards with a hoarse roar, each of the explorers thought how +the missing traveller had been thus overtaken by the same devouring +monsters, savagely bent upon destruction to mankind. In that hour +Daniel Mayfield conceived a detestation of the sea--a horror and hatred +of those black, rolling waves, as ministers of death and desolation, +deadliest foes to human weakness and human love. + +With daybreak, and the beginning of a new day, came a despair even +more terrible than that of the long, dark night. Blank and chill was +the dawn of that miserable day. All had been done. Human love, human +effort, could do no more, except to repeat again and again the same +plan of action that had proved so hopeless. + +If Eustace Thorburn had taken that fatal path under the cliffs, he had +inevitably gone to his death. Of that the people who knew the coast +said there could be no doubt. If he had changed his mind at the last +moment, and set off in some other direction, why did he not return +to Killalochie? Was it likely that he, at all times so thoughtful of +others, would show himself on this occasion utterly indifferent to his +uncle’s feelings, reckless what anxiety he caused him? + +Upon that dreary day there was nothing but watching and waiting for +the little party at the “William Wallace” inn. Helen, and her father +sat alone in their room, the girl pale as marble, but very calm, and +with a sweet resignation of manner, which seemed to indicate her regret +for that outbreak of passionate sorrow on the previous night. Little +was said between the father and daughter, but Theodore de Bergerac’s +affection showed itself on this bitter day by a supreme tenderness of +tone and manner. Once only did they speak of the subject that filled +the minds of both. + +“My darling,” said Theodore, “it is too soon to abandon hope.” + +“Oh, papa! I cannot hope, but I have prayed. All through the long night +I prayed for my old companion and friend. You think I have no right +to be so sorry for him. You do not know how good he was to me all the +time we were together. No brother could have been kinder to a favourite +sister.” + +“And you shall weep for him and pray for him, as you would for a +brother,” answered the father, tenderly, “with grief as pure, with +prayers as holy. Happy the man who has such an intercessor!” + +After this they sat in pensive silence, unconscious of the progress +of time, but with the feeling that the day was prolonged to infinite +duration. It was like the day of a funeral; and yet, a lurking sense +of tremulous expectancy fluttered the hearts of those silent mourners. +A step on the stair, the sudden sound of voices at the inn-door, +threw Helen into a fever. Sometimes she half rose from her chair, +pale, breathless, listening. The cry almost broke from her lips, “He +is here!” But the footstep passed by--the voice that for the moment +sounded familiar grew strange--and she knew that her hopes had deluded +her. It is so difficult for youth not to hope. The waves could not have +devoured so much genius, so much goodness. Even pitiless ocean must +needs be too merciful to destroy Eustace Thorburn. Some such thought as +this lurked in Helen’s mind. + +While Theodore de Bergerac and his daughter sat alone, absorbed in this +one bitter anxiety, Daniel Mayfield wandered helplessly to and fro +between the “William Wallace” and the harbour, or the road to Halko’s +Head--now going one way, now another, but continually returning to the +inn-door, to ask, with a countenance that was piteous in its assumed +tranquillity, if anything had been heard of the missing man. + +The answer was always the same--nothing had been heard. The landlord, +and some of the hangers-on of the inn, tried to comfort Daniel with +feeble suggestions as to what the young man might have done with +himself. Others made no attempt to hide their gloomy convictions. + +“It isn’t the first time a stranger has lost his life on those sands,” +they said, in their northern patois. “Folks that have gone to see St. +Kentigern’s Cave, and would go without a guide, have paid dearly for +their folly.” + +Daniel Mayfield scarcely heard this remark about the cave. The fears, +or indeed the certainties, of these people could scarcely be darker +than his own. He told himself that he should never look upon his +nephew’s living face again. + +“Dead I may see him--the dear, bright face beaten and bruised against +those hellish cliffs; but living, never more; oh, never more! my more +than son--my pride--my hope--my love!” + +And then he remembered how he had hoped to hold his nephew’s children +in his arms. He had almost felt the soft, clinging hands upon his neck. + +“I was created to end my days as old Uncle Dan,” he had said to himself. + +Now the day-dream was gone. This brighter life, in which he had found +it so easy to renew his own youth, was broken off untimely--this dear +companionship, which had made him a boy, was taken from him. Down to +dusty death he must tramp alone, between a lane of printer’s devils +clamorous for copy, and insatiable editors for ever demanding that each +denunciatory leader, or scathing review, or Juvenalistic onslaught on +the social vices of his day, should be racier and more trenchant than +the last. + +His nephew taken from him, there remained to Daniel nothing but tavern +friends, and the dull round of daily labour, and old age, cheerless, +lonely, creeping towards him apace, athwart the dust and turmoil of his +life. + +While Daniel walked, purposeless, on the dreary road, or stood +listless, and hopeless, on the quiet jetty, Harold Jerningham sat alone +in his own apartment, and pondered on the events that had befallen him. + +A son, found and lost--found only in the very hour of his loss. What +chastisement of offended God--or blind, unconscious destiny, gigantic +Nemesis, with mighty, brazen arms, revolving, machine-like, on its +pivot, striking at random into space, and striking _sometimes_ +strangely to the purpose--what chastisement could have seemed more +fitting than this? + +“I would have bartered half my fortune, or twenty years of my life, for +a son,” he said to himself. “How often I have envied the field-labourer +his troop of rosy brats--the gipsy tramp her brown-faced baby! Fate put +a barren sceptre in my hand. If my wife had given me a son, I think I +should have loved her. And I had a son all the time--a son whom I might +have legitimated, since his mother lived as my acknowledged wife on +this Scottish ground. Yes, I would have set the lawyers to work, and +we would have made him heir of Greenlands, and Ripley, and Pendarvoch. +I would have given him the girl who loves him--whom I have loved. It +would be no shame to resign her to my son--my younger, better self. +And we met--that unknown son and I--and we held scornfully aloof from +each other, with instinctive dislike. Dislike? It was dislike which +needed but a word to melt into love. In a stranger, this reflection of +my youth was an impertinence--a plagiarism. In my son it must be the +strongest claim upon my love. My son! It needs not the agreement of +dates to confirm his kindred. His paternity is written upon his face.” + +And then to Mr. Jerningham also there came the thought that had come +to Daniel Mayfield. That face in life he was never more to see. Should +he even look upon it in death--changed, disfigured by the fierce +destruction of the waves. Even to see it thus was almost too much to +hope. To reclaim the dead, so lost, would be well nigh as impossible as +it had been to save the living. + + + + + CHAPTER XV. + + STRONGER THAN DEATH. + + +THE day that followed was even more utterly blank and hopeless than +the last. Mr. Jerningham had sent scouts in every direction, and both +from him and Daniel the men had received promises of liberal reward for +any tidings of the lost one. But no tidings came. The men returned, +dispirited and weary; and at the close of this second blank, wasted +day, fairly confessed that they could do no more. + +So the night closed; and the sleepless hours wore away in a house of +mourning and desolation. + +During these two days Mr. Jerningham and Helen de Bergerac had not met. +The girl had retired when her father’s friend entered the sitting-room +which they shared in common. She shrank from seeing him after that +moment of anguish in which she had betrayed that secret which, of all +others, she would most jealously have guarded. She now avoided Mr. +Jerningham, and he guessed the reason of her avoidance. Nor did her +father attempt to conceal the truth. + +“You were wiser than I, dear friend,” he said, “when you warned me +against the peril of that young man’s residence in our home. Only the +night before his unhappy disappearance he made a confession of his +love for my darling, and pleaded his cause with me, with all possible +humility, and with very little hope of acceptance, I am sure.” + +“And you rejected his suit?” + +“What else could I do? In the first place I considered myself pledged +to you. I had no brighter hope than that you should win my daughter’s +love, and I believed her heart to be free. In the second place this +young man--for whom I have a real affection--could offer no security +for my dear girl’s happiness, except his love; and at my age one has +outlived the idea that true love will pay rent and taxes, and butcher +and baker. No, I gave Eustace a point-blank refusal, and he left me +broken-hearted.” + +“Did Helen know of his appeal to you?” + +“Not a syllable. Nor did I imagine until the other night that he had +made so fatal an impression on her mind. I see now that it is so, +and fear that his untimely doom will only render the impression more +lasting.” + +“Yes,” replied Mr. Jerningham, gravely; “that is a thing to be dreaded. +My dear friend, do not think of _my_ disappointment, though I +will own to you without shame that it is a bitter one. The dream was +so bright. Let us think only of this dear girl’s happiness, or if that +cannot be secured, her peace of mind. Would it not be wise to remove +her from this scene as soon as possible?” + +“Decidedly; she broods perpetually upon that poor young man’s fate, and +is kept in a fever of expectation by the hope of tidings which I fear +will never come. Yes, it would certainly be better to take her away.” + +“That is easily done. You can take her to Pendarvoch. We are expected +there, you know. I will remain here a day or two longer, for the last +feeble chance of the missing man’s reappearance, and will then follow +you. We are only fifty miles from Pendarvoch, and you can manage the +journey easily with one change of horses. Shall I order the carriage +for to-morrow morning?” + +“If you please. I will talk to Helen about the arrangement. I do not +think she can object.” + +“If she does, you must do your utmost to overrule her objections. Be +sure that it is of vital consequence to remove her from this scene of +gloom and terror. Believe me, I am influenced by no selfish motive +when I ask you to take her to Pendarvoch. If that young man should be +restored to us, I will bring him there to her. He shall plead to you +again, and this time shall not be rejected.” + +“Harold!” + +“Yes, you think me mad, no doubt. For my own part, I can only wonder +that I am not mad. I tell you, if Eustace Thorburn comes forth from the +jaws of death, he shall come to you a new creature--with new hopes, new +ambitions--perhaps even a new name. Oh, for pity’s sake do not question +me. Wait till we know the issue of this hideous uncertainty.” + +“My dear Harold, you astound me. I thought you disliked my secretary, +and you speak of him with emotion that seems foreign to your very +nature. The change is most extraordinary.” + +“The circumstances that have brought about the change are not ordinary +circumstances. I say again, for God’s sake do not question me. Prepare +Helen for the journey. I will go and give the necessary orders. Good +night!” + +The two men shook hands, and Harold Jerningham departed, leaving his +old friend sorely perplexed by his conduct. + +“What a heart that man conceals under an affectation of cynicism!” +thought Theodore de Bergerac. “He is immeasurably distressed by the +untimely fate of a man whom he pretended to dislike.” + +M. de Bergerac called his daughter from the adjoining room. She came to +him, deadly pale, but with the sweet air of resignation that made her +beauty so pathetic. + +“My darling,” said her father, tenderly, “Mr. Jerningham wishes us to +leave this sad place, early to-morrow morning, for Pendarvoch, where +we are hourly expected. He will remain here some days longer, in the +hope of obtaining some tidings about poor Eustace; but he wishes us to +leave immediately. You have no objection to this arrangement, have you, +dearest?” + +“I had rather we stayed here, papa.” + +“But, my dear girl, what good can you and I do here?” + +“None, oh, none! But I had much rather we stayed.” + +“My child, it is so useless.” + +“Oh, papa, I know that,” she answered, piteously. “I know we can do +nothing, except pray for him, and I do pray for him without ceasing; +but to go away--to abandon the place where he has been lost--it seems +so cruel, so cowardly.” + +“But, my darling! the place will not be abandoned. Mr. Jerningham will +remain here, and will omit no effort to discover our poor friend’s +fate. His uncle, Mr. Mayfield, will be here. What could we do that they +will not do better?” + +“I know that, dear father! I know we can do nothing. But let me stay. I +loved him so dearly!” + +The words slipped from her lips unawares, and she stood before her +father, blushing crimson. + +“Oh, papa! you must think me so bold and unwomanly,” she said. “Till +this sorrow came upon us I did not know that I loved him. I did not +know how dear he had become to me in the happy, tranquil days at home. +When he left us, I felt there was a blank in my life, somehow, except +when I was with you. But I thought no more than this. It was only when +I heard that he was lost to us for ever that I knew how truly I loved +him.” + +“And he loved you, darling, as truly and as fondly!” answered the +father, hiding the blushing face upon his breast. + +“Did he tell you that, papa?” + +“He did. The night before he started on that fatal excursion. And now, +dearest girl! be brave, and let me take you from this place, where your +presence can do no possible good.” + +“I will, dear father--if you will first grant me one favour.” + +“What is that?” + +“Let me see the place where he perished. Take me to the sands along +which he was to come, and upon which he must have met his death.” + +“My darling! what good can that do?” + +“Oh, none, perhaps,” cried Helen, impatiently; “but it is just the one +thing that can reconcile me to leaving this place. If he had died a +natural death, and been buried among the quiet dead, I should ask you +to take me to his grave, and you could not refuse. I ask you almost +the same thing now. Let me look upon the scene of his death!” + +“It shall be so, Helen,” replied Theodore, gravely, “though I fear I +shall do wrong in yielding to such a wish.” + +“My darling father! Then you will go with me to the sands to-morrow at +low tide? You will inquire the time at which we ought to go?” + +“I will do anything foolish for your sake! But, Helen, when I have done +this you will go with me to Pendarvoch quietly?” + +“You shall take me where you please.” + +Later in the evening M. de Bergerac saw Harold Jerningham, ascertained +the hour of the turning tide, and arranged the counter-ordering of the +carriage. At noon, they told him, the tide would be within an hour of +turning, and any ordinary walker, starting for Halko’s Head at that +time, might arrive there with ease and safety. + +“Helen and I want to see the coast with our own eyes,” said M. de +Bergerac, anxious to shield his daughter’s weakness in some measure +by affecting to share her wish; “so before we leave this place we have +determined to explore the way by which that poor fellow must have come.” + +“Helen!--Will she go with you?” + +“Why not? She, too, would like to see this fatal coast.” + +“A strange fancy.” + +“It may be wiser to indulge it.” + +“Be it so. But the distance to Halko’s Head by the coast is seven +miles. Helen can hardly walk so far.” + +“I think on this occasion she could do so.” + +“I will go with you, and we will take a boat in which she can complete +the journey, should she feel tired.” + +At noon next day they started--Helen, her father, and Harold +Jerningham--attended by a couple of rowers, in a roomy boat. Helen +would have infinitely preferred to be alone with her father, but she +could not advance any objection to Mr. Jerningham’s companionship, and +was indeed grateful to him for not opposing her wish. + +She walked by her father in silence, with her hand clinging to his arm, +and her eyes lifted every now and then to the steep cliffs above them, +unsurmountable, eternal barrier, between the sands and the heights +above. The day was bright and clear, and the April sunlight shone upon +a tranquil sea. Darkness and rain, storm and wind, had overtaken that +missing traveller--against him the very elements had conspired. + +The little party went slowly along the sands, with the boat always +in sight. Little satisfaction could there be in that melancholy +survey. The cliffs and the shore told nothing of him who had perished +amidst their awful solitude. At what spot the rising wall of waters +had overtaken him, no one could tell. Midway between Killalochie and +Halko’s Head they came to the inlet, or cleft in the cliffs, a narrow +passage or chasm, between steep walls of crag, about a quarter of a +mile in length. Here the walking was difficult, and Harold Jerningham +endeavoured to dissuade Helen from exploring the place. + +“Mr. Mayfield and I went down there with our lanterns,” he said. +“Believe me, there has been no trace, not the faintest indication +overlooked. The ground is so thickly scattered with sharp craggy stones +as to be almost impassable.” + +In spite of this, Helen persisted, with a quiet resolution, which +impressed Mr. Jerningham. This pure, country-bred girl was even more +admirable than he had thought her. The calm, still face, so fixed and +yet so gentle, assumed a new beauty in his eyes. + +“The good blood shows itself,” he thought. + +They all three went into the chasm. Only in the red fitful glare of the +lanterns had Mr. Jerningham seen it before. It had seemed to him then +more vast, more awful; but even by day the depth and solitude of the +place had a gloomy solemnity. Very carefully had the searchers, with +their lanterns, examined every angle and recess of the cliff on either +side, every inch of the stony ground, looking for some trace of the +lost, and had found nothing. To-day Mr. Jerningham walked listlessly, +scarce looking to the right or the left, hoping nothing, fearing +nothing. + +M. de Bergerac’s thoughts were absorbed by his daughter. It was her +face he watched, her grief he feared. Thus was it left to the eyes of +that one mourner to catch the first sign of hope. A loud cry burst from +her lips, a cry that thrilled the hearts of her companions. + +“Helen, my love, what is it?” exclaimed her father, clasping her +tightly in his arms. + +She broke from him, and pointed upwards. “Look!” she cried, “look! +There is some one there. He is there! Alive or dead, he is found!” + +They looked upwards in the direction to which she pointed, and there, +fluttering in the fresh April wind, they saw something--a rag--a white +handkerchief--hanging from the dark mouth of a hollow in the cliff. + +This hollow in the cliff was about twelve feet above the sand, and at +first sight appeared utterly inaccessible. + +“He is there!” cried Helen; “I am sure he is there!” + +“Yes,” said Mr. Jerningham, examining the face of the cliff; “there are +niches cut here for foothold. Why, this must be the Saint’s Cave of +which they have told us. Yes, finding himself overtaken by the tide, +he _might_ have taken refuge here. It is just possible he might +clamber to that opening.” + +“I know he was distinguished as a gymnast in Belgium,” said M. de +Bergerac, eagerly. + +“I will run back and fetch the boatmen,” said Mr. Jerningham; “they are +waiting for us yonder.” + +He pointed to the opening in the cliff, and hastened thither. + +“Holà!” shouted Theodore, “art thou up yonder, dear boy?” + +Helen fell on her knees among the rough stones and wet seaweed. + +“Oh! merciful Father, restore him to us!” she cried, with clasped +hands. “Hear our prayers, oh, Giver of all good things; and give him +back to us.” + +Her father watched her with tearful eyes. “My darling,” he said, +raising her in his arms, “we must not hope too much. For pity’s sake, +be firm. That handkerchief may mean nothing; or, if--if he is there, he +may be no less lost to us.” + +“Call to him again, dear father. Tell him we are here.” + +“Holà!” shouted the Frenchman. “Eustace, if you are up yonder, answer +your friends. Holà!” + +Again and again he repeated the call, but there was no answer. + +“How long they are coming--how long!” cried Helen, looking despairingly +towards the sea. + +As she spoke, Mr. Jerningham reappeared in the opening of the cliff, +with the two boatmen. They came running towards the cave, one of them +carrying a rope. Both were bare-footed; and to them the scaling of +St. Kentigern’s Cave was a small affair. But each opined that for a +Southron it would be a difficult business. + +“A man can do desperate things when he is fighting for his life,” +replied Mr. Jerningham. “How is it that this cave was overlooked in our +search?” + +The men replied, rather vaguely, that the cave was too unlikely a place +to search. They might as well have looked on the top of the cliffs. + +While Mr. Jerningham asked this question, one of the boatmen stuck his +boathook into the cliff, and by the aid of this and the foothold cut +in the craggy surface, clambered, cat-like, to the mouth of the little +cave, and hung there, peering into the darkness. + +“There’s something here,” he said; and on this the second boatman, +at Mr. Jerningham’s order, mounted on his shoulders, and hoisted his +comrade into the cavern. + +There was a pause, an awful interval of hope and terror, and then the +boatman shouted to his mate below to lend a hand there, and in the +next instant a limp, lifeless figure, in dust-whitened clothes, was +thrust from the narrow mouth of the cave and lowered gently into the +boatman’s sturdy arms. But not unaided did the boatman receive his +burden, Mr. Jerningham’s arms were extended to assist in receiving +that helpless form; Mr. Jerningham’s hands laid it gently upon Helen’s +shawl, which she had flung off and cast upon the ground a moment before. + +Dead or alive? For some moments that was a moot question. Harold +Jerningham knelt beside the prostrate figure, with his head bent low +upon its breast. + +“Thank God!” he said, quietly, with his hand upon the young man’s +heart. “It _does_ beat.” He tried to feel the pulse, but a faint +groan broke from the white lips as he lifted the wrist. + +“His arm is broken,” said Mr. Jerningham, in the same quiet tone; and +then he turned to Helen, with a sudden burst of feeling. “It is you +who found him,” he cried, “I dedicate his life to you.” + +At any other moment such words might have provoked interrogation; but +this was a time in which the wildest words pass unquestioned. + +The two boatmen, aided always by Mr. Jerningham, carried the lifeless +figure to the boat, where it was gently laid upon a bed, composed of a +folded sail, an overcoat, and Helen’s shawl, against the rejection of +which she pleaded piteously. + +“Indeed, I am warmly dressed; I do not want it,” she said. + +Mr. Jerningham seated himself in the boat, with his son’s head upon his +knees. He looked down wonderingly at the pale, still face, so wan and +haggard with pain. It was so difficult to comprehend his own feelings, +and the change that had come upon him, since he had known that this +young man was _his_. + +“My rival,” he said to himself. “No, not my rival. My representative. +The image I can show to the world, and say, ‘This is what I was!’” + +Before they reached the inn at Killalochie, the village knew that the +lost had been found. Scouts had posted off from the jetty with the +happy tidings, before the boatmen could carry their burden on shore. He +was found--alive. Every one seemed to know this by instinct. Half-way +between the jetty and the inn, Daniel Mayfield met them, staggering +like a drunken man, pale as a corpse. + +He hung over the unconscious man with womanly fondness. He pushed +Harold Jerningham aside, and asserted his right to his kinsman. + +“Let no one stand between me and my boy,” he cried, huskily. + +Scouts rushed to fetch the village surgeon, other scouts bade the +landlady prepare her best room. All the common business of life was +suspended in favour of this one stranger, snatched from the jaws of +death. + +They carried him to the best room, which happened to be Mr. +Jerningham’s room, and here he was laid, still unconscious, upon his +father’s bed. + +The local surgeon came, a feeble old man, in spectacles, and sounded +and examined the prostrate form, while Daniel Mayfield and Harold +Jerningham stood by in agony. The latter hurried from the room, sent +for his servant, bade him mount one of the carriage-horses, and gallop +to the station, thence by first train to Aberdeen, where he was to find +and bring back the best surgeon in the place. + +“You’ll say he is wanted for Mr. Jerningham, of Pendarvoch,” he told +the man, who made haste to obey his orders. + +The local surgeon had by this time discovered that there was a broken +arm, and was eager to set it. But this Mr. Jerningham interfered to +prevent. + +“I have sent to Aberdeen for another surgeon,” he said; “and I would +rather you should wait until you have his coöperation. Don’t you think +it would be as well to apply a cooling lotion, in the meanwhile, to +reduce that swelling? It would be quite impossible to set the bone +while the arm and shoulder are in that swollen state.” + +To this the local surgeon assented, with an air of profound wisdom, and +in the broadest Scotch; after which he departed to prepare the lotion, +leaving Harold Jerningham and Daniel Mayfield face to face beside the +bed. + +“How was he found?” asked Daniel. + +Whereon Mr. Jerningham told the story of Helen’s walk and St. +Kentigern’s Cave. + +“God bless her!” exclaimed Daniel; “and you too, for your interest in +this poor boy’s fate. He once told me you disliked him. He must have +wronged you.” + +“I do not know that. I have been a creature of whims and prejudices, +and may have been prejudiced even against him.” + +“I thank you so much the more for your goodness in this crisis,” +answered Daniel, with deep feeling. “And now we need burden you with +our troubles no longer. He lives! That one great fact is almost enough +for me. I will fight Death hand to hand beside his bed. He is the only +thing I love in this world, and I will do battle for my treasure.” + +He glanced towards the door as much as to say, “Let me be alone with my +nephew.” + +Mr. Jerningham understood the look, and answered it. + +“You must not banish me from this room,” he said; “I claim the right to +share your watch.” + +“On what ground?” + +“By the right of a father.” + +“A father’s right!” cried Daniel, with a bitter laugh; “that boy has no +father. He does not know so much as his father’s name. He came to this +place to discover it, if he could.” + +“And he has found a father--a father who will be proud to acknowledge +him.” + +“Acknowledge him!” echoed Daniel, scornfully, “do you think he will +acknowledge you? Do you suppose that hatred of you has not been +his religion? It has. And you would acknowledge him? You break his +mother’s heart, and bequeath to him a heritage of shame, and then, one +fine day, four-and-twenty years after that poor heart was broken, you +meet your son upon the road-side, and it is your caprice to acknowledge +him. You stained his fair young life with the brand of illegitimacy. He +can refuse to acknowledge a father on whom the law gives him no claim.” + +“There shall be no question of illegitimacy,” cried Mr. Jerningham, +eagerly; “it is in my power to prove him legitimate.” + +“Yes, by a legal quibble. Do you think he will accept such +rehabilitation.” + +“What other reparation can I make?” + +“Conjure the dead from their graves. Call back to life the girl whose +womanhood you made one long remorse. Restore the country tradesman and +his wife, who died of their daughter’s shame. Give back to that young +man the years of boyhood and youth, in which he has felt the double +sting of poverty and disgrace. Do these things, and your son will +honour you.” + +Mr. Jerningham was silent. + +“Let me share your watch,” he pleaded presently, in a broken voice. + +“You are welcome to do that,” answered Daniel; “and when it shall +please God to restore him, I will not stand between you and the voice +of his heart. Win his affection if you can; no counsel of mine shall +weigh against you.” + + + + + CHAPTER XVI. + + RECONCILED. + + +THE Aberdeen surgeon arrived late at night, but the setting of the +broken arm was deferred till the next day. The patient was now +delirious, and Mr. Ramsay, the great man from Aberdeen, having heard +the story of St. Kentigern’s Cave, pronounced that rheumatic fever had +been induced by cold and exposure in that dismal hermitage. + +After this came many dreary days and nights, during which the patient +hovered between the realms of life and death, tenderly watched by +his uncle and Mr. Jerningham, who relieved each other’s guard at his +bed-side. + +Then came a blessed change, and he was pronounced out of danger. The +delirium gave place to a languid apathy, in which he seemed faintly +to recognize the watchers by his bed, but to be too feeble to interest +himself in the affairs of this life. + +While the patient was still in this stage, Mr. Jerningham persuaded +Daniel to return to London, where the ravening editors were clamorous +for his presence, and he, yielding to these arguments, left Mr. +Jerningham master of the field. + +This was what the father wanted, to have his son in his own keeping, to +see those dim eyes brighten as they looked at him. To be nurse, valet, +companion, friend, and some day, when he had won his son’s regard, to +say to him suddenly: + +“Eustace, forgive me! I am your father!” + +While the patient had lain helpless and unconscious, Mr. Jerningham +had found the MS. of the great poem, and had read, in those +carefully-written pages, the secrets of his son’s mind. The perusal of +this poem had filled him with pride. He, too, had written verse; but +not such verse as this. The grace, the purity of a mind uncontaminated +by vice, were visible here, and touched the heart of the weary +worldling. + +“The romance of his own life is written here,” he said. “It is almost +a confession. But how unlike that hateful confession which I published +at his age! I, whose ambition was to emulate Rousseau--that pinchbeck +philosopher who never ceased to be at heart a lackey.” + +M. de Bergerac and his daughter left Killalochie for Pendarvoch +directly the invalid was pronounced out of danger. + +When he was well enough to be moved Mr. Jerningham conveyed him to +Pendarvoch; whither he consented to go; but not without some show of +wonderment. + +“Your friends, M. de Bergerac and his daughter are there,” said Mr. +Jerningham. + +“You are very kind to wish to take me there,” replied the invalid; “but +I really think it would be better for me to go back to London, to my +Uncle Dan. I am quite strong enough for the journey.” + +“Indeed you are not! Besides, I have set my heart upon your coming to +Pendarvoch.” + +“You are very good. How long is it since my uncle left this place?” + +“About five weeks.” + +“And in that time who has watched and nursed me? For the last week, +you, I know. But before that time? I have a vague recollection of +seeing you always there--in that chair by the bed. Yes, I had a faint +consciousness of your tender nursing. I do not know how to thank you. +At Greenlands I used to think you by no means my friend; and yet +you have devoted yourself to me for all these weeks! How can I be +sufficiently grateful for so much kindness?” + +“My presence has not been disagreeable to you?” faltered the guilty +watcher. + +“Disagreeable! I should be a wretch indeed if I were not grateful--if I +were not deeply touched by so much kindness. Your presence has been an +unspeakable comfort to me; your face has grown as familiar, and almost +as dear to me, as Uncle Dan’s. Forgive me for having ever thought +differently--for having misunderstood you so at Greenlands.” + +“Forgive me, Eustace,” said Mr. Jerningham, earnestly. + +“Forgive you! For what offence?” + +“Do not ask that question. Clasp my hand in yours, so, and say, ‘With +all my heart, I forgive you.’” + +The invalid stared in feeble wonder, but did not repulse the hand that +grasped his. + +“With all my heart, I forgive whatever wrong your prejudice may have +done me.” + +“It has been a deeper wrong than prejudice. Look at these two hands, +Eustace; none can deny the likeness there.” + +Again the invalid stared wonderingly at the speaker. + +“Look!” cried Mr. Jerningham, “look at these clasped hands.” + +Eustace looked at the two hands linked together. In every detail of +form and colour, the likeness between them was perfect. + +“Do you remember what De Bergerac said of us the first time we met at +his dinner-table?” asked Mr. Jerningham. + +“I remember his saying something about a resemblance between you and +me.” + +“A notion which you repudiated.” + +“I think it was you who first repudiated the idea,” said Eustace, with +a faint smile. + +“It is quite possible. I have been insanely jealous of you. But that is +over now. Do you know by what right I have watched by this bed? Do you +know why I persuaded your uncle to leave you, that I might watch alone?” + +“I can imagine no reason.” + +“The right which I claimed was the right of a father. Yes, Eustace, it +was on your father’s knees your head rested as we brought you home from +death. It is your father who has watched you day and night through this +weary illness.” + +“Oh, God!” cried Eustace, with a stifled groan. “Is this true?” + +“As true as that you and I are here, face to face.” + +“Do you know that I have sworn to hate you? For the man who broke +my mother’s heart I can never have any feeling but abhorrence. Your +kindness to me I reject and repudiate. We are natural enemies, and have +been from the hour in which I first learned the meaning of shame.” + +“I have heard you plead the cause of Christianity. Is this +Christianlike, Eustace?” + +“It is natural.” + +“And you say that Christianity is something higher than nature. Prove +it now to me, who have been something of a Pagan. Let me discover the +superiority of your creed to my vague Pantheism. Look at me! I, your +father, who have never knelt to mortal man, and but too seldom to God, +I kneel by your bed, and ask, in abject humility, to be forgiven. I +know that I cannot bring back the injured dead. I know that I cannot +atone for the past. But if that gentle spirit has found a quiet haven +whence she can look back to those she loved on earth, I _know_ it +would console her to see me forgiven. Judge me as if your mother stood +by your side.” + +“She would forgive you,” murmured Eustace; “God created her to suffer +and pardon.” + +“And will you refuse the pardon she would have granted? You forgave me +just now, when our hands were clasped in friendship. Do you think you +can recall that forgiveness? The words have been spoken. I have the +ancient belief in the power of spoken words. Eustace, am I to kneel in +vain to my only son?” + +The young man covered his face with his hands. He had sworn to hate +this man, his arch-enemy, and the enemy had taken base advantage of +his weakness, and had stolen his affection. This pale, worn face, worn +with the weary night-watches of the past six weeks, was not the face +of a foe. His mother--yes, she would have forgiven, and her wrongs +were greater than his. And if, from the Heaven her penitence had won, +she looked back to earth, it would grieve that gentle spirit to see +disunion here. + +There was a long pause, and then the son extended his hand to his +father. + +“For my mother’s wrongs I have hated you,” he said: “for her sake I +forgive you.” + +This was all. On the same day they travelled to Pendarvoch, and on that +night Eustace slept in the picturesque castle that sheltered Helen and +her father. All was harmony and affection. The invalid gained strength +rapidly, and spent his evenings in a long, panelled saloon, with his +father and his two friends. + +He told them now, for the first time, the story of that walk which +had so nearly cost him his life: how, finding the tide gaining upon +him as he neared the inlet of the cliffs, he had sought there some +means of reaching the heights above, and, finding none, had essayed to +clamber to the Saint’s Cave. This feat he had achieved, thanks to his +experience as a gymnast; but in the last desperate scramble into the +mouth of the cave he had broken his arm, and from the pain of this +injury he had fainted. Of the two nights and days which he had spent in +that narrow retreat, he remembered nothing distinctly. He had only a +vague sense of having suffered cold and hunger, and of being tormented, +almost to madness, by the perpetual roar of the waves, which had +seemed to thunder at the very mouth of the cavern, and to be for ever +threatening his destruction. + +For a month Eustace stayed at Pendarvoch, and during this time the +great poem appeared, and won from the press such speedy recognition and +kindly appreciation as would scarcely have been accorded to the work +of an unknown poet, if Daniel Mayfield and Mr. Jerningham had not both +exerted their utmost influence in its behalf. Daniel did, indeed, with +his own hand, write more than one of the notices which elevated his +nephew to a high rank among the younger poets. + +There remained now only the grand question of the new-found son’s +legitimation; but here Mr. Jerningham found himself obstinately +opposed. + +“I will accept your affection with all filial gratitude,” said Eustace; +“but I will take no pecuniary benefit from your hands, neither will I +accept a name which you refused to my mother.” + +“That is to make your wrongs irreparable.” + +“All such wrongs are irreparable.” + +Long, and often repeated, were the arguments held between the father +and son upon this subject. But Eustace was not to be moved by argument. +From this new-found father, he would receive nothing. For the rest, his +literary career had opened brightly, and the fruits of his poem enabled +him to enter himself at the Temple as a student of law. + +One day in June, Eustace came to Greenlands to renew his suit with M. +de Bergerac, by Mr. Jerningham’s advice, and this time found his suit +prosper. + +“Jerningham advises me to consult only my daughter’s heart,” said the +exile, “and that is yours.” + +Within a month of this interview there was a quiet wedding at the +little Berkshire church, in whose gloomy vault poor Emily Jerningham +slumbered--a ceremonial at which Daniel Mayfield shone radiant in an +expansive white waist-coat, and with moustache of freshest Tyrian dye. +Theodore de Bergerac gave his daughter to her husband; while Harold +Jerningham stood by, satisfied with his new _rôle_ of spectator. + +The bride and bridegroom began their honeymoon in a very unpretentious +manner in pleasant lodgings in Folkestone; but one day the bride +ventured to suggest that Folkestone was a place of which it was +possible for the human mind to grow weary. + +“If you would only take me to Switzerland?” Helen pleaded, with her +sweetest smile. + +“My dear love, you forget that, although the most fortunate of created +beings, we are, from the Continental innkeeper’s point of view, actual +paupers.” + +“Not quite, dear! There was one little circumstance that no one thought +it worth while to mention before our marriage; but perhaps it would be +as well for you to be informed of it now.” + +She handed to him a paper, of a legal and alarming appearance. + +It was a deed of gift, whereby Harold Jerningham, on the one part, +bestowed upon Helen de Bergerac, the daughter of his very dear friend, +Theodore de Bergerac, for the other part, funded property producing +something over three thousand a year. + +“Good heavens! he has cheated me after all!” cried Eustace. + +“He told us the story of your birth, dear; his own remorse, and your +noble repudiation of all gifts from him. And then he entreated me to +let some benefit from his wealth come to you indirectly through me.” + + +Another wedding, as quiet as the simple ceremony in Berkshire, took +place just twelve months after Mrs. Jerningham’s death. For a year +Lucy Alford had lived very quietly among her new friends at Harrow, +receiving sometimes a package of new books, and a brief, friendly note, +from the editor of the _Areopagus_, for the sole token that she +was not utterly forgotten by him. But one day he paid an unexpected +visit to the Harrow Parsonage, and finding Miss Alford alone in the +pretty garden, asked her to be his wife. Few words were needed for his +prayer. The sweet face, with its maiden blushes and downcast eyelids, +told him that he was still beloved, still the dearest, and wisest, and +greatest of earthly creatures in the sight of Lucy Alford. + + +While Eustace and his young wife wander, happy as children, amidst +Alpine mountains and by the margin of Alpine lakes, Harold Jerningham +schemes for his son’s future. + +“He shall have the Park Lane house, and go into Parliament,” resolves +the father. “All my old ambitions shall revive in him.” + +But scheme as he may, there is always the bitter taste of the ashes +which remain for the man who has plucked the Dead-Sea apples that hang +ripe and red above the path of life. + + + THE END. + + + J. Ogden and Co., Printers, 172, St. John Street, E.C. + + + + + =TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES= + +Simple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced +quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and +otherwise left unbalanced. + +Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a +predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they +were not changed. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76887 *** diff --git a/76887-h/76887-h.htm b/76887-h/76887-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..754542b --- /dev/null +++ b/76887-h/76887-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6814 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Dead-sea Fruit, Vol. III | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +/* General headers */ + +h1 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +/* General headers */ +h2 { + text-align: center; + font-weight: bold; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-indent: 1.5em; +} + +.nindc {text-align:center; text-indent:0;} + +.large {font-size: 125%;} + +.spa1 { + margin-top: 1em + } + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +.space-above2 { margin-top: 2em; } +.space-below2 { margin-bottom: 2em; } + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td { padding: 0.25em; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdc {text-align: center;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.right {text-align: right;} + + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + + +/* Images */ + +img {max-width: 100%; width: 100%; height: auto;} +.width500 {max-width: 500px;} +.x-ebookmaker .width500 {width: 100%;} + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} + + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76887 ***</div> + + +<figure class="figcenter width500" id="cover" style="width: 1600px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="1600" height="2602" alt="Leonard +faces the fatal cost of Carrington’s corrupt influence, as love, +betrayal, and ambition collide, leading to tragic consequences and +moral reckoning."> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>DEAD-SEA FRUIT</h1> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">A Novel</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2"> +<span class="allsmcap">BY THE AUTHOR OF</span></p> + +<p class="nindc"><span class="large">“LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET,”</span></p> + +<p class="nindc"><span class="allsmcap">ETC., ETC., ETC.</span></p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">IN THREE VOLUMES.</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">VOL. III.</p> + + +<figure class="figcenter width500" id="i002" style="width: 201px;"> +<img src="images/i002.jpg" width="201" height="200" alt="decorative"> +</figure> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">LONDON<br> +WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER +<span class="allsmcap">WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW</span> +1868.</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2"> +[<i>All rights reserved</i>]</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="nindc"> +<span class="allsmcap">LONDON:<br> +PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO.,<br> +172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.</span><br> +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS.</h2> +</div> + + +<figure class="figcenter width500" id="i001" style="width: 157px;"> + <img src="images/i001.jpg" width="157" height="30" alt="decorative"> +</figure> + + +<table class="autotable"> +<tbody><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">CHAP.</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">PAGE</span></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">I. VALE</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">II. “STILL FROM ONE SORROW TO ANOTHER THROWN”</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">III. LEFT ALONE</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">IV. THE MORLAND COUGH</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_46">46</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">V. LUCY’S FAREWELL TO THE STAGE</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">VI. “COULD LOVE PART THUS?”</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">VII. A SUMMER STORM</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">VIII. A FINAL INTERVIEW</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">IX. TIMELY BANISHMENT</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_158">158</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">X. SIT TIBI TERRA LEVIS</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">XI. HIDDEN HOPES</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">XII. NORTHWARD</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">XIII. HALKO’S HEAD</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_216">216</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">XIV. HOPELESS</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">XV. STRONGER THAN DEATH</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_298">298</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">XVI. RECONCILED</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_322">322</a></td> +</tr> +</tbody> +</table> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="DEAD-SEA_FRUIT">DEAD-SEA FRUIT.</h2> + + +<figure class="figcenter" id="i003" style="width: 151px;"> +<img src="images/i003.jpg" width="151" height="30" alt="decorative"> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<br> +VALE.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>“AT my own quarters trouble unutterable awaited me. While I had +amused myself with the more piquant society of Gulnare, my sad +sweet love—my Medora—had fled from her solitary bower. I found my +household gods shattered; and standing among their ruins, I was fain +to confess that I had deserved the stroke. She was gone. The poor +child had borne my absence so uncomplainingly that I had been almost +inclined to resent a patience that seemed like coldness. Had she been +more demonstrative—had her affection or her jealousy assumed a more +dramatic and soul-stirring form—it might have been better for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> both +of us. But the poor child locked all her feelings so closely in her +breast, that she had of late seemed to me the tamest and dullest of +womankind—an automaton with a woe-begone face.</p> + +<p>“The woman who waited upon her in that rude mountain home told me that +she was gone. She had gone out early in the day—soon after my own +departure—and had not been seen since that time. She had seen me in a +carriage with a strange lady, and had, by some means, possessed herself +of the secret of my visits to the lodge in the valley. This very woman +had, perhaps, been C.’s informant, though she stoutly denied the fact +when I taxed her with it.</p> + +<p>“She was gone. It mattered little how she had obtained the information +that had prompted her to this mad act. For some minutes I stood +motionless on the spot where I had heard these tidings, powerless to +decide what I ought to do. And then, sudden as a shaft of Apollo the +destroyer, there darted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> into my brain the idea of suicide. That poor +benighted child had left her cheerless home to destroy herself.</p> + +<p>“I rushed from the house, pausing only to bid the woman send her +husband after me with a lantern and a rope. What I was going to do I +knew not. My first impulse was to seek her myself, along that desolate +coast. She might wander for hours by the sea she loved so well, +shrinking from that cold refuge, loth to fling herself into the strong +arms of that stern lover for whom she would fain forsake me.</p> + +<p>“I waited only till I saw D. emerge with his dimly-twinkling light, +called to him to follow me, and then ran down the craggy winding +way—the Devil’s Staircase—to the sands below.</p> + +<p>“And then I remembered the heights above me—the little classic temple +in which we had so often sat—and I shivered as I thought what a +fearful leap madness might take from that rocky headland. I had told C. +the story of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> Sappho,—of course giving her the ideal Sappho of modern +poesy, and not the flaunting, wine-bibbing, strong-minded, wrong-minded +Mitylenean lady of Attic comedy,—and we had agreed that Phaon—if +indeed there ever existed such a person—was a monster.</p> + +<p>“As I hurried along those lonely sands, dark with the shadows of the +heights above, I remembered the soft spring sunset in which I had +related the well-worn fable, and I could almost feel my love’s little +hand clinging tenderly to my arm—the hand whose gentle touch I never +was to feel again.</p> + +<p>“I will not excruciate thee, reader, or bore thee, as the case may be, +by one of those prolonged intervals of suspense whereby the venal hack +of the Minerva Press would attempt to harrow thy feelings, and eke out +his tale of strawless brick. For thee, too, life has had its fond hopes +and idle dreams, its bitter disappointments, chilling disillusions, +dark hours of remorse.</p> + +<p>“Enough that in this crisis I suffered—suffered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> as I have never +suffered since that day. My search was in vain; nor were the efforts of +the men whom I sent in all directions of the coast—by the cliff and +by the sands—of more avail. For two days and two nights I suffered +the tortures of Cain. I told myself that this girl’s blood was upon +my head; and if, in that hour when the thought of her untimely death +was so keen and unendurable an agony, she could have appeared suddenly +before me, I think I should have thrown myself at her feet and offered +her the devotion of my life, the legal right to bear my name.</p> + +<p>“She did not so appear, and the hour passed. Upon the third morning, +after a delay that had seemed an eternity of torture, the post brought +me a letter from C. She was at E——, whither she had gone, after long +brooding upon my inconstancy.</p> + +<p>‘I will not try to tell you all I have suffered,’ she wrote; ‘my most +passionate words would seem to you cold and meaningless when measured +against those Greek poets whose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> verse is your standard for every +feeling. I will only say you have broken my heart. My story begins and +ends in that one sentence. There must come an end even to such worship +as mine. Oh! H., you have been very cruel to me! I have seen you with +the beautiful foreign lady, whose society has been pleasanter to you +than mine. Your carriage drove past me one day, as I stood half-hidden +by the bushes upon a sloping bank above the road, and I heard her +joyous laugh, and saw your head bent over her long dark ringlets, and +knew that you were happy with her.</p> + +<p>‘From the hour in which I discovered how utterly you had deceived me, +my life has been one continued struggle with despair. You do not know +how I loved those whom I left for your sake. In all the passion and +pain of your Greek poetry, I doubt if there is a sentence strong enough +to express the agony that I feel when I think of those dear friends, +and stretch out my arms to them across the gulf that yawns between +us. You read me a description<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> of the ghosts in the dark under-world +one day, before you had grown too weary of me to let me share your +thoughts. I feel like those ghosts, H.</p> + +<p>‘Why should I tire you with a long letter? I leave you free to find +happiness with the lady whose name even I do not know.</p> + +<p>‘Perhaps some day, when you are growing old, and have become weary of +all the pleasures upon earth, you will think a little more tenderly +of her who thought it a small thing to peril her soul in the hope of +giving you happiness, and who awoke from her fond, foolish dream, to +find, with anguish unspeakable, that the sacrifice had been as vain as +it was wicked.’</p> + +<p>“This letter melted me; and yet I was inclined to be angry with C. for +the unnecessary pain her abrupt disappearance had inflicted upon me. I +was divided between this feeling and the relief of mind afforded by the +knowledge that my folly had not resulted in any fatal event. She had +gone to E—— in a fit of jealousy, and she favoured me with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> usual +feminine reproaches so natural to the narrow female intellect—imagine +a <i>man</i> reminding his friend at every turn of the sacrifices he +had made for friendship!—and she sent me the address of that humble +inn where she had taken up her abode, and of course expected me to +hasten thither as fast as post-horses could convey me.</p> + +<p>“Nothing could be more hackneyed than the end of the little romance. +I will not say that I was capable of feeling disappointed because the +poor child had not drowned herself; but I confess that this commonplace +turn which the affair had taken, grated on my sense of the poetical. +It is possible that I had indeed learnt to measure everything by the +standard of Greek verse; certain it is that it seemed a sinking in +poetry to descend from Sappho’s fatal leap to a commercial-travellers’ +tavern at E——.</p> + +<p>‘I will start for E—— to-morrow morning,’ I said to myself; but +without enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“Had I rescued my love from all-devouring ocean—had I found her +wandering half-crazed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> upon the mountains, like that lorn maiden whom +even savage beasts compassionated, when she roamed disconsolate, crying,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Tall grow the forest trees, O Menalcas,’—</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>I think I should have taken her to my heart of hearts, and sacrificed +my freedom to secure her happiness. But this departure for E——, and +the long reproachful letter, savoured of calculation; and against the +manœuvres of feminine diplomacy I wore the armour of experience.</p> + +<p>“I ordered post-horses for the following morning, and then set off +in the direction of my friend’s hunting-lodge. ‘My bosom’s lord sat +lightly on his throne,’ relieved from the burden of a great terror; but +poor C.’s dreary letter was not calculated to put me in high spirits, +and I hastened to refresh myself with the society of the sparkling +Carlitz.</p> + +<p>“I languished for the frivolous talk of people and places I knew—the +<i>olla-podrida</i> of sentiments and fancies, facts and fictions, +spiced with that dash of originality, or at the least audacity, +wherewith an accomplished woman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> of the world flavours her small-talk. +Lightly and swiftly I trod the hill-side, pleased when the blue smoke +curling from the familiar chimneys met my eager eyes.</p> + +<p>‘Is it possible that I am in love with this woman?’ I asked myself, +wonderingly.</p> + +<p>“And then I remembered my despair and terror of yesterday, and the fond +regret with which I had thought of poor C., yearning to clasp her to my +heart, to promise eternal fidelity.</p> + +<p>“The hour had passed. I tried in vain to recall the feeling. I felt +that it was more worthy of me than the fickle fancy which led me to the +feet of Madame Carlitz; but man is the creature of circumstance, and my +best feelings had been <i>froissé</i> by the conventional aspect which +C.’s flight had assumed.</p> + +<p>“A deep-mouthed thunder greeted me as I entered E. T.’s domain, the +bass bow-wowing of some canine monster.</p> + +<p>‘What new fancy?’ I asked myself, as a huge mastiff ran out at me, and +made as if he would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> have rent me limb from limb. I was half inclined +to seat myself on the ground, after the example of Ulysses, and the +accomplished Mure of Cladwell; but before the creature could commence +operations a familiar voice called to him, and E. T. himself emerged +from the porch.</p> + +<p>‘My dear H.,’ he exclaimed, ‘what an unexpected felicity! I thought you +were at Vienna.’</p> + +<p>‘Indeed! I cried, somewhat piqued. ‘Has not Madame Carlitz told you of +my whereabouts?’</p> + +<p>‘I have not seen her.’</p> + +<p>‘You have not seen her!’ I exclaimed, in utter bewilderment.</p> + +<p>‘No. Madame left yesterday morning with Mr. and Mrs. H. I only arrived +last night. Come indoors, old fellow, and let us hear your adventures +since our last meeting.</p> + +<p>“I followed my friend across the little hall into the bare, +tobacco-scented, bachelor sitting-room. The enchanter’s wand had been +waived a second time, and the fairy vision had melted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> into thin air. +Tiny dogs, dainty and fragile as animated Dresden china, ribbon-adorned +guitar, satin-lined work-baskets, velvet-bound blotting-books, +<i>déjeûners</i> in old Vienna porcelain, card-bowl of priceless +Worcester, leopard-skins, lounging-chairs, <i>portière</i>, and +French prints had vanished; and in the place which these frivolities +had embellished, I beheld the bare battered writing-table and shabby +smoking-apparatus of my reckless friend, who stood with his arms +a-kimbo, and a tawny-hided bull-dog between his legs, grinning—man and +dog both, as it seemed to me—at my discomfiture.</p> + +<p>‘What!’ cried E., ‘it was for the divine Carlitz your visit was +intended? My shepherd told me there had been a fine London gentleman +hanging about the place while madame and her following were here; but +he could not tell me the fine gentleman’s name, and I little thought +you were he. Come, my dear boy, fill yourself a pipe, and let’s talk +over old times. You’ve been buried among your dryasdust books, I +suppose, while I have been scouring<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> Northern Europe in pursuit of the +rapid reindeer and the sulky salmon.’</p> + +<p>‘We’ll talk as much as you like presently,’ I replied, ‘but just let +me understand matters first. When I left madame and the H.’s the other +night, it was understood they were to remain here some time longer. +What took her to town?—is the Bonbonnière season to begin?’</p> + +<p>‘The Bonbonnière! My dear friend, this is really dreadful. The +lamentable state of ignorance which results from the cultivation of +polite learning is, to a plain man, something astounding. Learn, my +benighted recluse, that the Bonbonnière Theatre will be opened for +the performance of the legitimate drama early next month by the great +Mackenzie, who inaugurates his season with the thrilling tragedy +of <i>Coriolanus</i>, so interesting to the youthful mind from its +association with the pleasing studies of boyhood. Madame Carlitz has +sold her lease of the pretty little theatre; and on very advantageous +terms, I assure you.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> + +<p>‘She has sold her lease! Does she intend to leave the stage, or to take +a larger theatre?’</p> + +<p>‘She intends to do neither the one nor the other. She appears on a +grander stage, and in an entirely new character. She is going to marry +Lord V.’</p> + +<p>‘Impossible!’</p> + +<p>‘An established fact, my dear boy. The noble earl, as the fashionable +journalists call him, has been nibbling at the enchantress’s bait +for the last twelve months—rather a difficult customer to land, +you know—turned sulky when he felt the hook in his jaw, and got +away among the rushes; but Carlitz used her gaff, and brought him +to land. And now the talk of the town is their impending union. The +great ladies <i>de par le monde</i> intend to cut her, I believe; but +Carlitz has announced her intention of taking the initiative, and +cutting <i>them</i>. “I shall cultivate the foreign legations,” she +told little J. C. of the F. O., “and make myself independent of our +home nobility.” And, egad, she is capable of doing it! She is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> like +Robespierre,—<i>elle ira loin</i>,—because she believes in herself.’</p> + +<p>‘But Carlitz!’ I gasped; ‘has she got a divorce?’</p> + +<p>‘My benighted friend, the decease of M. Carlitz, or Don Estephan +Carlitz, of the Spanish wine-trade, is an event as notorious in modern +history as the demise of that respectable sovereign, Queen Anne. He +died three months ago at the Cape, whence it was his habit to import +that choice Amontillado in which he dealt. Madame was prompt to improve +the occasion offered by her widowhood; but I have heard it whispered +that the noble earl made it a condition that she should clear herself +of debt before—to continue the fashionable journalist’s phrase—he led +her to the hymeneal altar. Of course you are aware that the noble earl +is amongst the meanest of mankind.’</p> + +<p>“Yes, I knew V., a little middle-aged man, suspected of wearing a +wig, and renowned for harmless eccentricities in the way of amateur +coach-building. Alas, what perfidy! Those<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> bright, sympathetic glances, +those tender smiles, those low tremulous tones, had been all a part of +one coldly-calculated design—the ladylike extortion of so much ready +money from the pockets of weak, adoring youth. The divine Estelle had +been all this time the plighted wife of Lord V., and had traded upon my +admiration in order to secure the means of purchasing a coronet.</p> + +<p>“I burst into a savage laugh, and when E. pressed me with questions, +I told him the whole story. He, too, laughed aloud, but with evident +enjoyment. And then he told me how my wily enchantress had borrowed his +rustic retreat, and had come to these remote fastnesses in order to +exasperate poor vacillating V. into a tangible offer, and how she had +succeeded.</p> + +<p>‘I was staying with another fellow further south,’ said my friend, ‘and +received a few lines from madame the day before yesterday, resigning +possession of my shanty, and announcing her approaching espousals; “you +must come for the shooting at the Towers next<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> autumn,” she said, in +her postscript. Begins to patronize already, you see.’</p> + +<p>“After this E. insisted on detaining me to dine with him. Our dinner +was ill-cooked, ill-served; and my friend’s conversation was a mixture +of London gossip and Norwegian sporting experiences. How I loathed the +empty, vapid talk! How I envied this mindless animal his barbarous +pleasure in the extermination of other animals, little inferior to +himself! I went back to my own quarters in a savage humour, and it +seemed to me that my anger included all womankind.</p> + +<p>‘I have been fooled and deluded by one woman,’ I said to myself; ‘I +will not give myself a prey into the hands of another. C. has chosen to +inaugurate our separation. I will not attempt to reverse her decision. +My duty I am prepared to do; but I will do no more.’</p> + +<p>“Thus resolved, I seated myself at my rough study-table, and wrote a +long letter to C.—a very serious, and I think a sufficiently kind,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> +letter—in which I set forth the state of my own feelings. ‘I had hoped +that we should find perfect happiness in each other’s society,’ I +wrote, in conclusion; ‘I need scarcely tell you that hope has been most +cruelly disappointed. You were the first to show that our happiness was +an impossibility. You have been the first to sever the tie which I had +fondly believed would be lasting. I accept your decision; but I do not +consider myself absolved from the duty of providing for your future. +For myself, I shall leave Europe for a wilder and more interesting +hemisphere, where I shall endeavour to find forgetfulness of the bitter +disappointments that have befallen me here.’</p> + +<p>“I then told C. how I designed immediately to open an account for her +at a certain bank, upon which she would be at liberty to draw at the +rate of four hundred a year.</p> + +<p>‘Have no fear for the future,’ I wrote; ‘a lady with a settled income +of four hundred a year can find friends in any quarter of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> globe, +and need never be troubled with impertinent inquiries about her +antecedents. I shall always be glad to hear of your welfare; and if you +will keep me acquainted with your whereabouts—letters addressed to the +“Travellers” will always reach me—I shall make a point of seeking you +out on my return to England.’</p> + +<p>“This letter I despatched, and the chaise that was to have taken me to +E—— took me to London, where I made the necessary arrangements with +my banker, and whence I departed for a tour of exploration in South +America.</p> + +<p>“It was after two years’ absence that I returned to discover that the +account opened in C.’s name had never been drawn upon. And thus ended +the story that had opened like an idyll. I have sometimes feared that +an unhappy fate must have overtaken this poor foolish girl, and my +recollection of her is not unmixed with remorse. But I have reflected +that it was more likely her beauty had secured her an advantageous +marriage, and that she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> was unable to avail herself of the provision I +had made for her.</p> + +<p>“I instituted a careful inquiry, in the hope of discovering her fate, +but without result. Her parents at B—— were both dead—strange +fatality!—and from no other source could I obtain tidings of my poor +C. M. Thus ended my brief, broken love-story. It was with a feeling of +relief that I told myself it had thus ended; for I could but remember +that the course of events might have taken a very different turn, and +one for me most embarrassing.</p> + +<p>“If C. had been a woman of the world, or if she had fallen into the +hands of some legal adventurer, I might have found myself fixed with +a wife, and bound by a chain not to be broken on this side the grave. +As it is, I retain my freedom, and only in my most pensive and sombre +hours does the pale shadow of that half-forgotten love arise before me, +gently reproachful.</p> + +<p>“And in these rare intervals of life’s busy conflict, when the press +and hurry give pause,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> and I sit alone in my tent, the words of the +poor child’s letter come back to me with a strange significance. +<i>Perhaps some day, when you are growing old and have become weary of +all the pleasures upon earth, you will think a little more tenderly +of her who thought it a small thing to peril her soul in the hope of +giving you happiness.</i></p> + +<p>“Life’s intricate journey has so many crossroads. Who can tell whether +he has not sometimes taken the wrong turning? Should I have been +happier if I had given G. a legal right to bore me for the remainder +of my existence? Happier! For me there is no such possibility. To be +happier, a man must first be happy; and happiness is a bright phantom +which I have vainly pursued for the last fifteen years. I should at +best have been differently miserable.</p> + +<p>“I am still free, and I meet the lovely Lady V. in that seventh heaven +of the great world to which she has contrived to push her way, and she +gives me a patronizing smile and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> a lofty inclination of her beautiful +head; and it is tacitly agreed between us that our rambles and picnics +beneath the snow-clad hills are to be as the dreams of days that never +were.”</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +Here the <i>Disappointments of Dion</i> lost its chief interest for +Eustace Thorburn, for here the record of his mother’s hapless love +ended. Beyond this, and to the very close, he had read the book +carefully, weighing every sentence, for it was the epitome of his +father’s character. In every line there was egotism, in every page the +confession of energies and talents wasted in the pursuit of personal +gratification. For ever and for ever, the weary wretch pursues the +same worthless prize—the prize more difficult of attainment than the +new world of a Columbus, or the new planet of a Herschel. With less +pains a man might achieve a result that would be a lasting heritage for +his fellow-men, and might die with the proud boast of Ulysses on his +lips—“I am become a name!”</p> + +<p>Through fair and sunny Italy; in wild Norseland;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> in the granite and +marble palaces of St. Petersburg; nay, beyond Caucasian mounts and +valleys; amid the ruins of Persepolis; across the sandy wastes, and +by the snow-clad mountains of Afghanistan; deep into the heart of +Hindustan,—the worldling had pursued his phantom prey; and everywhere, +in civilized city or in tiger-haunted jungle, the hunter after +happiness found only disappointment.</p> + +<p>“A tiger-hunt is the dreariest thing imaginable,” he wrote; “it is +all waiting and watching, and prowling and lurking behind bushes; a +dastardly, sneaking business, which makes one feel more ignoble than +the tiger. For genuine excitement the race for the Derby is better; and +a man can enjoy a fever of expectation at Epsom which he cannot equal +in Bengal.”</p> + +<p>And anon; “That most musical and meretricious of poets, Thomas Moore, +has a great deal to answer for. I have been all through the East in +search of his Light of the Harem, and have found only darkness, or the +merest rushlights,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> the faintest twinkling tapers that ever glimmered +through their brief span. And so I return disappointed from the Eastern +world, to seek new disappointments in the West.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.<br> +“STILL FROM ONE SORROW TO ANOTHER THROWN.”</h2> +</div> + + +<p>EUSTACE closed the book with a sigh—a sigh for the father he had never +known, the father who had never known his birth; a sigh for the mother +whose life had been sacrificed on so poor an altar. He had been reading +for some hours with very little consciousness of the passage of time.</p> + +<p>“You seem to be interested in that book, Mr. Thorburn,” said a familiar +voice from the bank above him.</p> + +<p>He started to his feet, dropped his book, turned, and looked up at +the speaker. The voice was the voice of Harold Jerningham; and that +gentleman was standing on the bank, pointing downward at the fallen +book with the tip of his extended cane, as he might have pointed to +some creature of the reptile tribe.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> + +<p>“You startled me a little, Mr. Jerningham,” said Eustace, as he stooped +to pick up the book.</p> + +<p>“Your study must have been deeply interesting to you, or you could +scarcely have been so unconscious of my footsteps. Permit me.” He +took the volume from the young man’s hand and turned the leaves +listlessly. “One of your favourite dialogues, I suppose? No; an English +novel. <i>Dion! Dion?</i> I have some recollection of a book called +<i>Dion</i>. What a very shabby person he looks after the lapse of +years! Really, the authors of that time suffered some disadvantage +at the hands of their publishers. What dismal gray binding! what +meagre-looking type! The very paper has a musty odour. And you are +deeply interested in <i>Dion</i>?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I am deeply interested.”</p> + +<p>“The book strikes you as powerful?”</p> + +<p>“No. The writer strikes me as a consummate scoundrel.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham smiled, a faint smile. His smiles were for the most part +faint and wan,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> like the smiles of a wandering spirit in the house of +Hades.</p> + +<p>“Do not be so energetic in your denunciation, Mr. Thorburn,” he said, +quietly. “The man who wrote <i>Dion</i> was as other men of his +time—just a little selfish, perhaps, and anxious to travel on the +sunny side of the great highway.”</p> + +<p>“Did you know him?” asked Eustace, with sudden eagerness.</p> + +<p>“Not the least in the world. But I know his book. People talked of it a +little at the time, and there was some discussion about the authorship; +all kinds of improbable persons were suggested. Yes; it all comes back +to me as I look at the pages. A very poor book; stilted, affected, +coxcombical. What a fool the man must have been to print such a piece +of egotism!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. It seems strange that any man could publish a book for the +purpose of proclaiming himself a villain.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all. But it is strange that a man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> can give his villany to +the world in a <i>poor</i> book—a book not containing one element of +literary success; and that he should take the trouble of writing all +this. Yes, it is very strange. An indolent kind of man, too—as one +would imagine from the book. A very feeble book! I see a wrong tense +here in a Latin quotation. The man did not even know his Catullus. +Thanks.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham returned the volume with a graceful listlessness and +with a half-regretful sigh, as if it wearied him even to remember so +feeble a book. He strolled away, leaving Eustace wondering that he +should have fallen across a man who was familiar with his father’s +book, and who in person resembled his father.</p> + +<p>“If Mr. Jerningham had written his own biography, it might have been +something like this book,” he said to himself. And then another +IF—stupendous, terrible—presented itself to his mind.</p> + +<p>But this he dismissed as an absurd and groundless fancy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span></p> + +<p>“What accident is more common than such a likeness as that +between us two?” he asked of himself. “The world is full of such +half-resemblances, to say nothing of the Lesurges and Debosques who are +guillotined in mistake for one another.”</p> + +<p>He left the seat on the river-bank, and strolled slowly homeward by a +different path from that Mr. Jerningham had taken.</p> + +<p>His reperusal of the book had been upon one point conclusive to him. +The few details of the scene had told him at first that it had been +laid in the British dominions. Reflection convinced him that Scotland +was the locality of that solitary mountain habitation where his +mother’s sad days had been spent.</p> + +<p><i>This</i> had been Celia’s unknown power. This habitation upon +Scottish soil was the hold which she had possessed over her lover. In +the character of his wife he had brought her to Scotland, and there +had made his domicile with her during a period of several months; and +by the right of that Scottish home, that open acknowledgment,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> she +<i>was</i> his wife. She had fled from him, unconscious of this. But +if she had been conscious of this power, her son told himself that she +would have been too noble to use it; too proud to call herself a wife +by favour of a legal quibble.</p> + +<p>“I will talk it over with Uncle Dan,” Eustace said to himself; “and if +he and I are agreed upon the subject, I will go to Scotland and hunt +out the scene, supposing that to be possible from so slight a clue as +this book will give us.”</p> + +<p>He knew that by the law of Scotland he was in all probability +legitimatized; but not for the wealth of Scotland would he have sought +to establish such a claim upon that nameless father, whom of all men +that ever lived upon this earth he most despised.</p> + +<p>“He abandoned her to lonely self-upbraiding, long, dreary days of +remorse, humiliation, sorrow past all comfort—the thought of the +sorrow her sin had wrought for those she loved. He let her bear this +bitter burden without one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> effort to lighten or to share it. He +deserted the woman he had destroyed, because—she did not amuse him. +Is this what wealth, and polite letters, and civilization make of a +man? God forbid! Such a man should have worn imperial purple, and died +the imperator’s common death in the days of Rome’s decadence. He is an +anachronism in a Christian age.”</p> + +<p>He walked slowly back to the cottage, where he had but just time to +dress for dinner. The evening passed quietly. Of the four people +assembled in M. de Bergerac’s drawing room, three were singularly quiet +and thoughtful.</p> + +<p>The summer dusk favoured silent meditation. Mr. Jerningham sat apart +in a garden-chair under the long, rustic verandah, half-curtained with +trailing branches of clematis and honeysuckle; Eustace sat in the +darkest corner of the low drawing-room, where Helen occupied herself in +playing dreamy German melodies upon her piano. M. de Bergerac strolled +up and down before the lawn, stopping every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> now and then to say +something to his friend Harold Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“How silent and thoughtful we are to-night!” he cried at last, after +having received more than one random answer from the master of +Greenlands. “One would think you had seen a ghost, Harold; your eyes +are fixed, like the eyes of Brutus at Philippi, or of Agamemnon when +the warning shade of Achilles appeared to him, before the sailing of +the ship that was to take him home—to death. What is the phantom at +which you gaze with eyes of gloom?”</p> + +<p>“The ghost of the Past,” answered Mr. Jerningham, as he rose to join +his friend. “Not to Lot’s wife alone is it fatal to look back. I have +been looking back to-day, Theodore.”</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +Within, all was silent except the piano, softly touched by slow, gentle +hands, that stole along the keys in a languid, legato movement.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span></p> + +<p>The player wondered at the change which had come upon her companion and +fellow-student, and wondered to find the change in him so keen a sorrow +to herself.</p> + +<p>Very gloomy were the thoughts of Eustace as he sat in his dark corner, +with closed eyes, and hands clasped above his head.</p> + +<p>“How dare I tell him who and what I am, and then ask for the hand of +his only daughter? Can I hope that even his simplicity will pardon such +a family history as that which I must tell?”</p> + +<p>All through the dark hours of that midsummer night he lay awake, +brooding over the pages he had read, and thinking of the stain upon +his name. To an older man, steeped in the hard wisdom of the world, +the stigma would have been a lesser agony. He would have counted over +to himself the list of great names made by the men who bore them, and +would have found for himself crumbs of comfort. But for Eustace there +was none. He had set up his divinity, and it seemed to him that only<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> +the richest tribute could be offered upon a shrine so pure.</p> + +<p>His thoughts deepened in gloom as the night waned, until the fever in +his mind assumed the force of inspiration. Rash and impetuous as youth +and poetry, he resolved that for him hope there was none, except far +a-field of this Arcadian dwelling.</p> + +<p>“Shall I offer myself, nameless, in order to be refused?” he asked. +“No. I will leave this too dear home, and go out into the world to make +myself a name among modern poets before I ask confession or promise of +Helen de Bergerac.”</p> + +<p>To make himself a name among modern poets! The dream was a bold one. +But the dreamer told himself that the ladder of Fame is sometimes +mounted with a rush, and that for the successful writer of magazine +lyrics it needs but a year or so of isolation and concentrated labour, +a year or so of fervent devotion in the temple of Apollo, a year +or so of poetic quietism, to accomplish the one great<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> work which +shall transform the graceful singer of modern Horatian odes into the +world-renowned poet.</p> + +<p>“I will tear myself away from this place before the week is out,” he +said, with resolution that made the words a vow; “’tis too bright, too +beautiful, too happy, and is dangerous as Armida’s garden for the man +who would fain serve apprenticeship to the Muses.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.<br> +LEFT ALONE.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>WHILE Mr. Jerningham dawdled away existence among the woods and hills +of Berkshire, his wife’s life was marked by changes more eventful, and +ruffled by deeper passions.</p> + +<p>To Lucy Alford the lady of River Lawn had shown herself a kind and +generous friend. Not long had the poor child enjoyed the luxurious +quiet of the Hampton villa when she was suddenly summoned away from it. +Mr. Desmond had managed her father’s affairs and pacified her father’s +creditors; with what pecuniary sacrifice was only known to himself. But +a sterner gaoler than the warder of Whitecross Street lay in wait for +Lucy’s father, ready to stretch forth the icy hand that was to arrest +that battered and broken wayfarer.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span></p> + +<p>Debts and difficulties, disappointments and humiliations, with constant +habits of inebriation, had done their fatal work for Tristram Alford. +’Twas but a poor wreck of humanity which emerged from the dreary city +prison, when Laurence told his old tutor that he was free. The old man +had suffered from one paralytic seizure long ago, in his better days +of private tutorship. He had a second seizure in the Whitecross Street +ward, but made light of the attack; and although he knew himself to be +a wreck, was happily unconscious how near was the hour of his sinking.</p> + +<p>Lucy returned to the dreary Islington lodgings, to find her father +strangely, nay, indeed, alarmingly, altered. She wrote to Mrs. +Jerningham to tell her fears, and Emily made haste to send a physician +to see the invalid. The physician shook his head despondently, but +recommended rest and change of air. These, with the aid of Mrs. +Jerningham’s ample purse, were easily procured, and Lucy and her father +were despatched to Ventnor.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> + +<p>Laurence saw the physician, and asked for a candid opinion upon +Tristram Alford’s state.</p> + +<p>“The man is a habitual drunkard,” replied the doctor, “and has +evidently been killing himself with brandy for the last ten years. If +you take the brandy-bottle away from him, he will die; if you let him +go on drinking, he will die. The case is beyond a cure. The man’s brain +is alcoholized. His next attack must be fatal.”</p> + +<p>Having once enlisted Mrs. Jerningham’s friendship for Lucy Alford, Mr. +Desmond felt that the young lady’s fortunes had passed out of his care. +Already Emily had shown herself so kind and generous that it would have +been base ingratitude to doubt her charity in every new emergency. He +therefore held himself aloof from Lucy and her father, and only from +Mrs. Jerningham did he hear how it fared with the girl in whose fate he +had taken so benevolent an interest. But while he made no overt attempt +to comfort or assist her in the hour of trial and trouble, he thought +of her,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> and pitied her, with a constancy that was at once perplexing +and unpleasing to his own mind.</p> + +<p>“Poor little thing!” he said to himself, when he thought of the +motherless girl watching the fading hours of her sole protector. And +he wondered to perceive how much tenderness it was possible to infuse +into those three common words. “Poor little thing! Tristram Alford +cannot last many weeks—that is certain. And then—and then? She will +be left quite alone in the world. And she must suppress all sign of her +natural grief, and enact one of <i>those ladies</i>—ever so slightly +expurgated—in <i>Côtelettes sautées chez Véfour</i>. What a dreary +present! what a hopeless future!”</p> + +<p>And at this point Mr. Desmond would dig his pen savagely into the +paper, destroy the quill of an unoffending goose, and fling it from him +in a sudden rage.</p> + +<p>“What is it to me?” he asked himself. “There are hundreds of friendless +girls in London for whom the future is as hopeless.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> Am I going to turn +Quixote, and ride a tilt against the windmills of modern civilization?”</p> + +<p>One morning in February the editor of the <i>Areopagus</i> found +an envelope edged with deepest black upon his breakfast-table. It +contained a brief despairing scrawl from Lucy, smeared and blotted with +many tears. Death had claimed his victim. The third seizure had come, +and all was over.</p> + +<p>“I cannot tell you how kind Mrs. Jerningham has been,” wrote the +mourner; “all is arranged for the funeral. It is to take place on +Friday. My poor dear will rest in a pleasant spot. It is very hard to +bear this parting; but I think it would have seemed harder to me if he +had died in London.” And then followed little pious sentences, in which +faith struggled with despair.</p> + +<p>“He was always good and kind,” she wrote; “I cannot recall one cross +word from his dear lips. He did not go to church so regularly as +religious people think right; but he was very good. He read the Bible +sometimes, and cried<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> over it; and wherever we lodged, the little +children loved him. It was not in his nature to be harsh or unkind. May +God teach me to be as good and gentle as he was, and grant that we may +meet some day in a happier world!”</p> + +<p>“The funeral is to be on Friday,” repeated Mr. Desmond, when he had +folded and put away the letter. He was on the point of endorsing it +with the rest of his correspondence, but changed his mind, and laid it +gently aside in a drawer of his desk. “Not amongst tradesmen’s lies, +and samples of double-crown, and contributors’ complaints,” he said. +“On Friday? Yes; I will attend my poor old tutor’s funeral. It will +comfort her to think that <i>one</i> friend followed him to his grave.”</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +Early on the appointed morning, Mr. Desmond knocked at the door of the +Ventnor lodging-house.</p> + +<p>“Miss Alford is at home, of course,” he said to the maid. “Be so good +as to take her this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> card, and tell her that I have come to attend the +funeral, but will not intrude upon her.”</p> + +<p>He spoke in a low voice; but those cautious, suppressed tones are of +all accents the most penetrating. The door of the parlour was opened +softly, and Mrs. Jerningham came out into the passage.</p> + +<p>“I recognized your voice,” she said. “How very good of you to come!”</p> + +<p>“Not at all. But how good of <i>you</i> to come! I had no idea that I +should meet you here.”</p> + +<p>“And I was quite sure that I should meet <i>you</i> here,” replied +Emily, with the faintest possible sneer.</p> + +<p>“Is Lucy in that room?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I do not want to see her. I wished to show my regard for that poor +old man. I spent many pleasant days under his roof, and he has made +so lonely an ending. It is very good of you to come, Emily; and your +presence here relieves me very much with regard to that poor girl’s +future. I do not think you would be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> here if you were not really +interested in her.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Laurence; I am really interested in—your <i>protégée</i>.”</p> + +<p>“She is not my <i>protégée</i>; but I wish you to make her yours, +because I scarcely think you could find a creature more in need of your +charity. Poor child! she is very much distressed, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“For the moment she is heart-broken. I shall take her away from here +this evening.”</p> + +<p>“My dear Emily, I knew I was safe in relying on your noble nature!” +exclaimed the editor, with enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“For pity’s sake, do not be so grateful. I have done no more than I +would for any other helpless woman whom fate flung across my path. +In the whole affair there is only one element that makes the act a +sacrifice.”</p> + +<p>“And that is——?”</p> + +<p>“What only a woman can feel or understand. Pray, do not let us talk +about it. The funeral will not take place for an hour.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> + +<p>“I will go and get a band for my hat, and return here for the ceremony. +There will be one mourning-coach, I suppose.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. The doctor has kindly promised to act as chief mourner. There is +no one else.”</p> + +<p>“Poor Tristram! If you only knew that man’s appreciation of Greek; +and Greek is the only language which requires a special genius in the +scholar. And to die like this!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond departed to get his hat bound with the insignia of grief. +Mrs. Jerningham went back to the parlour, where the orphan sat with +listless hands loosely locked, and vacant, tearless eyes, lost in a +stupor of grief. But even in this stupor she had recognized the voice +of her dead father’s only friend.</p> + +<p>“Was not that Mr. Desmond in the passage just now?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes; he has come down to attend his old friend’s funeral.”</p> + +<p>“How good of him! How kind you both are to me!” murmured Lucy. “Oh, +believe me, I am grateful. And yet, dear Mrs. Jerningham,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> I feel as if +it would be better for me to be going to lie by <i>his</i> side in that +peaceful grave.”</p> + +<p>“No, Lucy. Your life is all to come. You have known sorrow and trouble; +but you have not drained the cup of happiness only to find the +bitterness of the draught. <i>That</i> is real despair. You have not +outlived your hopes, and your dreams and your faith—nay, indeed, your +very self—as I have.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.<br> +THE MORLAND COUGH.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>LAURENCE DESMOND heard the sublimely solemn service read above his old +tutor’s coffin, and left Ventnor without seeing Lucy Alford. Again and +again he told himself that with the orphan girl’s future fate he had +no concern. He had given her a good friend—and a friend of her own +sex—who would doubtless afford her help and protection, directly or +indirectly, in the future.</p> + +<p>“She has passed out of my life,” he said to himself; “poor little +thing! Let me forget that I ever saw her.”</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +When Mr. Desmond paid his next visit to River Lawn he found Lucy +comfortably installed there, and looking pale as the snowdrops in her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> +simple mourning. She said a few tremulous words in answer to his gentle +greeting, and then left the room.</p> + +<p>“She does not like to talk of her father,” Mrs. Jerningham said, when +she was gone; “and I dare say she has run away to escape your possible +condolences. He seems on the whole to have been rather a worthless +person, but she mourns him as if he had been a saint. ‘We were so +happy together,’ she says; and then she tells me of his interest in +her career, and the patience with which he would sit in the boxes +night after night to see her act, and then would tell her the points +in which she failed, and the points in which she succeeded, and +lament the impossibility of her wearing a mask, with some dreadful +pipe or mouthpiece, like the Greek actors; and she tells me of their +cosy little suppers after the theatre, pettitoes—<span class="allsmcap">WHAT</span> are +pettitoes?—and baked potatoes, and sausages, and other dreadful things +which it would be certain death for persons in society to eat; and +so the poor child runs on. She is the most<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> affectionate, grateful +creature I ever met, and I think she is beginning to love me.”</p> + +<p>“She has reason to do so,” replied Mr. Desmond. “I suppose she will be +obliged to go on the stage again. I have a promise of an engagement for +her from my friend Hartstone.”</p> + +<p>“I hope she will not be obliged to accept it. Her father’s death has +caused a complete change in her feelings with regard to the dramatic +profession. The poor old man’s companionship seems to have supported +and sustained her in all her petty trials—and now he has gone, she +shrinks from encountering the difficulties of such a life. So, with +my advice and such assistance as I can give her, she is trying to +qualify herself for the position of governess. Her reading is more +extensive than that of most girls, and she is working hard to supply +the deficiencies of her education.”</p> + +<p>“I am very glad to hear that,” Laurence answered, heartily; “I consider +such a life much better suited to her than the uncertainties of a +provincial theatre.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span></p> + +<p>And then he remembered that in the existence of a governess there were +also uncertainties, trials, temptations, loneliness; and it seemed to +him as if Lucy Alford’s destiny must be a care and a perplexity to him +to the end of time.</p> + +<p>“I shall keep Lucy with me for some weeks to come,” said Mrs. +Jerningham; “for I find her a most devoted little companion, and she is +exercising her powers as my reader and amanuensis, in order to prepare +herself for the caprices of some valetudinarian dowager in the future.”</p> + +<p>“You are very good, Emily.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, because I am of some use to your Miss Alford;—that is my virtue +in your eyes, Laurence.”</p> + +<p>“If you are going to talk in that manner, I shall try to catch the next +train.”</p> + +<p>“It is very absurd, is it not?” cried Mrs. Jerningham, with a light +laugh; “but you see it is natural to a woman to be jealous; and a woman +who lives in such a place as this has nothing to do but cherish jealous +fancies.”</p> + +<p>“Let us understand each other once and for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> ever,” said Laurence, +gravely. “To me Lucy Alford seems little more than a child: the time in +which I used to see her frisking about with a hideous Scotch terrier, +and dressed in a brown-holland pinafore, is not so very remote, you +know. I found her in the most bitter need of a friend; and so far as +I could befriend her, I did so, honestly, biding the time in which I +could enlist a good woman’s sympathy in her behalf. Having done that, +I have done all, and I wash my hands of the whole affair. If there is +the least hazard of jealousy where Miss Alford is concerned, I will not +re-enter this house while she inhabits it.”</p> + +<p>“That would be to punish me for my philanthropy. No, Laurence, I am not +jealous of this poor child, any more than I am jealous of every other +woman to whom you speak. Jealousy is a chronic disease, you see, a kind +of slow fever, and it has taken possession of me.”</p> + +<p>“Emily!”</p> + +<p>“I think it is only another name for nerves. Do not look at me with +such consternation.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> What is it Mr. Kingsley says?—‘Men must work, +and women must weep.’ They <i>must</i>, you see! It is the primary +necessity of their existence; and if they have no real miseries, no +husbands drifting over the harbour-bar to death, they invent sorrows, +and weep over them.”</p> + +<p>To this kind of talk Mr. Desmond was tolerably well accustomed. It is +the kind of talk which a man whom fate, or his own folly, has placed in +a false position is sure to hear. One can fancy that Paris must have +had rather a heavy time of it with Helen; and that when he went forth +prancing like a war-horse to meet Menelaus, his gaiety may have in some +degree arisen from his sense of escaping an impending curtain-lecture +from the divine Tyndarid.</p> + +<p>For some weeks after this conversation the editor of the +<i>Areopagus</i> contrived to be more than usually occupied with the +affairs of his paper. He sent Mrs. Jerningham tickets for concerts, and +new books, and new music; but River Lawn he avoided. It was only upon +a royal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> command from the lady that he appeared there one afternoon, +about six weeks after the funeral at Ventnor.</p> + +<p>He found Lucy looking better; but Lucy’s patroness was paler than +usual, and was much disturbed by a dry, hacking cough, which somewhat +alarmed Mr. Desmond.</p> + +<p>Emily herself, however, made very light of the cough, nor did Mrs. +Colton seem to consider it of any importance.</p> + +<p>“It is only a winter cough,” said Mrs. Jerningham; “I have suffered +from the same kind of thing every winter, if, indeed, you can call it +suffering. I suppose one must pay some penalty for living by the river. +But I would not exchange my Thames for the gift of exemption from +cough.”</p> + +<p>“It is quite a Morland cough,” said Mrs. Colton; “my sister, Emily’s +mamma, had just the same kind of cough every winter.”</p> + +<p>Morland was the name of Mrs. Jerningham’s maternal ancestry. Laurence +bethought himself that Emily’s mother had died at thirty<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> years of age, +and he was not inclined to make light of the Morland cough.</p> + +<p>“I wish you would come to town to-morrow and see Dr. Leonards,” he +said, by and by, when he and Emily were out of earshot of Mrs. Colton; +“I don’t see why you should go on coughing, or stay by the river, if +Hampton disagrees with you.”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Leonards is the great man for the chest, is he not?” asked +Mrs. Jerningham. “It would be really too absurd for me to see him. +I have nothing whatever the matter with my chest, except a little +pain occasionally, which Mr. Canterham, the Hampton surgeon, calls +indigestion. Dr. Leonards would laugh at me.”</p> + +<p>“So much the better if he does,” answered Laurence. “But I should very +much like you to see him. You will do so, won’t you, Emily, to oblige +me?”</p> + +<p>“To oblige you!” repeated Mrs. Jerningham, regarding him with a +thoughtful gaze. “Why are you so anxious to consult the oracle?<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> Is it +to resolve a doubt, or to confirm a hope?”</p> + +<p>“Emily!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, forgive me!” she cried, holding out her hand. “I am always +thinking or saying something wicked. The Calvinists must surely be +right; for I feel as if I had been created a vile creature, ‘not born +to be judged, but judged before I was born.’ I will go to see your Dr. +Leonards. I will do anything in the world to please you!”</p> + +<p>“My dear Emily! to please me you have only to be happy yourself,” he +answered, with real affection.</p> + +<p>“Ah! that is just the one thing that I cannot do. My life is all wrong +somehow, and I cannot make it right. I have been trying to square +the circle, ever since my marriage—with such unspeakable care and +trouble—and the circle is no nearer being square. The impracticable, +unmeasurable curves still remain, and are not to be squared by my power +of calculation.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> + +<p>“Ah, Emily, if you had only trusted in me, and waited!”</p> + +<p>“Ah, Laurence, if you had only spoken a little sooner!”</p> + +<p>“I would not speak till I had secured a certain income. I had been +taught to believe that no woman in your position could exist without a +certain expenditure.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that is the false philosophy of your modern school! A man tells +himself that with such or such a woman he could live happily all the +days of his life, but his friends warn him that the lady has been +educated in a certain style, and must therefore be extravagant—so +he keeps aloof from her; and some day, necessity, family ambition, +weariness, pique, anger—Heaven knows what incomprehensible feminine +impulse—tempts her to the utterance of the most fatal lie a woman’s +lips can shape. She marries a man she can never love, and she has her +equipage, and her servants, and her house in Mayfair, and all the +splendours <i>he</i> has been told she cannot live without: and she +<i>does</i><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> live—the life of the world, which is living death.”</p> + +<p>“For God’s sake no more! You stab me to the heart.”</p> + +<p>He covered his face with his hands, and thought of what she had been +saying to him. Yes, it was all true! His worldly wisdom had blighted +that fair young life. Because he had been prudent; because he had taken +counsel with his long-headed friends of the world, and had believed +them when they said that the horrors of Pandemonium were less horrid +than the dismal, muddling torments of a pinched household—because +of these things Emily Jerningham’s mind had been embittered, and her +fair name sullied. And he could not undo the past. No. Strike Harold +Jerningham from the roll of the living to-morrow, and leave those two +free to wed, the haughty woman and the world-worn man who should stand +side by side before God’s altar, would have little more than their +names in common with the lovers who walked arm-in-arm ten years ago in +the garden at Passy.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, Emily, my sin is heavier than yours!” he said, presently. “With +both, want of faith was the root of evil. If you had trusted in me, if +I had trusted in Providence, all would have been different. But it is +worse than useless to bewail those old mistakes. Let us make the best +of what happiness remains to us. The pleasures of a real friendship, +and one of those rarest of all alliances—a friendship between man and +woman on terms of intellectual equality.”</p> + +<p>“There are wretched misogynists who say that kind of thing never +has answered,” said Mrs. Jerningham; “but we will try to prove them +miserable maligners. And you will never regret the loss of a wife, or +feel the want of a home, eh, Laurence?”</p> + +<p>“Never, while you abstain from foolish jealousies,” he answered boldly, +and in all good faith.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham drove into town next day, to see Dr. Leonards, in +accordance with her promise to Laurence Desmond. She was accompanied +by Mrs. Colton, who thought it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> rather absurd that any one should take +so much trouble about a Morland cough; but who was not ill-pleased to +spend an hour in the delightful diversion of shopping, and to visit one +of the winter exhibitions of pictures, while the horses took their rest +and refreshment.</p> + +<p>Dr. Leonards said very little, except that Mrs. Jerningham’s chest was +rather weak, and her nerves somewhat too highly strung. He asked her +a few questions, wrote her a prescription, enjoined great care, and +requested her to come to him again in a fortnight, or, better still, +allow him to come to her.</p> + +<p>“For now, really, you ought not to be out to-day,” he said, glancing +at a thermometer. “There is the slightest appearance of fever; and +altogether, a drive from Hampton is about the worst possible thing for +you. You ought to be sitting in a warm room at home.”</p> + +<p>“But look at my wraps,” exclaimed Mrs. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“My dear lady, do you really imagine that your sables can protect +you from the air you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> breathe? An equable temperature of about sixty +degrees is what you require; and here you are, on a bleak March day, +riding thirty miles in a draughty carriage. I must beg you to be more +careful.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Colton on this assured Dr. Leonards that the cough was only a +family cough; but the physician repeated his injunction.</p> + +<p>“Prevention is better than cure,” he said. “I can say nothing wiser +than the old adage. Thanks. Good morning.”</p> + +<p>This was the patient’s dismissal; the two ladies returned to their +carriage.</p> + +<p>“I hope Mr. Desmond will be satisfied,” said Mrs. Jerningham; “and now +let us go to see the French pictures.”</p> + +<p>At the French picture-gallery the ladies found Mr. Desmond, absorbed in +the contemplation of a Meissonier.</p> + +<p>“How good of you to be here!” exclaimed Mrs. Jerningham, brightening +as she recognized him; “and so, for once in a way, you really have a +leisure morning.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span></p> + +<p>“I never have a leisure morning; at this very moment I ought to be +‘sitting upon’ a sensational historian, who fancies himself something +between Thucydides and Macaulay. But you told me you were coming here, +and so I postpone my sensational historian’s annihilation until next +week, and come to hear what Dr. Leonards says of your cough.”</p> + +<p>“Dr. Leonards says very little. I am to take care of myself. That is +all.”</p> + +<p>“What does he mean by care?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I suppose I am to go on wearing furs, and that kind of thing. And +I am to see all the pictures of the year; and you are to find plenty of +leisure mornings; and so on.”</p> + +<p>In this careless manner did the patient dismiss the subject; nor +could Laurence extort any further information from her. He attacked +Mrs. Colton next, but could obtain little intelligence from that +lady; and beyond this point he was powerless to proceed. He, Laurence +Desmond, could not interrogate Dr. Leonards upon the health of Harold +Jerningham’s wife.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> If she had been dangerously ill, interference +was no privilege of his. And as her illness was of a very slight and +unalarming character, he was fain to content himself with the fact that +she had placed herself under the direction of an eminent physician.</p> + +<p>That day was one of the few happy days that had been granted of late to +Emily Jerningham. Mr. Desmond was even more devoted and anxious than +he had shown himself for a long time. He accompanied the two ladies +to picture-galleries, and silk-mercers, florists, and librarians, and +did not leave them till he saw them safely bestowed in their carriage +for the homeward journey, banked-in with parcels, and in an atmosphere +stifling with exotics.</p> + +<p>“What, in the name of the Sphinx, do women do with their parcels?” he +asked himself, as he went back to his chambers. “Mrs. Jerningham comes +to town at least once a fortnight, and she never goes back to Hampton +without the same heterogeneous collection of paper packages. What can +be the fate of that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> mysterious mass? How does she make away with that +mountain of frivolity, packed in whitey-brown paper? I never see any +trace of the contents of those inexplicable packets. They never seem +to develop into anything beyond their primeval form. To this day I +know not what butterflies emerge from those paper chrysalids. And if +she had been my wife, I must have found money to pay for all those +frivolities. I must have battered my weary brains, and worked myself +into a premature grave, to supply that perennial stream of parcels.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br> +LUCY’S FAREWELL TO THE STAGE.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>FOR Lucy Alford life’s outlook seemed very dreary after that chill +day in February, when her father’s bones were laid in their last +resting-place. He had not been a good father—if measured by the +ordinary standard of parental duty—but he had been a kind and gentle +one, and his daughter lamented him with profound regret. He had allowed +her to grow up very much as she pleased, taking no pains to educate +her, but suffering her to pick up such stray crumbs of learning as +fell from the table of the professional crammer; but by reason of this +very neglect Tristram Alford had seemed to his child the very centre +of love and indulgence. And, beyond this, he had believed in her, and +admired her, and sustained her fainting spirit, when the theatrical +horizon was darkest—when managers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> were unkind, and sister-actresses +malevolent—by such prophetic visions of future triumphs, and such +glowing anticipations of coming happiness, as the man of sanguine +temperament can always evolve from his inner consciousness and a +gin-bottle. The poor child had found comfort and hope in those shadowy +dreams, happily unconscious that her father’s fancies were steeped in +alcohol; and now that he was gone, the hopes and dreams seemed to have +perished with him.</p> + +<p>Thus it was that Lucy shrank from the idea of recommencing her +theatrical labours as from a hopeless and a dreary prospect. Nor were +her feelings on this subject uninfluenced by the sentiments of those +two persons who were now her sole earthly friends. Laurence Desmond’s +shuddering horror of the “Cat’s-meat Man,” his furtive glance at the +little red-satin boots in which she was to have danced the famous +comic dance so much affected of late years, had been keenly noted, and +remembered with cruel pain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span></p> + +<p>“How can he be so prejudiced against the profession?” she asked +herself. And then she thought of Shakspeare, and of the Greek +dramatists, whose every syllable and every comma had been so +laboriously studied in the cramming season at Henley—and was slow to +perceive that the more a man loves his Shakspeare and his Sophocles, +the less indulgence is he likely to show to the “Cat’s-meat Man.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham contemplated the dramatic profession from the +stand-point of a woman who had known poverty, but had never found +herself in the streets of London without an escort, or her brougham, +and who had spent her life in a circle where every woman’s movements +are regulated by severe and immutable laws.</p> + +<p>“How will you pursue your professional career, now that your poor papa +is gone, my dear?” she asked, kindly, when she came to discuss Miss +Alford’s future. “You cannot possibly travel about the country without +a <i>chaperone</i>—some nice elderly person, who could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> take great +care of you, and whose respectability would be a kind of guarantee for +your safety. It is quite out of the question that you should go from +town to town <i>without</i> some such person.”</p> + +<p>Lucy blushed as she thought of the many damsels who did go from town +to town unattended by this ideal representative of the proprieties; +of Miss Gloucester, the walking-lady, who had walked in that ladylike +capacity for the last fifteen years, and knew every town in the United +Kingdom, and every <i>fit-up</i> or temporary temple of the drama in +the British Islands—and who had supported her bed-ridden old mother +in a comfortable lodging at Walworth, and had dressed herself with +exquisite neatness, and preserved a reputation without spot or blemish, +during the whole period, on a salary averaging twenty-five shillings +per week. She thought, with a deeper blush, of the two ballet-dancers, +Mademoiselle Pasdebasque and Miss May Zourka, who wandered over the +face of the earth together, loud, and reckless, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> riotous as a +couple of medical students, and who were dimly suspected of having +given suppers—suppers of oysters, and pork-pies, and bottled-beer—to +the officers of different garrisons, in the course of their wanderings. +Of these, and of many other unprotected strollers—some bright, pure, +gentle girls, of good lineage and careful education; many honest, +hardworking, and self-sacrificing bread-winners; others painted and +disreputable wanderers, who made their profession a means to their +unholy ends—did Lucy think, as Mrs. Jerningham laid down the law about +the respectable elderly <i>chaperone</i>.</p> + +<p>“Do you know any one of unblemished respectability with whom you could +travel?” Mrs. Jerningham asked, after a pause.</p> + +<p>Miss Alford’s mental gaze surveyed the ranks of her acquaintance, +and the image of Mrs. M’Grudder arose before her, grim and terrible. +Unblemished respectability was the M’Grudder’s strong point. The fact +that she was not an immoral person was a boast which she was apt<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> to +reiterate at all times and seasons, appropriate or inappropriate; +and her spotless fame had furnished her with many a Parthian shaft +wherewith to wound helpless evil-doers of the Pasdebasque and May +Zourka class, in that Eleusinian temple of theatrical life, the +ladies’ dressing-room. Abroad, guilty Pasdebasque has the best of it. +She attends race-meetings in her carriage, and flaunts her silks and +velvets before the awe-stricken eyes of the little country town. The +garrison provides her with bouquets, and applauds her <i>entrées</i> +with big noisy hands and a bass roar of welcome; while her benefits are +favoured with a patronage seldom accorded to the benefits of innocence. +But the Nemesis awaits her in the dressing-room. There the dread Furies +avenge the wrongs of their weaker sisterhood, and retribution takes the +awful voice of M’Grudder.</p> + +<p>Ruthlessly does that lady perform her appointed duty. Loud are her +expressions of wonder at the triumphs of <i>some</i> people; her +bewilderment on perceiving the superb attire<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> which <i>some</i> people +can procure out of a pittance of two guineas per week; her regret +that on the occasion of <i>her</i> benefit the 17th Prancers had held +themselves disdainfully aloof from the theatre, though her Lady Douglas +<i>had</i> been compared to the performance of the same character by +the great Siddons, and by judges <i>quite</i> as competent as the +Prancers; and anon, in the next breath, her inconsistent avowal of +thankfulness to Providence that her dress-circle had been empty, rather +than filled as was the dress-circle of Mademoiselle Pasdebasque.</p> + +<p>Lucy thought of Mrs. M’Grudder, who had at divers times taken upon +herself the chaperonage of some timid young aspirant, and beneath whose +ample wing, if rumour was to be trusted, the hapless neophyte had known +a hard time. No, the dramatic profession at best had its trials; but +life spent in the companionship of Mrs. M’Grudder would have been too +bitter a martyrdom.</p> + +<p>This was the beginning of the end of Miss Alford’s professional career. +She had pondered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> much upon Laurence Desmond’s evident dislike to her +position, and had taken that dislike deeply to heart. The glamour was +fast fading from the fairy dream of her childhood. She had played at +Electra and Antigone—she had stood before her looking-glass, inspired, +and radiant with passionate emotion, fancying herself Juliet or +Pauline; and all her dreams had ended in—a page’s dress, and a foolish +comic song.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham’s influence speedily completed the work of +disenchantment; and before Tristram Alford had been dead a month, his +daughter had bidden farewell to the stage—in no brilliant apotheosis +of bouquets and clamorous chorus of enraptured dramatic critics, +eloquent as Pythoness on tripod, but in the sad silence of her own +lonely chamber. She had said her doleful good-bye to the dreams of +her youth, and had begun the practical career of a woman who stands +quite alone in the world, and who has no hope save in her own patient +industry.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p> + +<p>“If I had any one to work for,” she thought, sadly, “it would not seem +hard to me. But to toil and drudge in order that I may prolong my +lonely life, and with no other end or aim——!”</p> + +<p>To Mrs. Jerningham she made no piteous confession of her own +sadness. It was agreed between them that she was to be a governess. +Mrs. Jerningham’s influence would be invaluable in procuring her a +situation; and all she had to do was to make herself mistress of the +accomplishments which that lady assured her were indispensable. Some +of these accomplishments she had already mastered; of others she had +a superficial knowledge. Nothing was required but a little patient +drudgery; two or three hours a day devoted to the piano, an hour or so +to her German grammar. And in the evening she could read <i>I Promessi +Sposi</i> to her kind patroness, by way of polishing her Italian.</p> + +<p>“You shall stay with us till we have made you a perfect treasure in the +way of governesses,” Emily said, kindly, “and then Auntie and I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> will +take pains to get you a situation with nice people, who will give you +seventy or eighty pounds a year, and with whom you may be as happy as +the day is long; and I am sure that will be better than your dreadful +country theatres.</p> + +<p>Lucy assented to this proposition; but she thought, with a sigh, of +Market Deeping, and her brief triumphs as Pauline. Yes, the dramatic +profession was no doubt a hard one, but she had been happy at Market +Deeping; and that one night of glory, when she had been called before +the curtain after her performance of Pauline, had been a dazzling +glimpse of brightness which shone back upon her through the mists of +the past with supernal radiance. And instead of such bright brief +successes, she was to teach those hideous German declensions, and read +<i>I Promessi Sposi</i>, and superintend the performance of Cramer’s +Exercises, for ever and ever. For ever and ever! She was but just +nineteen, and the long blank life before her looked like an eternity.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> + +<p>Her chief consolation daring the patient, laborious days was the +thought that Mr. Desmond would approve her efforts; her secondary +motive was the desire to be duly grateful for Mrs. Jerningham’s +kindness. Nor were her days all drudgery. Her patroness was too kind +to allow this. There were long drives through the bright pastoral +landscape that lies around sleepy, river-side Hampton; a little, +very little, quiet society; an occasional novel; and a rare—ah, too +rare—visit from the editor of the <i>Areopagus</i>.</p> + +<p>The relations existing between that gentleman and Mrs. Jerningham were +quite beyond poor inexperienced Lucy’s comprehension, and they formed +the subject of her wondering meditations.</p> + +<p>Between Mr. Desmond and Mrs. Jerningham there was no tie of +kindred—<i>that</i> fact had long ago transpired; nor could Mr. +Desmond be affianced to a lady whose husband’s existence was a +notorious fact. And yet Mr. Desmond was obviously the especial +property, the moral<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> goods and chattels, of Mrs. Jerningham. Miss +Alford knew something of Plato, but very little of that figment of +the modern brain, entitled Platonic attachment. Friendship between +these two persons would in no manner have surprised her; but, innocent +as she was, her instinct told her that in this association there was +something more than common friendship. If she had been blind to every +subtle shade of tone and manner that prevailed between these two, +she would have perceived the one fact, that Mr. Desmond’s manner to +herself in Emily’s presence was not what it had been in the Islington +lodging-house, where he had first come to her relief. The tender, +half-fatherly familiarity was exchanged for a ceremonious courtesy that +chilled her to the heart. Beyond a few kind but measured sentences of +inquiry or solicitude when he first saw her, he scarcely addressed +her at all during his visits of many hours. She sat far away from the +chess-table or the reading-desk by which Emily’s low easy-chair was +placed, and the subdued murmur of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> the two voices only came to her at +intervals from the spot where Mrs. Jerningham and her guest conversed.</p> + +<p>At dinner Mr. Desmond’s talk was of that western London, which was +stranger to her than Egypt or Babylon; the music which Mrs. Jerningham +played after dinner was from modern operas, whose every note was +familiar to those two, but of which she knew no more than the names. +The books, the people, the places they talked of were all alike +strange to her. She was with them, but not of them. The sense of her +strangeness and loneliness weighed upon her like a physical oppression. +Every day of Mr. Desmond’s absence she found herself thinking of—nay, +even hoping for—his coming; and when he came she was miserable, and +felt her solitary, hopeless position more keenly than in his absence.</p> + +<p>“Oh, why did I ever see him?” she asked herself. “I should have +struggled on, somehow, at such places as Market Deeping, and might in +the end have succeeded in my profession.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> And now I have given up all +my hopes to please him—and he does not care! What can it matter to him +whether I am an actress or a governess? I am nothing to <i>him</i>.”</p> + +<p>He does not care! This was the note, the dominant of all Miss Alford’s +sad reveries. She toiled on patiently, always anxious to please her +patroness; but it seemed to her very hard that in gaining this new +friend, she should have so utterly lost that old sweet friendship which +had begun in the days when she wore holland pinafores, and fished for +bream and barbel with a wretched worm impaled upon a crooked pin.</p> + +<p>Once, when her sad thoughts were saddest, a faint sigh escaped her +lips as she bent over her work, in her accustomed seat by one of the +windows, remote from the spot affected by Mrs. Jerningham; and, looking +up some minutes afterwards, she saw Laurence Desmond’s eyes fixed upon +her, with a look that penetrated her heart. Ah, what did it mean, that +tender,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> deeply-mournful look? This inexperienced girl dared not trust +her own translation of its meaning. But that sad regard touched her +heart with a new feeling.</p> + +<p>“He thinks of me; he is sorry for me,” she said to herself. More than +this she dared not hope; but in her dreams that night, and in her +thoughts and dreams of many days and nights to come, the look was +destined to haunt her. In the next minute she heard Mrs. Jerningham +announce her desire for a game of chess, with the tone of an extremely +proper Cleopatra to an unmartial Antony.</p> + +<p>The weeks and months went by, and Mrs. Jerningham was still a kind and +hospitable friend to the helpless girl whom Mr. Desmond had cast upon +her compassion.</p> + +<p>“I am very glad you introduced her to me,” Emily said sometimes to the +editor of the <i>Areopagus</i>. “She is really a dear little thing; and +I am growing quite attached to her.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, she is a good little girl,” replied Mr. Desmond, in a careless +tone.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span></p> + +<p>“And as to jealousy,” resumed Emily, “of course that is quite out of +the question with such a dear, harmless little creature.”</p> + +<p>“Of course.”</p> + +<p>And then Mrs. Jerningham looked at Mr. Desmond, and Mr. Desmond looked +at Mrs. Jerningham, with the air of accomplished, swordsmen on guard.</p> + +<p>Was Mrs. Jerningham jealous of this “dear, harmless little creature”? +She watched Miss Lucy very closely when Laurence was present, and had +a sharp eye for Laurence when he gave Miss Lucy good-day; but if she +had been jealous, she would scarcely have kept Lucy at the villa, where +Laurence saw her very often; on the other hand, if Lucy had not been +at the villa, Laurence might have seen her even more often, and Mrs. +Jerningham could not have been present at their meetings; so there may +have been some alloy of self-interest mingled with the pure gold of +womanly kindness.</p> + +<p>The spring ripened into early summer, and the Hampton villa looked +its brightest; but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> neither spring nor summer saw the end of Emily +Jerningham’s family cough. She insisted upon making light of the +matter, and as, unhappily, those about her were inexperienced in +illness, the slight but perpetual cough gave little uneasiness. +Before Laurence she made a point of appearing at her best. Excitement +gave colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes. The outline of her +patrician face was little impaired by some loss of roundness, and +her elegant demi-toilettes concealed the fact that she was growing +alarmingly thin. Her maid alone knew the extent of the change, which +she and the housekeeper discussed, with much solemn foreboding of +coming ill.</p> + +<p>“I had to line the sleeves of her last dress with wadding,” said the +abigail; “such a beautiful arm she had, too, when I first came to her; +but she’s been going off gradual-like for the last three years, poor +thing! and as to talking to her about her ’ealth, it would be as much +as my place is worth, for a prouder lady, nor a more reserved in her +ways, I never lived<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> with. You might as well stand behind a statue, and +brush <i>its</i> hair, till you’re ready to drop, for anything like +conversation you can get out of <i>her</i>; and when I think of my +last lady—which was a countess, as you know, Wilcox, and the things +<i>she’d</i> tell me, and the way she loved a bit of gossip—it turns +my blood to ice like to wait upon Mrs. Jerningham. And yet as generous +a lady as ever I served; and as kind and civil-spoken, in her own cold +way.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham paid several visits to Dr. Leonards; but as she +obstinately or apathetically ignored that distinguished physician’s +counsels, she was no better for those drives to Great George Street.</p> + +<p>Laurence questioned her closely as to these interviews, and would fain +have questioned Dr. Leonards himself, had his position authorized him +to do so.</p> + +<p>Lucy, who knew absolutely nothing of illness, believed her kind +patroness’s cough to be the merest nervous irritation of the throat; +nor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> was Mrs. Colton in any manner alarmed. No one but Mrs. Jerningham +herself knew of her feverish nights, and daily hours of suffering and +languor, endured in the solitude of her pretty morning-room. Even the +patient herself had no apprehension of danger. The languor had crept +upon her by such slow degrees, the fever had so long been a chronic +disorder.</p> + +<p>“If I were happy, I should soon be well, I dare say,” she said to +herself; “the fever and the weakness are of the mind rather than the +body.”</p> + +<p>In the first week of summer Mr. Desmond gave himself a brief respite +from the cares of the <i>Areopagus</i>, and secured bachelor lodgings +at Sunbury, where he kept his boat, and whence he rowed to and from +River Lawn.</p> + +<p>“And this week you are really going to give to me?” said Mrs. +Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“To you and to Father Thames. I hope you are as fond of the river as +you were last summer.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes. The river has been my companion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> upon many a lonely summer +day. I have reason to be fond of the river.”</p> + +<p>She glanced with something of sadness to her favourite seat under +the drooping boughs of a Spanish chestnut. Her summer days had been +very lonely, lacking all those elements which make the lives of women +sweet and happy. For her had been no murmur of children’s voices, +no pleasant cares of household, no daily expectation of a husband’s +return from club or senate, office or counting-house; no weekly round +of visits among the poor; no sense of duty done; only a dull, listless +blank, and the last new novel, and the last new colour in <i>gros de +Lyons</i>, and the last new monster in scentless, gaudy horticulture, +a chocolate-coloured calceolaria, a black dahlia, a sea-green camellia +japonica.</p> + +<p>“You are going to give me the whole week,” she said. “Oh, Laurence, I +will try to be happy!”</p> + +<p>She said this with unwonted earnestness, and with eyes that were dim +with unshed tears.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> And she kept her word. She did honestly try to be +happy, and she succeeded in being—gay. If the gaiety were somewhat +feverish, if her harmonious laugh bordered on that laughter whereof +Solomon said “it was mad,” she did for the moment contrive to escape +thought. This was something, for of late, thought had been only another +name for care.</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond had rowed stroke in the University Eight, and shared the +Oxonian fallacy that to scull from ten to twenty miles under a broiling +sun is the intellectual man’s best repose. He rested his brain from the +labours of the <i>Areopagus</i>, and spent his days in pulling a roomy +wherry to and fro between Hampton and Maidenhead, with Mrs. Jerningham +and Lucy Alford for his passengers, and a dainty little hamper of +luncheon for his cargo.</p> + +<p>The weather was lovely. The landscape through which the river winds +between Hampton and Chertsey, between Chertsey and Maidenhead, is a +kind of terrestrial paradise, and a paradise peopled with classic +shades; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> all along those pastoral, villa-dotted banks, nestled +little villages and trimly-furnished inns, within whose hospitable +shade the wanderers might repose, while the smart, maple-painted boat +bobbed up and down at anchor in the sun. These peaceful rovers kept +no count of the hours. They left River Lawn at early morning, lunched +among the reedy shores below Chertsey, took their five-o’clock tea at +Staines, and went home with the tide to a compound collation, which +combined the elements of dinner, tea, and supper.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Colton was but too glad to forego the delights of these +water-parties in favour of Lucy; nor was Laurence sorry to resign a +passenger who weighed some twelve or thirteen stone, who at every lurch +of the boat entertained fears of drowning; to whom every weir seemed +perilous as Niagara, and every lock a descent into Hades; and whose +shawls and wraps, and carriage-rugs and foot-muffs, were insufferable +to behold under the summer sun.</p> + +<p>To Lucy, the delight of these excursions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> was a single ineffable +pleasure. She knew that this bright, brief existence in <i>his</i> +company was to occur once in her life, and once only. Again and again +she told herself this; but she could not help being dangerously happy. +The river, the sunshine, the landscape, the perfumed air that crept +over banks of wild-thyme,—for, thank Heaven, in spite of the builder, +the wild-thyme does still blow on banks we know, not twenty miles from +London,—all these things of themselves would have made her happy; but +to these things Laurence Desmond’s presence, his low, kind voice, his +ever-thoughtful care, lent a new sweetness.</p> + +<p>In plain truth, this penniless orphan-girl had most innocently and +unconsciously fallen in love—or learned to love the man who had +befriended her. Of that kindly, compassionate assistance which Mr. +Desmond had given in all singleness of heart, <i>this</i> was the fatal +fruit. From the first he had felt a vague consciousness that danger +might lurk in this association; but the full extent of that peril he +had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> never foreseen. It was danger to himself he had dreaded. The +girl’s helplessness had touched him, her gratitude had melted him, her +pretty, innocent, almost reverential looks and tones had flattered him.</p> + +<p>He knew now that the hazard of his own feelings had been less than the +peril of hers. By signs and tokens, too subtle and too delicate for +translation into words, the fatal secret had been revealed to him. +He knew that he was beloved; that this affectionate, innocent heart +was his; that this fresh young life might be taken into his keeping +to-morrow, to brighten and bless his own until the end of his earthly +pilgrimage. Yes; this dear little creature, with her soft, winning +ways, and dove-like eyes, he might have claimed for his wife to-morrow: +if he had been free. But on him there was a tie more binding than +marriage, a chain that no divorce could break—the bondage of his +honour. As Lancelot sadly bade farewell to the lily maid of Astolat, so +Laurence, in the silence of his heart, put<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> away from him the dream and +the hope that he would fain have cherished.</p> + +<p>And all the time he thought of his bondage, the oars dipped gaily into +the water, and the editor and Mrs. Jerningham talked of literature +and art, and fashion and horticulture; and Lucy was satisfied with +the delight of hearing that one dear voice which made the most +commonplace conversation a kind of poetry. There are no limits to the +sentimentality of inexperienced girlhood. Young ladies in society had +calculated Mr. Desmond’s income to a sixpence, and had assessed all the +advantages of his position, his chances of a seat in Parliament by and +by, with every remote contingency of his career. But if he had indeed +been Lancelot, and herself Elaine the fair, Lucy Alford could scarcely +have regarded him with more reverent affection. And all this he had won +for himself by a little Christianlike compassion, and an expenditure of +something under fifty pounds.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.<br> +“COULD LOVE PART THUS?”</h2> +</div> + + +<p>THE happy week went by, and at the close of it came the end of the +world, as it seemed to Lucy Alford.</p> + +<p>“Good news, Lucy!” Mrs. Jerningham said, one morning, as she opened her +letters at the breakfast-table; “good news for you.”</p> + +<p>“For <i>me</i>,” faltered Miss Alford, blushing; “what good news can +there be for me?”</p> + +<p>What indeed? Was not Laurence Desmond’s holiday to end to-morrow? This +afternoon they were to have their last row on the Thames.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Lucy. You remember what I told you about Mrs. Fitzpatrick, that +delightful person in Ireland. I wrote to her a few days ago, you know, +telling her of my plans for you,—for she is just one of those good, +motherly creatures who are always ready to help one,—and it happens<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> +most fortunately that she can take you herself. Her own governess—a +young person who had been with her five years—has lately married, and +she has tried in vain to find any one she likes. You are to go to her +at once, dear, with a salary of sixty pounds. The situation will be a +delightful one, you will be quite one of the family, and they live in +a noble old stone house, in a great wilderness of a park, only fifteen +miles from Limerick.”</p> + +<p>“Only fifteen miles from Limerick.” If the noble old stone house had +been fifteen miles from Memphis, or fifteen miles from Timbuctoo, the +name of the locality could scarcely have conjured up more dreary ideas +in the mind of Lucy Alford. She involuntarily made a rough calculation +of the mileage between Limerick and Mr. Desmond’s chambers. <i>Him</i> +she could never hope to see again, if she went to those unknown wilds +of Ireland. And yet what did it matter? A world seemed to divide them, +as it was. Sitting in the same boat with him, the abyss that yawned +between them was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> profound and immeasurable as eternity. At Limerick or +at Hampton it must be all the same. He was nothing to her at Hampton; +at Limerick he could be no less than nothing. Something in her face, as +she mused thus, told Mrs. Jerningham that the delight afforded by these +tidings was not altogether unalloyed.</p> + +<p>“I dare say the notion of such a journey alarms you,” said Emily, +kindly; “but I will see that all is arranged for your comfort. And I am +sure you will be happy at Shannondale Park. I could not have wished you +better fortune than such a home.”</p> + +<p>No: what could fortune give her brighter than this? A pleasant home and +a kind mistress. She felt like some poor little slave sold to a new +master, to be sent to a strange country. She tried with a great effort +to express some sense of pleasure and thankfulness, but she could not. +The words choked her. Happy, in barbarous wastes of unknown Hibernia, +while <i>he</i> lived his own life in London, serenely forgetful of her +wretched existence!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, how ungrateful I am!” she said to herself, while Mrs. Jerningham +watched her sharply, and guessed what thoughts were working in that +sorely troubled brain.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps a situation nearer London would have suited you better, Miss +Alford,” Emily remarked, with biting acrimony; “where your <i>old +friends</i> could have called upon you from time to time.”</p> + +<p>Lucy flushed burning red, and anon burst into tears.</p> + +<p>“I have no friend in the world but you,” she said, piteously. “I know +it is wicked of me not to be pleased with such good fortune, and +I—am—truly—ger—ger—grateful to you, dear Mrs. Jerningham; but +Ireland seems so very far away.”</p> + +<p>The piteous look subdued Emily’s sternness. She took the girl’s hand in +her own tenderly.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it <i>seems</i> far away,” she said, cheerfully; “but I know you +will be happy there. You cannot imagine anything more beautiful than +the river Shannon.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span></p> + +<p>Lucy thought of Father Thames and his dipping willows, and <i>his</i> +grave face, sadly regardful of her in the pauses of his talk. She +thought of these things, and shook her head. Ah, no, it was impossible; +for <i>her</i>, Shannon could never be what Thames had been. Mrs. +Jerningham comforted her in a grand, patronizing manner, and promised +her unbounded happiness—on the banks of the Shannon.</p> + +<p>“You do not know what the Irish are,” she exclaimed; “so kind, so +hearty, so genial. With them a governess is received as one of the +family. The children love her, and cling to her as if she were an elder +sister. And the Fitzpatricks are of the <i>vieille roche</i>, you know; +you will find no parvenu gentility there.”</p> + +<p>Yes, the picture was a fair one; but, for lack of one feature, it +seemed cold and dreary to Lucy Alford. She managed, however, to appear +contented, and thanked Mrs. Jerningham prettily for the kindness +which had procured her this distant home. After this, Emily went out +alone to her garden and hot-houses, to inspect<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> the latest ugliness +in calceolarias; and Mrs. Colton held her morning conference with the +housekeeper, and received a solemn embassy from the kitchen-garden and +forcing-houses. Lucy sat listlessly in the drawing-room, meditating +upon the new estate of life to which it had pleased Mrs. Jerningham, +under Providence, to call her; while Mrs. Jerningham went to see the +new calceolaria, and to reflect at ease upon her late interview with +Lucy.</p> + +<p>“There isn’t one of ’em out as deep a colour as this here, mum,” said +the gardener; “and if I can get the slips to strike—as I believe I +shall—we shall have a rare show of ’em.”</p> + +<p>“Poor little thing, how she loves him!” thought Mrs. Jerningham. “But +in a new country, among new faces, she will soon forget all that.”</p> + +<p>“They strikes a deep root, you see, mum, when they do strike—these +young plants. They send their suckers down into the earth, and you’d +find it hard work to uproot ’em.”</p> + +<p>“A girl of that age is always falling in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> love,” continued Mrs. +Jerningham. “It’s a mere overflow of juvenile sentimentality, and never +lasts very long.”</p> + +<p>And then, having stared at the flowers in the hothouse with absent, +unseeing eyes, she would fain have departed; but the gardener stopped +her with a request for permission to order more manure.</p> + +<p>“We shall want a few loads more, mum,” he said, in his most insinuating +tone; “I don’t like to be allus askin’—which I know it <i>do</i> +look like that—but I know as you wish a show made with these here +calceolaries; and these young plants require a deal o’ manure. And +then there’s the melons, mum; there ain’t a plant going like melons +for sucking the goodness out of manure—they’re a regular greedy lot, +melons—as you may say, mum; and there ain’t no satisfyin’ ’em. But, +you see, I turns it all into the ground afterwards, mum, and you gets +the good out of it next year, in your sea-kale.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham gave her consent for the ordering of the manure, though +she had a dim<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> idea that in the matter of manure she was marked as the +victim of extortion. She looked about her as she went slowly back to +her favourite green walk by the river. She looked at the forcing-pits +and hot-houses, the perfectly trained wall-fruit—which might have +shown beside the symmetrical pears and plum-trees of Frogmore—and she +reflected how much they had cost, and how little happiness they had +given her.</p> + +<p>“One cannot force happiness,” she said to herself. “Or if one does, it +is like the peaches we ripen in February—almost flavourless.”</p> + +<p>She went down to the green, sheltered walk, where the low plashing +murmur of the river seldom failed to tranquillize her spirits. Here +she could think quietly of the one subject which was all-important +to her anxious mind. That Lucy Alford loved Laurence Desmond she was +fully assured: <i>that</i> point she had long settled for herself. The +one portentous question yet unanswered was, whether Laurence loved +Lucy. Mrs. Jerningham had watched the two closely,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> and she suspected +Laurence with a direful suspicion, but she could not be sure that he +had merited her doubts.</p> + +<p>“If I thought that he loved her, I would end this miserable farce at +once,” she said to herself, “and set him free. How many times I have +offered him his freedom! And he has refused it, and assured me—in +his cold, measured, <i>friendly</i> way—of his unchanging constancy. +Hypocrite!” she muttered, between her clenched teeth.</p> + +<p>And then there came upon her an awful yearning for some death-dealing +weapon, with which, at one fell swoop, she might annihilate the man she +loved.</p> + +<p>“Oh, how dearly I loved him,” she thought; “how dearly I loved him! +How I used to yearn for his coming; how willingly I would have endured +poverty and trouble for his sake—in those old happy days when I was +free to be his wife! And he waited till his income should be large +enough for a suitable establishment, and let another man marry me!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span></p> + +<p>Did Laurence love Lucy? That was the question which Mrs. Jerningham +would fain have solved. But to send Lucy to Ireland was scarcely the +way to arrive at a solution. It was rather like begging the question.</p> + +<p>“She will tell him she is going, directly she sees him,” said Mrs. +Jerningham; “and he must be a consummate hypocrite if his manner then +does not betray him.”</p> + +<p>Laurence was expected at noon that day—in half an hour. He was to +come from Sunbury in his boat, to take the two ladies on their last +excursion. Emily determined upon lying in wait for him, in order to be +present at his meeting with Miss Alford.</p> + +<p>“I must see the first effect of the news,” she thought.</p> + +<p>She paced slowly up and down the walk. As twelve o’clock struck from +Hampton church, the boat’s keel ground against the iron steps. Laurence +tied her to the landing-stage, and came bounding on to the green walk, +at the extreme end of which Mrs. Jerningham stood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> watching him. He +did not glance in her direction, but walked across the lawn to the +drawing-room, where he was accustomed to find the mistress of the +house, and went in through a fernery.</p> + +<p>Emily followed swiftly. She was so eager to perceive the effect of +those tidings which must needs be so important to Laurence, if he were +indeed the traitor she half-believed him to be. At the glass-door +between the fernery and the drawing-room she stopped. She was too late. +The news had been told already. For one moment she deliberated, and +in the next, as far as feminine honour goes, was lost. Laurence was +speaking. She did not want to interrupt him. She wanted to hear what +he said; so she drew back a little, behind the shelter of a gigantic +Australian fern, and watched him, and heard him, from that convenient +covert.</p> + +<p>“To Ireland?” he said, gravely; “and do you like going to Ireland, Miss +Alford?”</p> + +<p>This was very proper; this was as it should be, thought Mrs. +Jerningham,—a cold, measured,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> guardian-like tone, expressive of a +gentleman-like and Christianlike concern in the young lady’s welfare; +no more. Emily breathed more freely.</p> + +<p>“Ye—yes,” faltered Lucy; “I—I—I am very grateful to Mrs. Jerningham +for her kindness in procuring me such a happy home; only—only I——”</p> + +<p>“Only what, Lucy?”</p> + +<p>Good heavens! what a sudden change of tone! No longer measured and +gentleman-like, but full of a tender eagerness—a fond concern, that +went through Mrs. Jerningham’s heart like a dagger.</p> + +<p>“Only I—oh, it is very wicked of me to be discontented—only—Ireland +is so very, very far away from all the people I ever knew; and every +friend—and—from <span class="allsmcap">YOU</span>!”</p> + +<p>And here she broke down, as she had broken down upon a previous +occasion, and burst into tears.</p> + +<p>In the next moment she was clasped in Laurence Desmond’s arms. The +Australian fern<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> was shaken as by a sudden tempest—ah, what a tempest +of passion, and grief, and jealousy, and despair raged in the heart of +her whose trembling caused those leaves to shake!</p> + +<p>“Lucy!” cried Laurence, passionately, “you must not—you must not! I +cannot see you cry. It is not the first time. Once before you tortured +me like this; and I held my tongue. I <i>could</i> keep silence then; +but I can’t to-day. I did not love you then as I do now—my pet, my +dear love. Send you to Ireland! Oh, how cruel!—my tender one alone +among strangers! My dearest, for months I have held myself aloof from +you; I have forbidden my eyes to look at you; and now, after all my +struggles, after all my victories, I break down at last. I love you—I +love you!”</p> + +<p>He kissed her—the fair young brow, the eyelids wet with tears. Mrs. +Jerningham heard that unmistakeable sound, as of song-birds in an +aviary; and if a wish could kill, there would have been a swift and +sudden foreclosure of two fair lives.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span></p> + +<p>“<i>You</i>—<span class="allsmcap">YOU</span> love me!” faltered Lucy in a whisper.</p> + +<p>It was too sweet. Ah, yes; a brief delicious dream, no doubt, thought +Miss Alford.</p> + +<p>“Yes, dear, with all my heart I love you,” answered Laurence Desmond, +putting her suddenly away from him, with a solemn gesture, symbolical +of eternal divorcement. “I love you, my dearest and best; but you and +I can never be more to each other than we have been—never again so +much; for at least we have been together—and for me even <i>that</i> +happiness must never be again.”</p> + +<p>Lucy looked at him wonderingly, but she did not speak. She was overcome +by the one stupendous fact of Laurence Desmond’s confession. He loved +her! After this the deluge. If the peaceful rippling river had arisen, +mighty as old Nile, to sweep all the villas of Hampton to the distant +sea, she would have submitted to the swift destruction, and have deemed +herself sufficiently blest in having lived to hear what she had heard. +This is how girlhood<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> loves. Unhappily, or it may be happily, such love +as this—simple, single, passionate as its sister poetry—perishes +with girlhood. The woman’s Love is a compound of many passions, claims +cousinship with Pride and Self-esteem, and owns an ugly half-sister +called, by her friends, Prudence, by her foes, Calculation.</p> + +<p>“My dear, I love you,” continued Laurence with gentle gravity, and +with the air of a man who has resolved on a full confession. “When +first your father called me to your aid, I came, pleased at the idea of +serving an old friend, but with the vaguest possible recollection of +the pretty little girl I had seen running after butterflies at Henley. +I came, and I found my little butterfly-huntress transformed into a +fair and loving creature, whose unselfish nature was revealed in every +look and thought. For a long time I had no thought, no consciousness of +such a thought, except the honest desire to help you, to the best of my +power, in the difficult career you had chosen for yourself. How shall +I tell you at what moment this friendly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> interest grew into a warmer +feeling, when I cannot explain the change to myself? I only know that +I love you; and that if I were free, as I am not, I should sigh for no +sweeter home than one to which you would welcome me.”</p> + +<p>For a few moments he paused, looking fondly at the sweet blushing face, +downcast eyelids heavy with tears, and then went on steadily:</p> + +<p>“I am not free, Lucy; I am bound hand and foot by the fetters I forged +for myself some years ago; and I think, as I have told you one-half +of the truth, it will be wisest to tell you the other half. Ten years +ago I very dearly loved a young lady, as beautiful, as amiable as +yourself, like yourself the only daughter of a gentleman in reduced +circumstances, but not subjected to the trials which you have borne +so nobly. I loved her dearly and truly; but I was a man of the world, +a haunter of clubs, a little sceptical on the subject of feminine +fortitude and feminine reasonableness; and I told myself that, in +order to insure this young lady’s happiness and my own, I must first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> +secure an income which would enable us to be dwellers within the pale +of society. I had been taught that, on the outermost side of that +impalpable, conventional boundary, domestic happiness for people of +gentle rearing was impossible. It was not enough that I loved her; it +was not enough that I believed myself beloved; something more than this +was necessary—a brougham, a house in that border-land of Pimlico which +courtesy can call Belgravia, and a fair allowance for the expenses +of my wife’s toilette. Ah, Lucy, you can never imagine what ghostly +shadows of flounced petticoats and voluminous silken trains arose +between me and the image of the girl I loved, and waved me back, and +made a phantasmal barrier between us! If you marry her, said Prudence, +you must pay for those. I <i>will</i> marry her, I answered, when I +feel myself strong enough to cope with her milliner’s bill.” He laughed +a short bitter laugh.</p> + +<p>“Lucy,” he cried, “I think if I had not loved you for yourself, +I should have loved you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> for your simple dresses. I have been so +suffocated in our modern atmosphere of luxury—stifled with the odour +of Ess. Bouquet, snowed-up in silks and laces, and soft-scented plumes, +and the faint perfume of sandal-wood fans, and the crush and crowd of +modern fashion—that to find a woman who could be pretty without the +aid of Truefitt, and could charm without the art of Descou, was piquant +as a discovery; but I will not stop to speak of these things. While I +waited, the woman whom I dearly loved married another man, older by +many years than herself, in every way unsuited to her. Within a year of +her marriage I met her unexpectedly, and her face told me that I was +not quite forgotten. After that meeting, fate threw us much together; +and oh, Lucy, now I come to the hard part of my confession! Her husband +trusted me, and I wronged him; by no act which the world calls guilt, +but by a sentimental flirtation, licensed by the world so long as it +is unprotested against by the husband. It was pleasant to us to meet, +and we<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> met; it was pleasant to her to read the books I recommended, +to sing the songs I chose for her. Among the costlier gifts of her +husband, her morning-room was sometimes adorned with a rustic basket of +hothouse flowers from me. At the Opera, in picture-galleries, in her +own house, we met, week after week, month after month. No friendship +was ever more intellectual; nothing within the meaning of the word +flirtation was ever less guilty. By and by I wrote to her—letters +about art, about books, about music, about the gossip of the world in +which we lived, with here and there a half-expressed regret for my own +broken life or her uncongenial marriage. Love-letters in the common +sense of the word they were not; but letters so long and so frequent +might, if received by her at her own house, have attracted attention; +so they were directed to a neighbouring post-office. <i>That</i>, +Lucy, was our worst guilt; and it wrecked us. One day the letters were +found, and the husband tacitly signed his wife’s condemnation without +having troubled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> himself so much as to read the evidence against her. +From that hour my life was devoted to the woman who had suffered by my +selfishness and folly; from that hour to this we have been friends in +the fullest sense of the word, and friends only. If ever the day of her +freedom comes, I shall claim her as my wife; if it should never come, I +shall go to my grave unmarried. And now, Lucy, you know all; you know +that I love you; and you know why I have fought a hard fight against my +love, and am angry with myself for being betrayed into this confession.”</p> + +<p>“It was all my fault,” sobbed Lucy, who was ever ready to cry <i>mea +culpa</i>; “I had no right to tell you I was sorry to go to Ireland. +But oh, Mr. Desmond, forget that you have ever spoken to me, and be +true to the lady you loved so dearly, long ago! If it is hard for me +to lose you, it would be harder for her. I will go to Ireland; I will +try to do my duty; I will try to be happy. You have been so kind to +me—and—Mrs. Jerningham—has been so kind too;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> I am grateful to you +both; and when I am far away, I shall think of you both with love and +gratitude, and pray for your happiness every day of my life.”</p> + +<p>She had been quick to identify that lady whom Laurence had so carefully +avoided naming; she understood now, for the first time, the nature of +the tie that bound him to Mrs. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“I am to go to Ireland in a very few days,” she said, after a brief +pause, during which Laurence Desmond sat motionless, his face hidden +by his hand; “I will say good-bye at once. I shall see you again, of +course—but not alone. Good-bye—and thank you a thousand, thousand +times for all your goodness to me and to my father.”</p> + +<p>She held out her hands, but he did not see them.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye! God bless you, darling!” he said, in a broken voice, and in +the next moment Lucy Alford left the room.</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond sighed, a heavy sigh; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> when he removed his hand from +before his face, that pale watcher behind the fern saw that his cheeks +were wet with tears. For some minutes—slow, painful minutes to the +watcher—he sat meditating gloomily; and then he too departed, with a +listless step, by one of the windows opening on the lawn.</p> + +<p>“O God!” thought the watcher, who had sunk back helpless, motionless, +against the angle of the wall, “am <i>I</i> the only wretch upon earth? +These two think it very little to sacrifice themselves for me; and yet +I cannot let him go—I cannot let him go.”</p> + +<p>She came out from her lurking-place into the drawing-room, and seated +herself by the table at which Laurence had been sitting; and here she +sat with hands clasped before her face, thinking of what she had heard. +Unspeakable had been the pain of that revelation; but the blow had not +been unexpected. For some time she had suspected Laurence Desmond’s +regard for Lucy; for a very long time she had perceived the decline of +his affection for herself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p> + +<p>“It is my own fault,” she thought; “I harassed and worried him with my +wicked jealousy. I made myself a perpetual care and trouble to him: can +I wonder that I lost his love? Oh, if I could learn to be generous, +if I could be only reasonable and just, if I could let him go! But I +cannot, I cannot!”</p> + +<p>No, indeed: she had made Laurence Desmond a part of herself, the very +first principle of her existence; and to resign her hold upon him was +to make an end of the sole aim and object of her life. For him she +had lived, and for none other. The two commandments of the Gospel +were to her much less than this man. Her love for her God began and +ended with a tolerably punctual attendance at the parish church, and +a half-mechanical utterance of the responses to the orthodox family +prayers which Mrs. Colton read every morning and evening to the little +household of River Lawn. Her love for her neighbour was summed-up in +a careless compliance with any parochial demand on her purse. All the +rest was Laurence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> Desmond. And now conscience told her she must give +him up. She sat thinking, with tearless eyes and a pale, still face, +until the subject of her thoughts came to the open window, and told her +that the boat was ready.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.<br> +A SUMMER STORM.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>MRS. COLTON entered the drawing-room by the door as Laurence Desmond +came in by the window. “I have given you the sparkling Rüdesheimer +instead of champagne, Mr. Desmond,” she said, cheerily: “Donner has put +it in a basket of rough ice; and Vokes has brought me in the finest +peaches I have seen this year, Emily. He is quite proud of them.”</p> + +<p>After this came Lucy, pale and grave, but looking the picture of +innocence and prettiness, in her white dress, and little sailor hat +with ribbon of Oxford blue.</p> + +<p>“Not dressed, Emily!” exclaimed Laurence, as he shook hands with Mrs. +Jerningham.</p> + +<p>The exclamation was purely mechanical. His<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> mind must indeed have been +pre-occupied, or he would have noticed the icy coldness of the hand +that lay so listlessly in his own.</p> + +<p>“I have only my hat to put on. Wilson has seen to the shawls and +cloaks, no doubt. I am quite ready.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham took her hat from the sofa, where she had thrown it +an hour before; a very archetype of hats, bordered with the lustrous +plumage of a peacock’s breast. Of these glories she had tasted to +satiety; all the bliss that millinery can give to the heart of woman +had been hers. But there comes a time when even these things seem +vanity. To-day the peacock’s plumage might have been dust and ashes, +for any pleasure it afforded her.</p> + +<p>They went out to the boat. The day was warm to oppressiveness, and Mrs. +Jerningham’s attire of the thinnest.</p> + +<p>“I hope you have plenty of wraps,” said Laurence; “there’s rather an +ugly cloud to windward.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes; Wilson always gives us an infinity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> of that kind of thing,” +Mrs. Jerningham answered, glancing at the bottom of the boat, where lay +a heap of shawls and cloaks of the burnous order, just a little less +gauzy in texture than the dresses of the two ladies.</p> + +<p>“I really am almost afraid of the day,” muttered Lawrence, looking to +the south-west, where a stormy darkness brooded over the landscape.</p> + +<p>“I am not afraid,” replied Emily; “it is to be our last day, remember, +Laurence. Let us have our last day together.”</p> + +<p>Something in her tone startled and touched him. He looked at her +earnestly, but the proud face gave no sign.</p> + +<p>“It shall be as you please,” he said; “but I must not forget that you +are not out of the hands of Dr. Leonards, and you have told me he +enjoined you to be careful.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes; a physician always says that when he can find nothing else to +say.”</p> + +<p>There was a little more discussion, and presently the boat shot away, +swift as a dart, with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> the strong sweep of the sculls. They were to +land at Chertsey, picnic at St. Ann’s Hill, and come home to Hampton +in the evening. Laurence Desmond had the proprietorial mandate in his +pocket, that for him and his friends the gates of St. Ann’s should be +opened.</p> + +<p>Only a few big, splashing drops of rain overtook them between Hampton +and Chertsey, and when they landed, the stormy darkness seemed to +have vanished from the south-western horizon. Mr. Desmond had made +all his arrangements; a fly was in waiting, and in half an hour the +little party were wandering in the groves which have been sanctified to +history by the fame of Fox.</p> + +<p>The picnic was to all appearance a success. The almost feverish gaiety +which had distinguished Emily Jerningham of late was especially +noticeable in her manner to-day. <i>Carpe diem</i> was the philosophy +which sustained her in this bitter crisis. This last day would she +snatch. It was her festive supper on the eve of execution. Like +that bright band whose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> laughter echoed in Trophonian caves of grim +Bastille, before the dawn that was to witness their slaughter, did +Emily Jerningham pour out the sparkling vintage of the Rhineland as a +libation upon that altar where she was so soon to sacrifice her selfish +love.</p> + +<p>The western sky was dark and louring when the revellers left the groves +of St. Ann, and were driven back to the boat-builder’s yard, where they +had landed.</p> + +<p>“I really think it might be better to go back by road,” Laurence said, +doubtfully, as he looked at the cloudy horizon. Six o’clock chimed +from the tower of Chertsey Church as he spoke. “It will be nearly nine +o’clock before I can get you home, you see,” he added; “and if there +should be rain——”</p> + +<p>“We will endure it without a murmur,” interposed Emily. “I am bent on +going back by water.”</p> + +<p>“Would Dr. Leonards approve?”</p> + +<p>“I will not hold my life on such terms as Dr. Leonards would dictate. +We shall have moonlight<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span> before we reach Hampton. Come, Laurence, I am +quite ready.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond submitted, and placed his fair companions in the boat with +all due care. Then, after the preliminary pushing-off, the oars dipped +softly in the water, and the boat sped homewards.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham’s gaiety left her with a strange abruptness. She leant +back against the cushioned rail of the boat, silent and thoughtful, and +with fixed, dreamy eyes.</p> + +<p>“You are tired, I fear,” Laurence remarked by and by, wondering at her +silence.</p> + +<p>“Yes; I am a little tired.”</p> + +<p>It would seem as if Lucy too were tired, for she also was silent, and +sat watching the changing landscape with a thoughtful gaze. But upon +her silence Laurence Desmond made no remark. She had, indeed, been +silent and thoughtful all the day, and yet not unhappy. Unhappy!—he +loved her! She had been telling herself that fact over and over again, +with ever-delightful iteration. He loved her! To know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> that it was so +constituted an all-sufficient happiness.</p> + +<p>The water-journey with one pair of sculls between Chertsey and Hampton +is a long one, and many are the locks which arrest the swift progress +of the voyager, and often echoes the cry of “Lo-o-óck!” over the quiet +waters; but so bright and changing is the landscape, so soothing the +influence of the atmosphere, that the voyager must be dull indeed who +finds the way too long.</p> + +<p>The changing banks shifted past Mrs. Jerningham like pictures in a +dream. A profound silence had fallen upon the boat. The rower dipped +his oars with a measured mechanical motion, and his grave face might +have been the countenance of Charon himself, conveying a boatload of +shadows to the Rhadamanthine shore. To Emily it seemed as if they were +indeed voyagers on some mystic, symbolical river, rather than on the +friendly breast of Thames. The end of her life had come. What had she +to do but die? All that she held dear—the one sustaining<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> influence of +her weak soul, the very keystone of the edifice of her life—this she +was to lose. And what then?</p> + +<p>Beyond this point she could not look. That a dismal duty, a bitter +sacrificial act, must be performed by her, she knew. But that by the +doing of that act she might possibly attain peace, consolation, release +from a long and harassing bondage, she could not foresee.</p> + +<p>“I will give him up,” she said to herself; “soon—to-night. It is like +the bitter medicine they made me take sometimes when I was a child. I +cannot take it too soon.”</p> + +<p>And then she looked at Lucy, and her lip curled ever so little as she +scrutinized the fair but not altogether perfect face.</p> + +<p>She measured her charms against those of her happier rival, and told +herself that all the advantage was on her own side. And yet, and +yet—this fair-faced girl was dearer to him, by an infinite degree, +than she who had loved him so many years.</p> + +<p>While silence still held the voyagers as by a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> spell, the rain came +splashing heavily down, and the perils of the journey began. They had +not yet reached Sunbury, and some miles of winding water lay between +them and Hampton.</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +“I am afraid we are in for it,” Laurence said. “We had better land at +Sunbury, and get back in a fly.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham was opposed to this. She declared that she had not +the slightest objection to the rain; she was wrapped up to an absurd +degree; and she drew her gauzy burnous round her in evidence of the +fact, while Lucy adjusted a second cloak of thin scarlet fabric over +the gauzy white burnous. Laurence, however, insisted on landing, and +did his utmost to procure a vehicle; while the two ladies shivered in a +chilly inn-parlour, their garments already damp with the heavy rain. He +came back to them in despair. No fly was to be had at Sunbury for love +or money. There was a Volunteer ball at Chertsey that very evening, and +every vehicle was engaged.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span></p> + +<p>“I had much rather go back in the boat,” said Emily.</p> + +<p>“But the doctor said you were to be so careful,” suggested Lucy.</p> + +<p>“I do not believe in the doctor. Come, Laurence, it is better to +encounter another shower than to wait shivering here for unattainable +flies.”</p> + +<p>To this Mr. Desmond unwillingly assented. There was a pause in the +summer storm—a faint glimmer of watery sunlight low in the cloudy +west. The boat seemed the only possible means of getting home.</p> + +<p>“If you would stay here all night,” he suggested, “it would be better +than running any risk.”</p> + +<p>“I could not exist a night in a strange hotel,” replied Mrs. +Jerningham, glancing round the bare, bleak-looking room, with a +shudder. “Please take us home, Mr. Desmond, if you are not afraid of +the rain yourself.”</p> + +<p>There seemed no alternative; so Laurence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> assented to an immediate +return to the boat, comforting himself with the hope that the gleam of +sunlight was the harbinger of a fine evening. He insisted, however, +upon borrowing a thick shawl and a railway rug from the landlady at +Sunbury, in case of the worst.</p> + +<p>For half a mile the faint streak of sunshine lighted the voyagers, +and then the worst came; the floodgates of the sky were opened, and a +summer deluge descended upon the quiet river. Mr. Desmond packed his +two charges in the borrowed wraps, and sculled with a desperate vigour.</p> + +<p>“It’s most unlucky,” he said; “there’s nothing for it between this and +home.”</p> + +<p>The rain fell in torrents and without ceasing, until the lights of +Hampton shone upon them, blotted and blurred by the storm. Long peals +of thunder grumbled in the distance; vivid lightnings lit the pale +faces of the women; while Mr. Desmond pulled steadily on, lifting the +boat over a broad sweep of water with every swoop of his sculls.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> + +<p>One of the voyagers in that boat took a kind of pleasure in the storm. +To Emily Jerningham this splashing of rain and sonorous pealing of +thunder seemed better than the summer twilight, the calm June sky, and +glassy water—that outward peace which had so jarred upon the tempest +within.</p> + +<p>“Oh, if we could go on through storm and rain to the end! if we could +drift out of this earthly river into the thick darkness of the great +ocean!” she said to herself; “if the tangled skein of life could be +severed with one stroke of the witch’s scissors! But we have to unravel +the skein with our own weary fingers, and lay the threads smoothly out +before we dare say our work is done, and lie down beside it to die.”</p> + +<p>They were at River Lawn by this time, drenched to the skin, despite the +borrowed wraps. Mrs. Jerningham’s butler was waiting at the top of the +landing-stage with umbrellas, and within there were fires burning and +warm garments ready for the drenched<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> travellers. Wilson took forcible +possession of her dripping mistress in the hall.</p> + +<p>“Oh, mum, with your cough!” she exclaimed, in tones of horror; while +Mrs. Colton assisted in drawing off the pulpy mass of limp gauze that +had been such airy silken fabric in the morning.</p> + +<p>“Never mind my cough, Wilson,” said Mrs. Jerningham, impatiently. +“Pray see to Lucy, aunt; she was less protected by the railway-rug +than I. Good-night, Laurence, since I suppose I shall not be allowed +to appear again this evening. Mr. Desmond will stop here to-night of +course, aunt; will you see that he has a warm room, and that he drinks +brandy-and-water, and that kind of thing? Let me see you to-morrow, +please, Laurence; good-night.”</p> + +<p>After this Mrs. Jerningham consented to be carried off by the devoted +Wilson, who did all she could to undo the mischief done by that watery +voyage from Sunbury.</p> + +<p>More than one dweller beneath the pretty,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> fantastic roof of that +river-side villa lay wakeful and restless throughout the summer night, +listening to the pattering of the rain, the sobbing gusts of wind among +the trees, and at daybreak the shrill clamour of distant farmyards. +Three there were in that house for whom life’s journey seemed to lie +through the thick wilderness—a wilderness unlighted by sun, moon, or +stars; pathless, painful obscurity.</p> + +<p>In the breakfast-room that morning there was no sign of Mrs. +Jerningham. Wilson sent to say that her mistress had slept very little, +and was altogether too ill to rise; and on this Mrs. Colton repaired +to her niece’s room, leaving Lucy and Laurence alone together at the +breakfast-table, sorely embarrassed to find themselves so left.</p> + +<p>Lucy looked down at her plate, and to all appearance became absorbed +in a profound meditation upon the pattern of the china. Laurence cut +open the <i>Times</i>, and made a conventional remark upon the previous +night’s debate,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> concerning the subject whereof Lucy knew about as much +as she knew of lunar volcanoes.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Colton returned very quickly, much alarmed by her niece’s +condition. She sent a messenger for the local doctor immediately, while +Lucy ran away from the breakfast-table to see if she could be of any +use to the invalid.</p> + +<p>“I trust Emily is not much the worse for last night’s business,” said +Laurence, alarmed by Mrs. Colton’s evident anxiety.</p> + +<p>“I fear it has done her great harm,” replied the matron; “her cough is +very trying, and she is in a high fever. I hope Mr. Canterham will come +at once.”</p> + +<p>“I will wait to see him, and then run up to town for Dr. Leonards,” +said Laurence.</p> + +<p>The local doctor came speedily. He looked very grave when he returned +from his patient’s room. He confessed that there was fever, and some +danger of inflammation.</p> + +<p>“I will bring down Dr. Leonards,” said Laurence.</p> + +<p>“I think it would be wise to do so,” replied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> the Hampton surgeon, +wondering who this gentleman was who took so decided a part.</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond lost no time in carrying out his intention; and Dr. +Leonards arrived at River Lawn at four o’clock that afternoon, +accompanied by Laurence, who could not rest in London.</p> + +<p>“I warned Mrs. Jerningham of her danger,” said the physician, gravely.</p> + +<p>“Indeed? I never heard that there was any cause for alarm. Did you make +her understand as much?”</p> + +<p>“I spoke as plainly as one dares speak to a patient, and I begged her +to let me talk to her aunt. But she forbade this, and promised to take +all possible care.”</p> + +<p>“And she has taken no care. Great God, it is a kind of suicide!”</p> + +<p>The passionate exclamation startled the doctor, and he looked at +Laurence, wondering what relationship he bore to the lady of whom they +had been speaking. Laurence saw the wondering look, and divined its +meaning.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p> + +<p>“I have known Mrs. Jerningham for many years,” he said. “Her father was +one of my oldest and closest friends. It was at my instigation that she +consulted you, but I had no idea there was danger.”</p> + +<p>There was no more said. Dr. Leonards saw the patient, and conversed +with the Hampton surgeon. That there was danger he made no attempt to +deny, when closely questioned by Mrs. Colton, who was half-distracted +by this sudden calamity. He did not indeed say that the case was +hopeless, but his manner was by no means hopeful.</p> + +<p>“The cough has been obstinately neglected for months,” he said; “and +the maid tells me there has been frequent spitting of blood.”</p> + +<p>“And it has all been hidden from me,” cried Mrs. Colton; “how +cruel—how cruel!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, it is sad that there should have been such concealment. I was +very angry with the maid; but she told me she dared not disobey her +mistress. I cannot conceal from you that there has been great mischief +done.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p> + +<p>This interview took place in the drawing-room, while Mr. Desmond paced +to and fro the lawn, outside the open windows, anguish-stricken.</p> + +<p>This sudden peril to the woman he had loved—to whom he was so +closely bound by a tie so binding, so intangible—came upon him as an +overwhelming calamity. A sense of guilt, remorse unspeakable, smote his +heart. He had grown weary of his bondage; yet the possibility of his +freedom appalled him. There was grief, there was horror in the thought +of liberty so regained. In this hour of Emily Jerningham’s peril, the +man who had loved her forgot everything except that she had been dear +to him. The old tenderness was re-awakened in his breast. He forgot her +jealousies, her sneers, her caprices, her fretfulness,—everything but +the one alarming fact of her illness.</p> + +<p>He intercepted Dr. Leonards, and obtained from him a clearer statement +than the physician had cared to make to Mrs. Colton. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> great man +admitted that the symptoms were as bad as they could be.</p> + +<p>“I shall see Mrs. Jerningham again to-morrow,” he said. “If we can get +her safely through this crisis, and send her to a warmer climate for +the autumn, we may patch her up. But a permanent cure is quite out of +the question; <i>that</i> was hopeless from the first.”</p> + +<p>“From the first? From the time of her first visit to you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>Laurence went back to London sorely distressed. The remorseful sense +of shortcoming that oppresses the mourner in every earthly severance +weighed heavily upon him. Few and infrequent had been the reproaches +that had escaped his lips; but in his heart he had often rebelled +against Emily Jerningham’s tyranny. And she had loved him only too +dearly; her jealousy, her despotism, had been alike the evidence of +that too-exacting affection. Could he be so ungrateful as to revolt +against so tender a tyranny, so flattering a despotism?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p> + +<p>He had rebelled; he had found his chains almost intolerable; and he +could not forgive himself this secret treason.</p> + +<p>For a fortnight he went to and fro between London and River Lawn, +neglecting everything, except the indispensable work of his paper, for +these daily journeys; but in all those fourteen days he saw neither the +invalid nor her faithful nurse, Lucy Alford. He heard from the doctors +that Miss Alford’s fidelity was beyond all praise, and from Mrs. Colton +he also heard of Lucy’s devotion. For a week the patient continued in +extreme danger, then there came a happy change,—nature rallied. At +the end of the fortnight the Hampton doctor was triumphant, the London +physician gravely satisfied. Mrs. Jerningham was able to come down to +the drawing-room, to take a slow turn once a day on the sunlit strip of +lawn before the windows, to eat a few mouthfuls of chicken or jelly, +with some faint show of appetite. It was settled that she and her aunt +should go to Madeira for the autumn and winter, and for the immediate<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> +benefit of the sea-voyage, as soon as she could well be moved.</p> + +<p>“In the meantime I have a little business to arrange,” said Mrs. +Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“Let the business wait till next spring, my dear Emily,” pleaded Mrs. +Colton.</p> + +<p>“I think not, auntie,” the invalid answered, with a mournful smile.</p> + +<p>On the following day she wrote her husband a brief note, which was +addressed to Park Lane, and forwarded thence to Greenlands. The letter +ran thus:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“<span class="allsmcap">DEAR MR. JERNINGHAM</span>,—I have been very ill, and my doctors +insist on my spending the autumn abroad. As there is always in such +cases a risk of one’s not returning, I should like much to see you +before I go. Please come to Hampton at your earliest convenience, and +oblige yours faithfully,</p> + +<p class="right space-below2"> +E. J.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Having despatched this letter, Mrs. Jerningham abandoned herself to the +delight of a long,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> quiet afternoon with Mr. Desmond, who was to see +her that day for the first time since her illness.</p> + +<p>He found her much changed; but the change had only increased her +beauty. An almost supernal delicacy of tint and spirituality of +expression characterized the thin face, the large, luminous eyes. The +first sight of that loveliness, which was not of this earth, sent +a sharp anguish to his heart. It cost him a struggle to return the +invalid’s greeting with a cheerful countenance, and to speak hopefully +of her improved health.</p> + +<p>“I shall never forgive myself that water-journey,” he said.</p> + +<p>“You have no cause to reproach yourself with that. It was I who +obstinately faced the danger from first to last. But the doctors say +the water-journey was only my culminating imprudence.”</p> + +<p>She changed the subject after this, and begged that no one would talk +to her of her health. Laurence was surprised to find her so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> serene, so +cheerful, so thoughtful of others, and forgetful of her own weakness. +Never had she appeared to him more beautiful, never so estimable. Her +manner to Lucy was peculiarly kind and tender.</p> + +<p>“You can never know what this dear girl has been to me!” she said, +holding Lucy’s hand in both her own as she praised her. “In those long, +miserable nights of delirium—I was delirious every night for more than +a week, Laurence—I used to see her kind, pitying face watching me; and +there was comfort in it when I was at the worst. Wilson was very good, +and Aunt Fanny all that is kind and devoted; but this dear child seems +to have been created to comfort the sick.”</p> + +<p>“I used to nurse poor papa when he was ill,” the girl answered, simply. +“He was often delirious—much worse than you, Mrs. Jerningham; and he +used to want to throw himself out of the window, or to kill himself +with his razors. And then he would grow angry, and say that flies were +tormenting him, and try to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> catch them,—when there were no flies, you +know. It was very dreadful.”</p> + +<p>By and by Mrs. Jerningham asked to be left alone with her friend.</p> + +<p>“I want to ask Mr. Desmond’s advice about business affairs, auntie,” +she said. “He knows as much law as most lawyers, you know.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Colton discreetly withdrew, accompanied by Lucy.</p> + +<p>“It is nearly ended, Laurence,” said Mrs. Jerningham, when they were +gone. She looked up at Mr. Desmond with a tender, earnest look, and +held out her wasted hand. He took the pale, semi-transparent hand and +raised it to his lips.</p> + +<p>“What is nearly ended, my dear Emily?” he asked, gently.</p> + +<p>“Your bondage.”</p> + +<p>“God forbid, if that means that I am to lose you.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Laurence, that is inevitable. I doubt if the knot could ever have +been disentangled; but it can be cut. Death makes an easy end<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> of many +difficulties; and I think nothing less than death could have ended our +perplexities. I am not going to preach a sermon, dear friend. I only +want you to understand that my doom is sealed, and that I know it is +so, and am not altogether sorry.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Emily, what a bitter reproof to me!”</p> + +<p>“No, Laurence, a reproof to myself. My own short-sighted selfishness +has been the cause of all our sufferings; for we have suffered acutely, +both of us. I had no right to absorb your life; no right to hinder you +from forming ties without which the most prosperous life seems blank +and dreary; no right to stand between you and a home. But it is all +over. I am drifting out of the troubled sea into a quiet harbour, and I +can afford to be, not generous, but just.”</p> + +<p>“Emily!”</p> + +<p>“Hear me patiently, dear. I will not talk of these things again. I know +where your heart has been given, and what a pure unselfish love you +have, almost unconsciously,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> won for yourself. I knew of that innocent +love months ago; but I only knew your sentiments on the day of our +Chertsey picnic. I was in the fernery when you told Lucy your secret. +Yes, Laurence, I listened. It was a contemptible act, of course; but +I was too desperate to consider that. I heard all you said—all. I +heard enough to know your devotion, your generosity; to hate my own +selfishness. All that day I felt myself the vilest of creatures. +I knew that it was my duty to set you free; but I shrank, with a +miserable cowardly shrinking, from the sacrifice. I knew that for you +and me together there could be no such thing as happiness, either in +the present or the future; but I was capable of chaining you to my +wretchedness rather than of seeing you happy with another. All that is +most base and selfish in my nature was in the ascendant that day. No +words can tell how I struggled with my wickedness. I was not strong +enough to vanquish it. I knew that it was my duty to surrender every +claim upon<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> you; but I could not bring myself to face that duty. From +the maze of my perplexities, extrication seemed impossible. Happily for +all of us, Providence has given me a means of escape. I may keep you +my prisoner to the end of my life, Laurence, and yet be guilty of no +supreme selfishness, for my days are numbered.”</p> + +<p>“My dear Emily, why imagine this?”</p> + +<p>“I know it, Laurence. I did not need to read it in the faces of my +doctors, as I have read it. For a long time I have felt a sense of age +creeping upon me; a weariness of life, which is not natural to a woman +of thirty. Death has approached me very slowly, but his hold is so +much the more sure. Comfort me as much as you like, Laurence, but do +not delude me. I know that I have a very short time to spend upon this +earth; let me spend some of it with you.”</p> + +<p>“I will be your slave, dear.”</p> + +<p>“And when I am gone you will forget how sorely I have tried you? You +will remember<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> me with tenderness? Yes, I know you will. And your young +wife shall be no loser by my friendship, Laurence. I have the power +to will away some of the money settled on me by Mr. Jerningham, and +I shall divide it between my aunt and Lucy. My aunt has a very good +income of her own, you know, and needs nothing from me, except as a +proof of my affection for her. Your young wife shall not come to you +dowerless, Laurence! Your wife! How sweet that word ‘wife’ can sound! I +can fancy you in your home. You will not marry <i>very</i> soon after I +am gone, Laurence?”</p> + +<p>“My dearest,” cried Laurence, with a sob, “do you think old ties are +so easily broken? No, Emily, the love I have borne for you is a part +of my manhood. It cannot be put away. That innocent girl, with her +tender homelike sweetness, stole my heart before I was aware it could +change; but she cannot blot out the past. If ever she is my wife, I +shall love her dearly and faithfully, and a home shared with her will +be very pleasant to me; but in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> sacred corner of my heart must for +ever remain the image of my first love. Men do not forget these things, +Emily; nor is the second love the same as the first; and the man who +outlives the faith of his youth feels that ‘there hath passed away a +glory from the earth.’”</p> + +<p>“You will remember me, and there will be some regret in the +remembrance. I ask no more of Fate. Oh, Laurence, we have had some +happy hours together! Try to remember those. My life within the past +year or two has been a long disease. Try to forget how I have worried +you with my causeless jealousies, my selfish exactions.”</p> + +<p>Very tender and reassuring were the words which Laurence Desmond spoke +to his first love after this. An almost extinguished affection revives +in such an hour as this. As the candle of life burns brightest at the +close, so too Love’s torch has its expiring splendour, and flames anew +before we turn it down for ever.</p> + +<p>When Lucy and Mrs. Colton returned from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> their walk they found the +invalid unusually cheerful. The voyage to Madeira was discussed, and +Emily talked with delight of that distant island. Mr. Desmond was well +up in the topography of the remote settlement, and planned everything +in the pleasantest manner for the avoidance of fatigue to the invalid.</p> + +<p>“I wish Potter were more used to travelling,” said Mrs. Colton, of the +River Lawn butler. “We shall have to take him with us, I think; but he +will be quite lost among Spaniards and Portuguese, and I don’t know +how he will be able to arrange affairs for us with regard to hotel +accommodation, and so on.”</p> + +<p>“I will relieve Potter from all responsibility upon that question,” +said Mr. Desmond.</p> + +<p>“You!” cried Emily.</p> + +<p>“Yes, if you will permit me to be your escort. I spent a week in +Madeira when I was on my Spanish wanderings.”</p> + +<p>“And you will leave London and your literary work in order to make our +journey pleasant for us?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> + +<p>“I would hazard more important interests than those I have at stake.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham’s eyes grew dim, and she had no words in which to +thank the faithful slave from whom a few months before she would have +haughtily demanded such allegiance, and bitterly resented its refusal.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.<br> +A FINAL INTERVIEW.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>MR. JERNINGHAM was prompt to comply with his wife’s request. On the +second morning after the despatch of Emily’s letter, the master of +Greenlands appeared at River Lawn; and this, allowing for time lost in +the reposting of the letter, was as soon as it was possible for him to +arrive there.</p> + +<p>The change in his wife was painfully obvious to him, and shocked him +deeply.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry to see you looking so ill, Emily,” he said, concealing his +surprise by an effort.</p> + +<p>“Do you think I should have sent for you if I had not been very ill? +It was very good of you to come so promptly. I have to thank you for +much generosity, for much thoughtful<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> kindness, during the years of our +separation. Believe me, I have fully appreciated your kind feeling, +your delicacy. But since my illness, there has come upon me the feeling +that something more was due to me than kindness or delicacy; something +more due from me to you than quiet submission to your wishes. Do not +think that I have entrapped you into this visit in order to reproach +you, or to exalt myself. Justification for my conduct there is none. I +can never hope to rehabilitate myself in your eyes or in my own; all I +desire is that you should know the whole truth. Will you kindly listen +to me and believe me? I have kept silence for years; I speak now under +the impression that I have but a few weeks to live; you cannot think +that I shall speak falsely.”</p> + +<p>“I am not capable of doubting your word, even under less solemn +circumstances. But I trust you overrate your danger; convalescence is +always a period of depression.”</p> + +<p>“We will not talk of that; my own instinct and the sentence of my +doctors alike condemn<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> me. They talk about the restorative effect of a +sea-voyage, and send me to Madeira for the autumn and winter; and that, +for a woman of my age, is a sentence of death.”</p> + +<p>“Let us hope it is only a precautionary measure.”</p> + +<p>“I have no eager desire for life; I can afford to submit to Providence. +And now let me speak of a subject which is of more importance to me +than any question as to the time I have to live. Let me speak to you +of my honour—as a woman and as a wife. When you decreed that all ties +between us except the one legal bond should be severed, your decree +was absolute. There was no room left for discussion. You sent me your +solicitor, who told me, with much delicate circumlocution, that your +home was no longer to be my home. There was to be neither scandal, nor +disgrace, nor punishment for me, who had sinned against my duty as a +wife. I was only to be banished. I was too much in the wrong to dispute +the justice of this sentence, Harold; too proud to sue for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> mercy. I +let judgment go by default. You banished your wife from the fortress +of home; you deposed her from an unassailable position to a doubtful +standing; and you did this upon the strength of a packet of letters, +which a bolder offender would have received at her own address, and +which a more experienced sinner would have burned. I want you to grant +me one favour, Harold,—read those letters before I die.”</p> + +<p>“I will read them when you please. Yes, I dare say I did wrong in +cancelling our union upon such trifling evidence of error; but I acted +from my own instinct. I have been a Sybarite in matters of sentiment; +and to live with a woman whose heart and faith were not all my own, +would have been unutterably hateful to me. I jumped at no conclusions. +I did not suffer my thoughts to condemn you unheard. But you had been +living under my roof in secret correspondence with a man who called +himself my friend. What could I do? Could I come to you and say,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> +‘Please do not receive any more secret letters from Desmond; that is +a kind of thing which I object to?’ You would of course have promised +to oblige me, and Desmond would have addressed his letters to another +office. Having deceived me once, you see, I could hardly hope you +would not deceive me again. That sort of thing grows upon one. On +the other hand, why should I make a foolish scandal, read Desmond’s +letters,—which would have been an ungentlemanly thing to do,—subpœna +your maid, your footman, make myself ridiculous, and humiliate you, +for the profit of lawyers and the amusement of newspaper readers; and +failing in convicting you of the last and worst of infamies, take you +back to my home and heart a spotless wife? It seemed to me that there +could be no course for us but a tranquil and polite separation.”</p> + +<p>“If you had read the letters you might have thought differently.”</p> + +<p>“My dear girl, with every wish to be indulgent, I can scarcely admit +that. To my mind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> there are no degrees in these things. A woman is +faithful or unfaithful. If the letter she receive contains but few +lines about an opera-box, they should be lines which she can show her +husband without a blush. There must be no lurking treason between the +lines. She must not pose herself <i>en femme incomprise</i>, and call +herself a faithful wife, because her infidelity does not come under the +jurisdiction of the Divorce Court. You will say, perhaps, that this +comes with a bad grace from me, whose life has been far from spotless. +But, you see, spotlessness is not a man’s speciality; and however vile +he may be himself, he has a natural belief in the purity of woman. She +seems to him a living temple of the virtues, and he scarcely expects to +find a pillar-post lurking in the shadow of the sacred portico.”</p> + +<p>“I was very weak, very wicked,” murmured Emily; “but I have some +excuses for my error which other women cannot claim. If I had thought +that you loved me,—if I had seen reason for believing that our +marriage had brightened<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> your life in the smallest degree, or that +my affection, howsoever freely given, could ever have been precious +to you, it might have been otherwise with me. Oh, believe me, Mr. +Jerningham, you might have made me a good wife, if you had cared to do +so. Men have a power to mould us for which they rarely give themselves +credit. It was not because of the twenty years’ difference between +our ages that I grew weary of my home, and sighed for more congenial +society, for sympathy I had never found there. <i>That</i> was not the +gulf between us. It was because you did not love me, and did not even +care to pretend any love for me, that I welcomed the friendship of my +father’s old friend, and forgot the danger involved in such sympathy. +Your marriage was an act of generosity, a chivalrous protection of a +helpless kinswoman, and I ought to have been grateful. I was grateful; +but a woman’s heart has room for something more than gratitude. A man +who marries as you married me is bound to complete his sacrifice. He +must give his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span> heart as well as his home and fortune. You gave me your +cheque-book, but you let me see only too plainly that in the bargain +which made us man and wife there was to be no exchange of hearts. What +a union! How many times did we dine <i>tête-à-tête</i> in the two years +of our wedded life?—once—twice—well, perhaps half a dozen times; and +I can recall your weary yawns, our little conventional speeches, on +those rare occasions. For two years we lived under the same roof, and +we never even quarrelled. You treated me with unalterable generosity, +unchanging courtesy, and you held me at arm’s length; yet if you had +wished to make yourself master of my heart, the conquest would have +been an easy one. I was wounded by Mr. Desmond’s silence; I was melted +by your kindness. It would not have been difficult for me to give you a +wife’s devotion.”</p> + +<p>“I dare say you are right, Emily,” Mr. Jerningham answered, with +a little, languid sigh. His wife’s earnestness had taken him by +surprise,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> and a new light had broken in upon his mind as she spoke.</p> + +<p>It was possible that there was some truth in these earnest, passionate +words. He admitted as much to himself. Something more might have been +required of him than a gentlemanly toleration of the woman he had +chosen to share his home, to bear his name. The higher, Christian idea +of man’s accountableness for the soul of his weaker partner was quite +out of the region of Mr. Jerningham’s ethics; but, on purely social +grounds, he felt that he had done his cousin and his wife some wrong.</p> + +<p>“I had exhausted my capacity for loving before I married,” he thought; +“and I gave this poor creature a handful of ashes instead of a human +heart.”</p> + +<p>After a few minutes’ silence he addressed his wife with an unaccustomed +tenderness of tone.</p> + +<p>“Yes, my dear Emily, you have just ground for complaint against me. +My error was greater than yours; and now we meet after a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> lapse of +years—both of us older, possibly wiser—I can only say, forgive me.”</p> + +<p>He held out the hand of friendship, which his wife accepted in all +humility of spirit.</p> + +<p>“No, no,” she exclaimed, “there can be no question of forgiveness on +my part. You have been only too good to me, and my complaints are +groundless and peevish. I suppose it is natural to a woman to try to +excuse herself by accusing some one else. But, believe me, I have been +no stranger to remorse. I could not die until I had thanked you for +your indulgent kindness during the years of our separation, and asked +you to forgive me. But before I ask for pardon, I beg you to read those +letters.”</p> + +<p>She took a little packet from her work-basket and handed it to her +husband.</p> + +<p>“I will do anything to oblige you,” said Mr. Jerningham, kindly; “but I +assure you it is very unpleasant to me to read another man’s letters.”</p> + +<p>He took the packet to a distant window, and there began his task. The +letters were long—such<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span> clever, gossiping, semi-sentimental letters +as a man writes to a lady with whom he is <i>aux petits soins</i>, +without ulterior motive of any kind, for the mere pleasure involved +in opening his mind and heart to a charming, sympathetic creature, +whom he holds it better for himself “to have loved and lost, than +never to have loved at all.” Such letters are little more than the +vehicles by which a man lets off the poetic gases of his brain, the +herbals wherein he preserves the rarer flowers of his mind. Into such +letters a man can pour all his caprices of fancy, all his audacities +of thought; and as he writes, his mind is divided between tenderness +for the dear recipient of his outpourings and a lurking consciousness +that his letters will adorn his biography, and hold their place in +polite literature, when the hand that runs along the paper to-day has +mouldered in a coffin. In such letters every writer appears at his +best. In the present he is writing for only one indulgent critic; in +the future he fancies himself revealed to posterity with an audacious +freedom forbidden<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> by the natural reserve of the man who knows he will +have to read a hundred and twenty reviews of his book.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham read Laurence Desmond’s letters very patiently. He +smiled faintly now and then, in polite recognition of some little +playful flight of the writer’s fancy; but he was far from being amused. +More than one smothered but dismal yawn betrayed his weariness, and it +was with a sigh of supreme relief that he at last returned them to his +wife.</p> + +<p>“They are really clever,” he said, “and hardly objectionable. They are +the kind of thing that a Chateaubriand might have written to a Madame +Récamier, and she was the very archetype of female virtue. I can only +regret the one fact that they were not addressed to your own house.”</p> + +<p>“My foolish cowardice was the sole cause of that error. I thought you +would object to my receiving Mr. Desmond’s letters, and they were a +great pleasure to me.”</p> + +<p>“My poor child, if you had only examined<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> my library in Park Lane, you +would have found a hundred volumes of letters, from Pliny downwards, +all of them better than Mr. Desmond’s effusions. But I suppose there is +a charm in being the sole recipient of a man’s confidences. Every man +writes that kind of thing once in his life; I have done it myself.”</p> + +<p>“And can you forgive me freely?”</p> + +<p>“Forgive you! Why, my dear child, you have been freely forgiven from +the hour in which we parted. I thought it best and wisest to end a +union which had been too lightly made. It is possible I was wrong. +Unhappily, I had exhausted my fund of hope before I met you, and had +acquired an unpleasant knack of expecting the worst in every situation +of life. I did not take those letters as conclusive evidence of guilt; +on the contrary, I was quite able to believe their existence was +compatible with innocence. But I told myself that such letters must be +the beginning of the end, and I took prompt steps to avert an impending +catastrophe. I did not want to be a spectacle to men<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> and angels as the +husband of a runaway wife. ‘There shall be no running away,’ I said. +‘We will shake hands, and take our separate roads, without noise or +scandal.’ I suppose it was a selfish policy; and again I am reduced to +say, forgive me.”</p> + +<p>After this Mr. Jerningham spoke no more of the past. He talked of his +wife’s health, her future movements. He tried to inspire her with +hope of amendment, in spite of her physician’s ominous looks, her own +instincts; nothing could be kinder or more delicate than the manner in +which he expressed himself both to Emily and to Mrs. Colton, who came +in from the garden presently, and whom he thanked, with emphasis, for +her devotion to his wife.</p> + +<p>A quarter of an hour afterwards he was seated alone in a railway +carriage, speeding London-wards by express train, and meditating +profoundly upon the interview at River Lawn.</p> + +<p>“Dying,” he said to himself; “of that there can be no doubt. Of all +the hazards of fate, this was the last I should have expected. And<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> +I shall be free; free to marry again, if I could conceive so wild a +folly; free to marry Helen de Bergerac; free to inflict the maximum of +misery upon an innocent girl, in order to secure for myself the minimum +of happiness. And yet, O God, what happiness there might be in such a +union, if I could be loved again as I once was loved!”</p> + +<p>He clasped his hands, and the day-dreamer’s ecstasy brightened his face +for a moment. The setting sun shone red upon the river over which the +train was speeding, and Harold Jerningham remembered such a rosy summer +sunset five-and-twenty years ago, and a sweet girl-face looking up at +him, transfigured by a girl’s pure love.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.<br> +TIMELY BANISHMENT.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>BEFORE Eustace Thorburn could nerve himself for the self-sacrificial +act which was to accomplish his banishment from that Berkshire Eden +known as Greenlands, Fate took the doing of the deed out of his hands, +and brought about his departure in the simplest and most natural manner.</p> + +<p>For the completion of M. de Bergerac’s ponderous work, it was necessary +that certain rare manuscripts in the Imperial Library of Paris should +be examined, and for the examination of these Mr. Thorburn’s daily +increasing knowledge of Sanscrit rendered him fairly competent. For the +exile, Paris was a forbidden city, but to this young man, recommended +by Mr. Jerningham, the Imperial Library would be open. M.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> de Bergerac +had long meditated asking this favour of his secretary, and had +watched the young student’s progress in the Oriental dialects with +impatient longing. The time had now arrived when he felt that Eustace +was qualified to undertake the required work, and he took an early +opportunity of sounding him upon the subject.</p> + +<p>“There is work for some months,” he said; “but Paris is at all times +a pleasant city, and I do not think you would be tired of a residence +there. I can give you introductions to agreeable people, who will +receive my friend with all kindness. You can find some airy apartment +near the library, and take your life easily. Your limited means will +secure you from the temptations and dissipations of the capital, but +not deprive you of its simpler pleasures.”</p> + +<p>“My dear sir, you are all goodness. I shall be only too happy to work +for you in Paris, and on the most moderate terms. I have no wish for +pleasure. Life is so short, and art so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> long; and I have such an +impatient desire to succeed in the only career that is open to me.”</p> + +<p>“It is a noble impatience, and I will not stand in your way; give me +four hours a day of such work as you have given me here, and the rest +of your time will be your own.”</p> + +<p>After this interview there was nothing to hinder Mr. Thorburn’s +departure. He waited only for his employer’s instructions, and his +familiarity with all the details of the work made these instructions +very easy to him; while frequent correspondence with his patron would +enable him to work in perfect harmony with the author of the great +book. Within a week of his perusal of his father’s book, he bade his +friends at Greenlands farewell, and started for London <i>en route</i> +for Paris, provided with a letter from Mr. Jerningham to the chiefs of +the British Embassy, which would insure his free use of the Imperial +Library.</p> + +<p>Helen’s face told him that she was sorry to lose her friend and +instructor. But the depth of that sorrow he could not fathom.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span></p> + +<p>“Papa says it is likely you will be away three or four months,” she +said. “How much of my Greek I shall lose in that time! Papa never +can find time for me to read to him now; and you will forget your +piano-forte music, for I don’t suppose you will take the trouble to +practise in Paris. And I shall have no one to play the basses of my +overtures.”</p> + +<p>Eustace murmured something to the effect that for him the cessation of +those basses would be desolation and despair, but more than such vague +protestations he dared not trust himself to utter.</p> + +<p>“It is fortunate for me that I am sent away,” he thought. “I could +not keep silence much longer; and I know not when I could have found +courage to tear myself from this sweet home.”</p> + +<p>Helen’s thoughtful eyes looked up at him, wonderingly, as he stood +before her, with her hand retained in his just a little longer than +their relative positions warranted. But when they met his, the +dark-blue eyes fell<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> again, and the two stood silent, as if spellbound.</p> + +<p>The spell was broken by the voice of M. de Bergerac calling from the +porch.</p> + +<p>“The fly has been waiting ten minutes,” he cried. “Come, Thorburn, if +you want to catch the 4.30 from Windsor.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, Miss de Bergerac—God bless you! Thank you a thousand times +for all your goodness to me!” said Eustace; and in the next instant he +was gone.</p> + +<p>“<i>My</i> goodness! And he has been so kind to me,” murmured Helen.</p> + +<p>She went to the open window and watched the fly drive away, and waved +a parting salutation to the traveller with her pretty white hand. When +the sound of the wheels had melted into silence, she went back to her +books and her piano, and wondered to find how much there seemed wanting +in her life now that Mr. Thorburn was gone.</p> + +<p>“What will papa do without him?” she asked. The Newfoundland came into +the room<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> panting and distressed as she spoke. He had followed the +vehicle that bore Eustace away, and had been repulsed by the driver.</p> + +<p>“And what shall <i>we</i> do without him, Heph?” asked the young lady, +hopelessly, as she embraced her favourite.</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +Eustace found his Uncle Dan waiting dinner for him in the comfortable +room in Great Ormond Street; and in that genial companionship he +spent the eve of his departure very pleasantly. The two men talked +long and earnestly of the book which both had read. Eustace told his +uncle of his idea about a Scotch marriage; and they went over the +significant passages in the autobiographical romance together, with +much deliberation.</p> + +<p>“Yes, lad; I believe you’ve hit it,” said Daniel Mayfield at last. +“These vague hints certainly bear out your notion. I know not how far +this domicile of something less than a year may constitute a Scotch +marriage, for the laws of Scotland upon the marriage-question<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> have +been ever inscrutable; but it is evident the man believed himself in +your sister’s power.”</p> + +<p>“I should like to find the scene of my mother’s sorrow,” said Eustace. +“Will you take a holiday when my work is done in Paris, Uncle Dan, and +go to the Highlands with me, to look for that spot?”</p> + +<p>“My dear boy, how can we hope to identify the place?”</p> + +<p>“By means of this book, and by inquiry when we get to the +neighbourhood.”</p> + +<p>“The book gives us nothing but initials.”</p> + +<p>“No; but if the initials are genuine, as it is most likely they are, we +may easily identify the spot with the aid of a good map.”</p> + +<p>“I doubt it.”</p> + +<p>“I assure you the thing is possible,” said Eustace, earnestly. “There +are several initials indicative of different localities. Let us start +with the supposition that these are genuine; and if we can fit them to +localities within a given radius, we may fancy ourselves on the right +track. We have the general features of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> the place—a wild, mountainous +district, steep cliffs, sands, and lonely shanties. See, I have jotted +down the places indicated by initials. Here they are:</p> + +<p>‘1st. H. H. The head-quarters of Dion.</p> + +<p>‘2nd. D. P. A craggy headland, crowned by a little classic temple.</p> + +<p>‘3rd. The most uninteresting ruins in A. A. would seem, therefore, to +be the initial of the country.</p> + +<p>“There are your indications, Uncle Dan; the map or a guide-book must +do the rest. You would take as much trouble to decipher a puzzle in +arithmetic, or to work a difficult problem in Euclid. My mother’s fate +is more to me—nearer to your heart, I know—than all Euclid.”</p> + +<p>“But if we find the scene and identify it, what then?”</p> + +<p>“The scene may tell me the name of the man.”</p> + +<p>“What, Eustace! still the old foolish eagerness to know what is better +left unknown?”</p> + +<p>“To the very end of my life, Uncle Dan. And now let us look at your map +of Scotland.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span></p> + +<p>“I have no map worth looking at. No, Eustace, there shall be no +attempts at discovery to-night. Leave me that scrap of paper, and while +you are away I will try to identify these places. When you return, +we will take our Highland holiday together, come what may. It will +be fresh life to me to get away from London, and I will not say how +pleasant it will be to me to take my pleasure with you.”</p> + +<p>“Dear, true friend.”</p> + +<p>They shook hands, in token that to this plan both were irrevocably +bound.</p> + +<p>The morning’s mail-train carried Eustace to Dover, and on the next +night he slept at a humble hotel near the Luxembourg. He had no +difficulty in finding a commodious lodging within his modest means, +and he began his work at the great library two days after his arrival. +The people to whom he brought letters of introduction were people of +the best kind, but Eustace availed himself sparely of their hospitable +invitations. His days were spent in the library; his nights were given +to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> the great poem, which grew and ripened under his patient hand.</p> + +<p>“If it should be a success!” he said to himself; “if it should go home +to the hearts of the people—as true poetry should go—at once—with an +electric power! It has brought the tears to my eyes, it has quickened +the beating of my heart, it has kept me awake of nights with a fever +of hope and rapture; but for all that it may be only fustian. A man’s +dreams and thoughts may be bright enough, but the translation of them +cold and dull; or the thoughts themselves may be worthless—rotten +wood, not to be made sound by any showy veneer of language.”</p> + +<p>The poem which was to make or unmake Mr. Thorburn was no metaphysical +treatise done into rhyme—no ambitious epic, ponderous as Milton, +without Miltonic grandeur. It was a modern romance in verse—a +love-story—passionate, tender, tragical, and the heart of the poet +throbbed in every line.</p> + +<p>His life in Paris was eventless. Very dear<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> to him were the letters +that came from Greenlands—letters in which Helen’s name appeared very +often,—letters in which he was told that his absence was regretted, +his return wished for.</p> + +<p>“It is like having a home,” he said to himself; “and I dare not return +to that dear home, or must return only to confess my secret and submit +to a decree of banishment!”</p> + +<p>One of the letters from Greenlands—a letter that came to him when he +had been about six weeks in Paris—brought him startling news: Harold +Jerningham was a widower. The handsome young wife, whom Eustace had +heard of from his employer, had died at Madeira.</p> + +<p>“They met before the lady left England,” wrote M. de Bergerac, “and +parted excellent friends. Indeed, they had never quarrelled. The reason +of their separation was never revealed to the world, but Harold has +half-admitted to me that he was to blame.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.<br> +SIT TIBI TERRA LEVIS.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>FOR Emily Jerningham life’s fitful fever was ended. The change to a +softer climate, the welcome warmth of southern breezes, had given her a +brief respite, but her doom had been sealed long ago, and her existence +had been only a question of so many weeks more or less.</p> + +<p>The journey by sea and the first two weeks in the strange island were +very sweet to Emily Jerningham. Laurence Desmond accompanied her on +that final voyage, and friendship, sanctified by the shadows of the +grave, attended her closing days.</p> + +<p>This seemed the natural solution to the enigma of her perplexed +existence. Death alone could make an easy end of all her difficulties,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> +and she accepted the necessity as a blessed release.</p> + +<p>“It has been made easy to me to resign you, Laurence,” she said, “and +to pray for your future happiness with another. That poor little girl! +I know she loves you very dearly. She reverences you as a heroic +creature. Upon my word, sir, you are very fortunate. With me, had +Fate united us, you would have been compelled to endure all manner of +jealousies and caprices; and from that simple Lucy you will receive the +pious worship that is ordinarily given only to saints.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham would not allow Laurence to remain with her until the +last dread hour. When they had been a fortnight on the island, and had +exhausted the little excursions and sights of the place, she persuaded +Mr. Desmond to return to England.</p> + +<p>“I know you cannot afford to remain so far away,” she said. “What may +happen to the <i>Areopagus</i> in your absence! I have always heard +that sub-editors are a most incorrigible class of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> people. They insert +those things which they should not insert, and so on. You may find +yourself pledged to something appalling in the way of politics when +you get back to London; or discover that one of your dearest friends +has been flayed alive by your most savage operator. And, you see, I am +so much better. I shall return to England in the spring quite a new +creature.”</p> + +<p>In this manner did Mrs. Jerningham cajole her friend to abandon her. It +was the final sacrifice which she offered up—the sacrifice of her sole +earthly happiness.</p> + +<p>She stood at her window watching the steamer as it left the island, and +her heart sank within her.</p> + +<p>He was gone out of her life for ever. Thus faded all the glory of her +world. She sat alone till long after dusk, thinking of her wasted, +mistaken life; while Mrs. Colton fondly believed her charge was +enjoying a refreshing slumber.</p> + +<p>The English doctor, who attended Mrs. Jerningham<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> daily, found his +patient much worse when he made his call upon the morning after Mr. +Desmond’s departure.</p> + +<p>“I am afraid you were guilty of some imprudence yesterday,” he said; +“for you are certainly not looking quite yourself to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Yesterday was one of the quietest days I have spent on the island,” +replied Mrs. Jerningham; “I did not stir out of doors.”</p> + +<p>“That was a pity; for you ought to enjoy our good weather while it +lasts. The rains will set in soon, and you will be a prisoner. But +after our rainy season we have a delicious winter; and the voyage from +England has done such wonders for you, that I really expect great +things between this and the spring.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean that you really think I am to live?” asked Mrs. +Jerningham, looking at him earnestly; “to drag my life on for weeks and +months, and perhaps for years?”</p> + +<p>“Upon my honour I have strong hopes, as I told your aunt yesterday; +the improvement since your arrival has been so marked that I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> can hope +anything. You do not know what Madeira can do for weak lungs.”</p> + +<p>“Then I wish I had never come here.”</p> + +<p>“My dear madam, you—” cried the doctor, alarmed.</p> + +<p>“That sounds very horrible, does it not, Mr. Ransom? But, you see, +there is a time when one’s life comes to a legitimate end—one’s +mission is finished. There is no room for one any more upon the earth, +as it seems. The priest has said, ‘<i>Ite, missa est</i>;’ the end is +come. I do not want to prolong my life beyond its natural close; and +that has come.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Ransom looked at his patient as if doubtful whether she were +altogether in her right mind. But he did not discuss the subject; he +murmured some little soothing commonplace, and departed to warn Mrs. +Colton that the patient was disposed to depression of spirits, and +must, if possible, be roused and diverted.</p> + +<p>“I do not consider it altogether a bad sign,” he said, cheeringly; +“that low state of the nerves is a very common symptom of +convalescence.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span></p> + +<p>To rouse and divert her invalid niece Mrs. Colton strove with +conscientious and untiring efforts; but failed utterly. From the hour +of Laurence Desmond’s departure Emily drooped. A depression came upon +her too profound for human consolation. In devout studies, in pious +meditations alone she found comfort. Her aunt read to her from the +works of the great divines, and in the eloquent and noble pages of +Hooker and Taylor, Barrow and South, as well as in the Gospel’s simpler +record, the weak soul found comfort. But with earthly comfort she had +done. A stranger, alone in a strange land, she waited the coming of +that awful stranger whom all must meet once—he who “keeps the key of +all the creeds.” Utter desolation of spirit took possession of her. +She was thrown back upon the spiritual world, and was fain to seek a +dwelling-place among those shadowy regions, like a shipwrecked mariner +cast upon a desert island, and rejoiced to find any refuge from the +perils of the great ocean.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span></p> + +<p>Letters came to the lonely invalid, in token that she was not quite +forgotten by the world she would fain forget; letters, and papers, and +books from Mr. Desmond, who wrote with much affectionate solicitude; +notes of condolence and inquiry from the few friends with whom she was +on intimate terms. But these were only the last salutations which life +sent to her who dwelt by the borders of death—the last farewells waved +by friendly hands.</p> + +<p>“He is good and self-devoted to the last,” she thought, as she read Mr. +Desmond’s letters; “and I do not think I should have induced him to +leave me if he had not believed it would look better for me to be here +alone with my aunt.”</p> + +<p>In this supposition Mrs. Jerningham was correct. Mr. Desmond was too +much a man of the world not to be mindful of how things would appear to +the eyes of the world, and it had seemed to him better that he should +not prolong his stay at Madeira with the invalid.</p> + +<p>He had returned to London, therefore, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> had gone back to his work, +which seemed very weary at this period of his life.</p> + +<p>It was not possible that this utter severance should come to pass +between him and Emily Jerningham without pain to himself. A man does +not change all at once. However deeply he is bound to the new love, +some frail links of the chain that tied him to the old hang about him +still, some corner of his heart still holds the first dear image; +and to the love that has been, the sorrow of parting lends a kind of +sanctification.</p> + +<p>Before leaving England Mrs. Jerningham had taken pains to provide for +Lucy’s future. The girl would gladly have accompanied her patroness to +Madeira, but this Emily would not permit.</p> + +<p>“You have had trouble enough in nursing me,” she said, kindly; “and we +must now try and find you a home in some pleasant, cheerful family. +You must not be exposed any longer to the depressing influence of an +invalid’s society.”</p> + +<p>The pleasant family was easily found. Are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> there not always a hundred +cheerful families eager to enlarge their home-circle by the addition of +an agreeable stranger? Mrs. Jerningham showed herself very particular +in her choice of a home for her <i>protégée</i>; and she was not +satisfied until she had discovered an irreproachable clergyman’s +family, some miles northward of Harrow, who were willing to receive +Miss Alford, and beneath whose roof she would have opportunities of +improving herself.</p> + +<p>“But, dear Mrs. Jerningham, had I not better go to the lady in Ireland, +or to some other lady who wants a governess?” remonstrated Lucy. “I +ought to be getting my own living, you know. Why should I be a burden +upon your kindness? If I were of any use to you, it would be different; +but you will not let me be your nurse.”</p> + +<p>“My dear girl, you are no burden! It is a pleasure to me to provide in +some measure for your future. I promised Mr. Desmond that I would be +your friend. You must let me keep my promise, Lucy.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span></p> + +<p>Of the interview which had taken place between Emily and Laurence, +Lucy knew nothing. Neither did she know that there had been a listener +during that never-to-be-forgotten half-hour in which Mr. Desmond had +told her his secret.</p> + +<p>What her own future might be she could not imagine; and this +arrangement for placing her with a clergyman’s family beyond Harrow +seemed to her a generous folly upon the part of Mrs. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>She submitted only to please that lady; it would have seemed ungracious +to refuse such kindness; but Lucy fancied she would have been happier +if she had been permitted to renew her old struggles with fortune.</p> + +<p>“Remember you are to improve yourself, Lucy,” said Mrs. Jerningham; “I +want you to become the most accomplished and ladylike of women.”</p> + +<p>And thus they kissed and parted. Emily breathed more freely when the +girl had left her. That daily and hourly companionship<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> with her happy +rival had not been without its bitterness.</p> + +<p>“The poor little thing has been very good to me,” she thought; “but I +cannot forget that she will be Laurence Desmond’s wife when I am lying +in my grave. And the winter winds will blow among the churchyard-trees, +and the pitiless rain will fall upon my grave, and those two will sit +beside their fire, and watch their children at play, and he will forget +that I ever lived.”</p> + +<p>Lucy went to her new home a few days before Mrs. Jerningham and her +following sailed for Madeira. Between Lucy and Laurence there was +no farewell. Mrs. Jerningham told Mr. Desmond what she had done for +his old friend’s daughter, and he approved and thanked her; but he +expressed no wish to see the young lady, or to be introduced to the +family with whom she had taken up her abode.</p> + +<p>He made no attempt to see Lucy on his return from Madeira. In this he +was governed by a supreme delicacy of feeling.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span></p> + +<p>“While Emily lives I belong to her,” he said to himself. “I am bound by +a tie which only death can loosen.”</p> + +<p>The hour in which that tie was to be loosened came very soon. A +heart-broken letter from Mrs. Colton told Laurence that he was a free +man.</p> + +<p>“She spoke of you a few minutes before her death,” wrote Emily +Jerningham’s aunt. “‘Tell him that one of my last prayers was for +his future happiness,’ she said. She suffered much in the last week; +but the last day was very peaceful. I can never tell you all her +thoughtfulness for others—for you, for me, for Lucy Alford, for her +servants, the few poor people at Hampton of whom she knew anything. Her +long illness worked a great change in her—a holy and blessed change. +Generous, affectionate, and noble-minded she had always been; but +the piety of her closing hours was more than I should have dared to +hope, remembering her somewhat careless way of thinking when she was +in health. In death she is lovelier<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> than in life; there is a divine +smile upon her face now which I never saw before. I have received +instructions from Mr. Jerningham. My beloved niece is to be buried +in the family vault in Berkshire. Oh, Mr. Desmond! what a mournful +homeward voyage lies before me! I know not how I am to endure the rest +of my life without my more than daughter!”</p> + +<p>Laurence Desmond’s tears fell fast upon the letter. The old familiar +vision of the little garden at Passy, the proud, young face, the +slim, white-robed figure, came back to him; and he recalled one +summer afternoon, when his lips had almost shaped themselves into the +portentous question, and he had restrained himself with an effort, +remembering what his mentors of the smoking-room had said about the +impossibility of marriage amongst a civilized community without a due +provision for the indispensabilities of civilized existence.</p> + +<p>“This comes of planning one’s life by the ethics of the club-house!” he +said to himself, bitterly.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.<br> +HIDDEN HOPES.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>UPON Mr. Jerningham the tidings of his wife’s death came suddenly, +but not unexpectedly. He hastened to arrange that all honour should +be paid to the ashes of this fair scion of the house of Jerningham. +The ponderous doors of the vault which had not been opened since his +father’s death unclosed to receive his wife’s coffin. The bells which +had rung a merry peal of welcome when she first came to Greenlands +tolled long and dismally upon the day of her burial. All deference +and ceremony that could have attended the burial of a beloved wife +attended the funeral rites of her who had been only tolerated by her +husband. Harold Jerningham was chief mourner at that stately, yet quiet +ceremonial. His own hand had addressed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> the invitation that summoned +Laurence Desmond to the funeral.</p> + +<p>“The world shall read how we stood, side by side, at the door of the +vault,” thought Mr. Jerningham; “and the lips of Slander shall be mute +about the poor soul’s friendship for her father’s friend.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond understood and appreciated the delicacy of mind which +had inspired the invitation. Even in that last dread ceremonial it +was well that there should be some votive offering to Society. That +deity has her shrine in every temple, and must be propitiated alike at +wedding-feast or funeral. She is the modern successor of those nameless +goddesses whom the men of old called amiable, and worshipped in mortal +fear.</p> + +<p>Theodore de Bergerac was present at the opening and closing of the +vault, and invited Laurence Desmond to dinner when they left the +church; but his invitation was declined.</p> + +<p>“I will run down to dine with you in a week or two, if you will allow +me,” he said; “but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> to-day it is impossible. I have business that will +take me back to town.”</p> + +<p>And so they parted; Laurence to go back to his chambers and spend +the evening in dreary meditation, looking over the letters that had +been written to him by that hand which now lay cold in the Berkshire +vault. He had a photograph of the never-to-be-forgotten face, a few +water-colour sketches of the river-scenery about Hampton; and these +were all his memorials of the dead.</p> + +<p>He packed them carefully in white paper, sealed the packet with many +seals, and laid it in the most secret drawer of his desk.</p> + +<p>“Thus ends the love of my youth,” he said, to himself; “God grant the +love of my manhood may come to a happier ending!”</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +The first two months of his widowhood Mr. Jerningham spent abroad. For +some subtle reason of his own he preferred to be away from Greenlands, +and from his friends at the cottage, during that period of conventional +mourning.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> Perhaps he would have been less inclined to absent himself +from that beloved retreat if Eustace Thorburn had still been a dweller +in M. de Bergerac’s household.</p> + +<p>That gentleman’s residence in Paris threatened to extend itself to +several months. The work found for him amongst old manuscripts and rare +Oriental books increased every day, and the notes of the great history +seemed likely to become as voluminous as Gibbon’s <i>Rome</i>. Like +Gibbon, M. de Bergerac had bestowed the greater part of his lifetime +upon the collection of materials for his great book; but the materials, +when collected, were more difficult to deal with than those upon which +the matchless historian founded his massive monument of human genius; +or it may be that M. de Bergerac was something less than Gibbon. In +earnestness, at least, he was that great man’s equal.</p> + +<p>“Do not leave Paris until you have completely sifted the Oriental +department of the library,” he wrote to his secretary; “and if it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> is +necessary for you to have the aid of a translator, do not hesitate to +engage one.”</p> + +<p>To this Mr. Thorburn replied, modestly, that his own knowledge of +the Oriental languages was increasing day by day; that he had been +fortunate enough to fall in with a learned, though somewhat shabby, +pundit among the frequenters of the Imperial Library; and that he had +induced this person to work with him for an hour or two every evening +on very reasonable terms.</p> + +<p>“I cannot tell you what pleasure it has been to me to conquer the +difficulties of these languages,” he wrote to his kind employer. And, +indeed, to this friendless young man every grammatical triumph had +been sweet, every tedious struggle with the obscurities of Devanagari +or Sanscrit a labour of love. Riches or rank he had none to lay at the +feet of the fair girl he loved; but by such dryasdust studies as these +he could testify his devotion to that service which of all others was +most dear to her affectionate heart.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span></p> + +<p>Weeks and months slipped by in these congenial labours. The notes for +the great book, and Eustace Thorburn’s poem, grew side by side, and the +young man had no leisure hour in which to nurse despondent thoughts. +He was happier than he could have imagined it possible for him to be +away from Greenlands. His work was delightful to him, because he was +working for her. Yes; for her! His patient industry at the library was +a tribute to her. His poem was written for her; since, if it won him +reputation, he might dare to offer her the name so embellished.</p> + +<p>To Helen those autumn months seemed very dull. Her father’s secretary +had made himself so completely a part of the household as to leave a +blank not easily filled. Both father and daughter missed his bright +face, his earnest, enthusiastic talk, his affectionate but unobtrusive +devotion to their smallest interests.</p> + +<p>“We shall never have such a friend again, papa,” Helen said, naïvely; +and the little speech,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> with the tone in which it was spoken, inclined +M. de Bergerac to think that Harold Jerningham’s fears had not been +groundless.</p> + +<p>“You miss him very much, Helen?”</p> + +<p>“More than I thought it possible I could miss any one but you?”</p> + +<p>“And yet he only came to us as a stranger, my dear, to perform a +stipulated service. In France a young lady would scarcely care to +express so much interest in her father’s secretary.”</p> + +<p>The girl’s innocent face grew crimson. What! had she said more than was +becoming? Had she deserved a reproof from that dear father whom she +lived only to please? After this she spoke no more of Eustace Thorburn; +but her father’s mild reproof had awakened strange misgivings in her +mind.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham returned to Greenlands before Christmas, and spent that +pleasant season at the cottage. A peace of mind which he had not known +since boyhood possessed him in that calm abode, now that he was a free +man, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> Eustace Thorburn no longer exhibited before him the insolent +happiness of youth.</p> + +<p>“This is indeed home!” he exclaimed, as he sat by M. de Bergerac’s +hearth, and heard the carol-singers in the garden. “It is more than +thirty years since Christmas was kept at the great house yonder. I +wonder whether it will ever be kept there again within my life?”</p> + +<p>“Why not?” asked his old friend; “you are young enough to marry again.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think so, Theodore?” inquired Mr. Jerningham, earnestly.</p> + +<p>“Do I think so? Who should think so more than I? Was there ever a +happier marriage than mine? And I do not ask you to make so bold a +venture as I made in marrying a dear girl twenty years my junior. There +are handsome and distinguished widows enough in your English society; +women who, in the prime of middle age, retain the fresh beauty of their +youth, with all the added graces given by experience of life.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks,” said Mr. Jerningham, coldly; “I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> should not care to entrust +the remnant of my life to a middle-aged person, however well preserved. +I can exist without a wife. If ever I marry again, I shall marry for +love.”</p> + +<p>He stole a glance at Helen. She was sitting by the fire, with an +open book upon her lap, her eyes fixed dreamily. Where her wandering +thoughts might be Harold Jerningham knew not; but he perceived they +were not given to him. “Has the hour gone by?” he asked himself. “Has +my hour gone for ever?”</p> + +<p>“Nobly spoken, my friend,” said Theodore; “you will marry for love. And +why not? God gave me a fair young bride, and seven years of happiness +more complete than a man dare hope for on earth.”</p> + +<p>No more was said upon a subject so delicate. But from this conversation +Mr. Jerningham derived considerable comfort; for he perceived that his +old friend found no incongruity in the idea of his seeking something +more than a marriage of convenience in a second union.</p> + +<p>After this he came to the cottage with something<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> akin to hope in his +breast. Helen received him always with the same sweetness. He was her +father’s friend, and had been her father’s protector in the hour of +evil fortune. This fact was ever present to her mind; it imparted to +her manner a sweetness which was fatal to Harold Jerningham.</p> + +<p>Theodore de Bergerac watched the two together; and one day, as if by +inspiration, the secret of his old friend’s frequent visits flashed +upon him. The danger that had existed for the young secretary existed +also for the weary worldling, and girlish sweetness and simplicity had +won a heart sated with life’s factitious joys.</p> + +<p>Within a week after the student achieved this brilliant discovery, +Harold Jerningham made a full confession of his weakness.</p> + +<p>“I know that at present I am no more to her than her father’s old +friend,” he said, when he had told his story, and had discovered that +M. de Bergerac was neither surprised nor shocked by the revelation; +“but give me only sufficient time, and I may win that pure heart,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> +which already half belongs to me by right of my affection for you. +Earnest feeling in a man who is not quick to feel must count for +something. Do not judge me by my past, Theodore. Dissever me from that +past, if you can; for, as I live, I am a new man since I have loved +your daughter. To love a creature so pure is a spiritual baptism. +If I can win that innocent heart, you will not stand between me and +happiness, will you, old friend?”</p> + +<p>“If you can win her heart, no; but I will not sacrifice my daughter, or +persuade her. I will confess to you that the uncertainty of her future +is a constant perplexity to me, and that I would gladly see that future +secured. I will say even more than this; I will admit that I should be +proud to see my only child allied to a race so distinguished as yours, +the mistress of a home so splendid as your Greenlands yonder. But by no +word of mine will I influence her to a step so solemn. The difference +between your ages is greater than in the case of myself and my dear +wife; but the world might<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> possibly have augured ill for the result of +our union. Again, I say, if you can win my child’s heart, I will not +refuse you her hand.”</p> + +<p>This was all Mr. Jerningham desired. A reluctant bride, sacrificed on +the altar of ambition, would have been no bride for him. He was too +much a gentleman not to have recoiled from the brutality involved in +such an union. All he desired was the liberty to woo and to win; to +set his many gifts against that one obvious disadvantage of his fifty +years, and to triumph in spite of that stumbling-block.</p> + +<p>“Time and I against any two,” said Philip II. of Spain. Mr. +Jerningham’s chief reliance was on time; time, which might first render +his society habitual, and then necessary, to Helen; time, which would +familiarize her with the difference between their ages, until that +difference would scarcely seem to exist; time, which by demonstrating +his constancy and devotion, must in the end give him a claim upon +Helen’s gratitude, a right to her compassion.</p> + +<p>Time might, perhaps, have done all this for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> Mr. Jerningham but for one +small circumstance: the stake for which he was playing this patient +game had already been won. It remained no more upon the table for +gamblers to venture its winning. The girl’s innocent heart had been +given unconsciously to a silent adorer; and while Harold Jerningham +was hanging upon her looks and studying her careless words, all her +tenderest thoughts and dreams were wafted across the Channel to +the industrious exile clearing his way through the great jungle of +Arianism, in the Imperial Library of Paris.</p> + +<p>Winter passed, and the early spring brought news to Mr. Jerningham. +A noble Scottish kinsman had died, leaving him a handsome estate in +Perthshire. It was necessary that he should visit this new acquisition, +and make all arrangements for its due maintenance; but he was sorely +averse from leaving Greenlands, and the simple household in which he +had learned to be happy.</p> + +<p>“I suppose I must go,” he said; “Lord Pendarvoch was a confirmed miser, +and I know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> he kept the place in a most miserable condition. When I +was last in the neighbourhood, many years ago, there was not a fence +fit for a civilized country, or a boundary-wall that kept out his +neighbour’s cattle. Yes, I suppose I must go and take possession, and +shake hands with my tacksmen, and establish my claim to be regarded +as a scion of the true blood—though it comes to me zigzag fashion, +through a female branch of the old house. My mother’s mother was an +aunt of the last lord.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham lapsed into reverie. It was early April; green buds +already bursting in the old-fashioned garden, and a wealth of pear and +plum-blossom, snowy white; but the rich red of the apple-trees not yet +opened. Tulip and hyacinth, polyanthus and primrose, were bright in the +borders; rich red wallflowers bloomed on the old wall; all the garden +was gay with the fresh spring blossoms.</p> + +<p>“Do you remember what you said about Switzerland, Helen?” Mr. +Jerningham asked, abruptly, after rather a long silence.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span></p> + +<p>“I remember saying a great deal about Switzerland.”</p> + +<p>“And of your desire to see that country?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, indeed! but that is too bright a dream. Papa confesses that his +book is the kind of book that never <i>is</i> finished. William Mure of +Caldwell did not live to finish his book, you know, though the subject +is a narrow one compared to the theme of my dear father’s labours; +and Müller’s book was left unfinished. How can I ever hope to go to +Switzerland, since I should care nothing for the most beautiful land +unless papa was my fellow-traveller?”</p> + +<p>“We will persuade your father to publish the first two volumes of his +book some day, and then we can all start for Switzerland together. But +in the meantime allow me to inquire if you have ever thought about +Scotland?”</p> + +<p>“I have read Sir Walter Scott’s delightful stories.”</p> + +<p>“Of course,” cried Mr. Jerningham, with unwonted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> vivacity; “and those +charming romances have inspired you with an ardent desire to behold the +scenes which they embellish—the land of mountain and of fell, the land +of Macgregor and Ravenswood, of heart-broken Lucy Ashton and weird Meg +Merrilies. Do not think of Switzerland till you have seen the Scottish +highlands.”</p> + +<p>“But the snow!” urged Helen.</p> + +<p>“Snow! In Scotland I will show you mountain-peaks upon which the snows +have never melted since the days of the Bruce; and from those snow-clad +hills you shall look down into no dazzling abyss of awful whiteness, +but out upon the waste of waters, with all their changeful play of +light and shade, and varying splendour of colour, and animated motion. +In Switzerland, remember, you have no sea.”</p> + +<p>“But the ice-oceans—the glaciers?”</p> + +<p>“Better in the descriptions of Berlepsch than in reality; and even he +admits that they are dirty. Upon my honour, the highlands of Scotland +are unsurpassable.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span></p> + +<p>“And then?” inquired Helen, laughing. “Why this sudden enthusiasm +for Scotland, Mr. Jerningham? Oh! I forgot; you are now a proprietor +of the northern soil, and I suppose this is only a natural burst of +proprietorial pride.”</p> + +<p>This accusation Mr. Jerningham disdained to answer.</p> + +<p>“Helen!” he said, with mock solemnity, “has it never occurred to +you that your father must require change of scene—some relief from +the monotonous verdancy of sylvan Berkshire—some respite from +those eternal spreading beeches which provoke from commonplace lips +ever-recurring allusion to the hackneyed Tityrus? That you yourself +have languished for bolder scenery—snow-clad mountain-top, and wide +blue lake—I am well aware; but do you think our dear scholar does not +also require that mental and physical refreshment which comes from the +contemplation of unknown lands and the breathing of unfamiliar breezes; +or, in two words, do you not think that a brief<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> spring holiday in the +highlands would be of great advantage to my dear friend?”</p> + +<p>The student came out of the porch in time to hear the conclusion of Mr. +Jerningham’s speech. The master of Greenlands and Helen de Bergerac had +been strolling up and down the lawn in front of the cottage during this +conversation.</p> + +<p>“What are you talking about, Harold?” asked the Frenchman.</p> + +<p>Helen was prompt to answer his question.</p> + +<p>“Oh, papa, Mr. Jerningham has been saying that you must require change +of air and scene, and that a trip to Scotland would do you wonderful +good. And so I am sure it would.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Theodore, I want you to go with me to Pendarvoch. The place +itself is scarcely worth showing you, but the surrounding scenery is +superb; and Helen informs me she languishes to behold the Scottish +highlands.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Jerningham!” cried Helen; “when did I ever say——”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span></p> + +<p>“Not a minute ago. And you know the advantage to your father will be +unspeakable.”</p> + +<p>“But my book?” urged the student.</p> + +<p>“You will return to it with renewed vigour after your holiday. You told +me only the other day that you had of late experienced a languor, a +distaste for your work, which denoted physical weakness; and——”</p> + +<p>“Oh, papa!” cried Helen, alarmed; “you do not confess these things +to me! It is quite true; you have been looking tired lately. Nanon +remarked it. Pray let us go to Scotland.”</p> + +<p>“Can you refuse her?” asked Mr. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“When did I ever refuse anything to this dear child?”</p> + +<p>“And when did she ever ask anything that you should refuse? Come, +Theodore, it is the first favour I have asked of you for a long time. I +must go to Pendarvoch; and I cannot bear to leave this place, where I +have been so happy, unless I can take those with me who have made the +spot so dear.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span></p> + +<p>To a woman of the world, the tone of these words, and the look which +accompanied them, would have spoken volumes. To Helen they told +nothing, except that Mr. Jerningham was sincerely attached to her +father and herself. She had always thought of him as her father’s +devoted friend, and it seemed to her only natural that she should be +included in that friendship. She liked Harold Jerningham better than +she liked any one, except those two people who reigned side by side in +her heart; and the line which divides the outer tokens of liking and +loving is so narrow a demarcation, that Harold Jerningham might easily +be betrayed into fond hopes that were without foundation. Her manner +to this friend of her father’s was all sweetness. His tender accents, +his fond, admiring looks, she accepted as the natural gallantries of a +man so much her senior. Her very innocence made her more dangerous than +the most accomplished of coquettes. And at this notion of a trip to +the Highlands she brightened and sparkled, and placed herself at once +on Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> Jerningham’s side. For so many reasons the plan was delightful +to her. First and chiefest of such reasons, it promised to benefit her +father; secondly, she had long known and rejoiced in the romances of +the northern enchanter, and the very sound of Scottish names conjured +a hundred visions of romance before her mind’s eye; thirdly, there had +come upon Greenlands, upon her garden, her poultry-yard, her books, +her piano, the river, the woods—nay, over the very sky that arched +the woods and river, a shadow of dulness from the hour of Eustace +Thorburn’s departure. The old places had lost their familiar charm—the +old pursuits had become wearisome. She fancied that amidst new scenes +she would be less likely to miss her old companion; and then, in the +next breath, said to herself, “How <i>he</i> would have liked to see +Scotland!”</p> + +<p>A great deal of argument was required to convince Theodore de Bergerac +that it could be for his benefit to uproot himself from the spot he so +dearly loved in order to travel to remotest<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> regions of the north. He +had the Frenchman’s natural horror of foreign countries; and having +once niched himself at his nest at Greenlands, cared not to stir +thence, how fair soever might be the distant lands he was invited to +visit. The argument which at last prevailed was that urged by Helen’s +pleading face. <i>That</i> entreaty the tender father was powerless to +resist.</p> + +<p>“My darling, it must be as you wish,” he said, and the rest was easy. +Mr. Jerningham did not suffer the grass to grow under his feet. He was +prompt to make all arrangements, and three days after the subject had +been mooted, the travellers were on their northward way, speeding to +Edinburgh by express.</p> + +<p>They were to spend three days in Edinburgh, then onward by easy stages, +“doing” all the lions in their way, to the village and castle of +Pendarvoch, which lay half in Perthshire, half in Aberdeenshire.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.<br> +NORTHWARD.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>THE travellers had not left Greenlands two days when Eustace Thorburn +arrived there. He had finished his work in Paris a month sooner than +he had expected to do so, and had been glad to hurry home, in order to +complete his arrangements with an eminent publishing firm, who, after +considerable hesitation, had agreed to publish his poem without hazard +of capital on his part, though not without foreboding of loss on theirs.</p> + +<p>M. de Bergerac had not forgotten to write to his secretary, announcing +the Scottish expedition; but he had only written an hour before +starting, and the letter and the secretary had crossed each other +between Dover and Calais. Eustace came to Greenlands full of hopeful +agitation. He had not forgotten the promise made<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> his uncle. He had not +forgotten that he was pledged to make a full confession to his kind +patron, and to accept his banishment, if need were. His Parisian exile +had only deferred the evil hour; it must come now, and speedily; and +the decree would be spoken, and he and Helen must in all likelihood +part for ever. But in the meantime he would see her once more, and it +was for this unspeakable blessing he languished. For the last night of +his sojourn in Paris sleep had been impossible. He could think only +of the delight to which he was hastening—to see her once again! His +love had grown day by day, hour by hour, during these long months of +absence. As the train ploughed onwards through dusty flats, as the +steamer danced across the sunlit waters, this one traveller counted the +miles, and calculated the moments until he should near the beloved spot +where his idol dwelt.</p> + +<p>He knew that his Uncle Dan would have been glad to see him, even for +a brief exchange of greetings and shaking of hands; but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> he could not +bring himself to spend the half-hour that it must have cost him to call +in Great Ormond-street. Swift as a hack-cab could take him, he rushed +from station to station, was so lucky as to catch a fast train for +Windsor, and entered the shady avenues of Greenlands within fourteen +hours of his departure from Paris.</p> + +<p>How fresh and verdant the spring landscape seemed to him!—the cowslips +and bluebells, the hawthorn buds just beginning to whiten the old +rugged trees, gummy chestnut husks scattering the ground, and from afar +the rich odour of newly-opened lilacs.</p> + +<p>“And to think that for its master this place has no charm!” he said to +himself, wonderingly.</p> + +<p>His heart beat fast as he opened the gate of the bailiff’s garden. +Here all things looked their brightest and prettiest. The birds were +singing gaily in the porch. The deep voice of Hephæstus boomed from the +hall, and the dog ran out to repel the intruder, but changed his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> bass +growl of menace into a noisy demonstration of delight at sight of the +traveller.</p> + +<p>Even this welcome Eustace was glad to receive. It seemed a good omen. +The door stood wide open; he went into the hall, with the dog leaping +and bounding about him as he went. No one appeared. There was no sound +of voices in any of the rooms. He opened the drawing-room door softly, +and went in, prepared to see Helen bending over her books at a table +in the window. But Helen was not there, and the room looked cold and +dreary. Never had he seen the books so primly arranged, the piano so +carefully closed. No cheery blaze brightened the hearth, no flowers +perfumed the atmosphere. His instinct told him that a change had fallen +upon the pleasant home. He rang the bell, and a fresh country housemaid +answered his summons.</p> + +<p>“Lor’ a mercy, sir, how you did startle me!” she said. “I a’most +thought it was ghostes, which they do begin sometimes with ringin’ o’ +the bells.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span></p> + +<p>“Is your mistress away from home?” asked Eustace.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir, and master, too. They both be gone to Scotland for a month, +or more. Didn’t you get the letter as master sent you, sir? I heard him +say as he’d wrote to tell you they was gone.”</p> + +<p>They had gone to Scotland! To find them absent from Greenlands was in +itself a wonder to him; but it seemed to him a kind of miracle that +they should have gone to Scotland, that country which he was bent upon +exploring in his search for the scene of his mother’s sorrows.</p> + +<p>“What part of Scotland has your master gone to, Martha?” he asked the +housemaid.</p> + +<p>The girl shook her head despondently, and replied that she had not +“heard tell.” They were to travel with Mr. Jerningham, she believed. +That gentleman had come into property in Scotland, and they were going +to see it. This was the utmost she had “heard tell on.”</p> + +<p>With Mr. Jerningham! What should make<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> that gentleman Helen’s +travelling companion? A sudden pang of jealousy rent Eustace Thorburn’s +heart as he thought of such a companionship. What could have brought +about this Scottish journey? Having possessed himself of Martha’s +slender stock of information on this point, Eustace went to the kitchen +to question Nanon; but with little more success. The Frenchwoman was +voluble, but she could tell him scarcely anything.</p> + +<p>They were to visit many places, she said, but she knew not where. The +names of those barbarous countries had slipped from her memory. It +was far, very far; and they were to be absent a month. Oh, but it was +dismal without that sweet young lady! Nanon had nursed her as a baby, +and never before had they been so long asunder.</p> + +<p>“For a month! It is frightful to think of it,” shrieked Nanon. She +invited Mr. Thorburn to rest and refresh himself—to dine, to sleep, +to make the place his home as long as he pleased. M. de Bergerac had +left instructions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> to that effect. But the disappointment had been +too bitter. Eustace could not endure to remain an hour in the house +which had been so dear to him, now that the goddess who had glorified +it dwelt there no longer. He declared that he had particular business +to do in London, and must return thither immediately. He was eager to +arrange for the Scottish expedition which had been planned by himself +and his uncle—eager to start for the country to which Helen was gone, +as if he would thereby be nearer her.</p> + +<p>Before bidding old Nanon good-day, he made a final effort to extort +from her some information.</p> + +<p>“Surely M. de Bergerac must have left you some written address,” he +said, “in the event of your having occasion to write to him?”</p> + +<p>“No, sir; if I wanted to write, I was to give my letter to Mr. +Jerningham’s steward; that was all. They will be going from place to +place, you see, sir. It is not one place they go to see, but many.”</p> + +<p>With this answer Eustace was compelled to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> be satisfied. He could not +push his curiosity so far as to go to Mr. Jerningham’s steward, and ask +him for his master’s whereabouts. And again, what benefit could it have +been to him to know where Helen had gone? He had no right to follow her.</p> + +<p>He hastened back to London, and to Great Ormond Street, where he was +doomed to wait three dreary hours, turning over his Uncle Dan’s books, +before that individual made his appearance, somewhat flushed from +dining, and jovial of manner, but in nowise the worse for his dinner +and wine.</p> + +<p>“I have been dining in St. James’s Street, with Joyce of the +<i>Hermes</i>, and Farquhar of the <i>Zeus</i>,” he said. “A thousand +welcomes, dearest boy! And so you come straight from the station to +find your faithful old Daniel? Such a token of affection touches this +tough old heart.”</p> + +<p>“Not straight from the station, Uncle Dan,” the young man answered, +with a guilty air. “I have been down to Berkshire. M. de Bergerac<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> and +his daughter have started for Scotland with Mr. Jerningham.”</p> + +<p>“What takes them to Scotland in such company?”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Jerningham has just succeeded to an estate in the north; that is +all I could discover from the servants at the cottage. This Scottish +expedition must be quite a new idea, for there was no allusion to it in +M. de Bergerac’s last letter to me.”</p> + +<p>“Strange!”</p> + +<p>“And now, Uncle Dan, I want you to keep your promise, and start for +your Highland holiday with me.”</p> + +<p>“What! we are to rush post-haste for the Highlands, in search of your +Helen?”</p> + +<p>“No; on a more solemn search than that.”</p> + +<p>“Alas, poor lad! On that one subject you are madder than Prince Hamlet. +Every one has his craze. But I pledged myself to be your companion, and +I must keep my promise. You are really bent upon going over the ground +on which that sad drama was enacted?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span></p> + +<p>“Fixed as fate, Uncle Dan.”</p> + +<p>“So be it. Your faithful kinsman has been at work in your absence, and +has made things smooth for you.”</p> + +<p>“Is it possible, dear friend?”</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing a man of the world can’t do when he’s put to it. A +reperusal of Dion’s autobiography enabled me to identify the divine +Carlitz of that narrative with a lady who took the town by storm when +I was a young man, and who afterwards married a nobleman of eccentric +repute. Once possessed of this clue, it was easy for me to identify +her <i>fidus Achates</i>, the amiable H., as Mr. Elderton Hollis, a +gentleman connected with dramatic affairs for the last quarter of a +century, and still floating, gay and <i>débonnaire</i>, upon the border +land of the theatrical world,—a gentleman with whom I myself have some +acquaintance. To make a long story short, I contrived to throw myself +in Hollis’s way at the Quin Club; and after a glance at the theatrical +horizon of to-day, drifted into the usual commonplaces about the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> decay +of dramatic talent. ‘Where are our Fawcetts, our Nisbetts, our Keeleys, +our Carlitzes?’ I sighed; and at the last familiar name, the old fellow +pricked up his ears, like a hound at the huntsman’s ‘Hark forward!’”</p> + +<p>“‘Ah, my dear Mayfield, that <i>was</i> a woman!’ he exclaimed. ‘You +are, of course, aware that I was her secretary, her adviser, her +treasurer,—I may say, her guardian angel,—before her brilliant +marriage; and now, sir, she cuts me, though I give you my word of +honour that marriage could never have taken place but for my management +of her affairs.”</p> + +<p>“This bears out the autobiography,” cried Eustace, eagerly.</p> + +<p>“To the letter. I first sympathized with Mr. Hollis, and then pumped +him. I found him somewhat reserved upon the subject of that northern +expedition; but after some beating about the bush, I got from him the +admission that the lady whom we will still call Carlitz was in Scotland +just before her marriage with Lord V.; and by and by he let slip<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> that +the spot was in the extreme north of Aberdeen. This much, and no more, +could I obtain. Examination of a tourist’s map showed me a headland +called Halko’s Head, in the north of Aberdeenshire. This is likely to +be the H. H. of Dion’s book, and thither we must direct our steps.”</p> + +<p>“My dear uncle, you have done wonders!”</p> + +<p>“And when you find the place, what then?”</p> + +<p>“I shall discover the name of the man.”</p> + +<p>“Who knows? The chase of the wild-goose is a sport congenial to youth; +but April is a cold month in Scotland, and I wish the expedition could +have been contrived later.”</p> + +<p>Eustace would fain have started next morning, had it been possible; but +two days were necessary for Mr. Mayfield’s literary affairs, and the +agreement with the editors as to what contributions he was to send to +the <i>Areopagus</i> and another journal during his absence, and so on.</p> + +<p>“I must scribble <i>en route</i>, you see, Eustace,” he said; “the mill +will not stop because I want a holiday.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.<br> +HALKO’S HEAD.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>A SEVENTEEN hours’ journey conveyed Mr. Mayfield and his nephew to the +granite city of Aberdeen, with only a quarter of an hour’s pause at +Carlisle, where the travellers were turned out upon the platform at the +chillest hour ’twixt night and morning, and tantalized by the sight of +blazing fires in a luxurious waiting-room.</p> + +<p>The travellers arrived at Aberdeen at noon, and devoted the remainder +of that day and the next to the exploration of the city, dismantled +cathedral, and sparse relics of the old town; the narrow street where, +over a grocer’s shop, still exist the rooms once inhabited by the boy +Byron and his mother. They made an excursion to the old bridge of +Don—an easy walk from the city—and loitered there for some<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span> time, +leaning on “Balgounie’s brig’s black wall,” and talking of the poet +whose one line has made it famous.</p> + +<p>To Eustace every hour’s delay was painful. He longed to push on to that +remote point of the shire where Halko’s stormy headland showed grim and +gray against the broad blue sea. They had made all inquiries about this +culminating point of their journey, and had been informed that Halko’s +Head was a very wild place, where there were but just a few fishermen’s +cottages, but where folks sometimes went in the summer for fishing +and such-like. Railroad to Halko’s Head there was none; but the rail +would convey them about two-thirds of the way, and thence they could +doubtless obtain some mode of conveyance.</p> + +<p>“We can walk, if need be,” said Eustace, cheerily; and to this Mr. +Mayfield assented.</p> + +<p>“Though ’tis somewhat long since I have distinguished myself as a +pedestrian,” he added, doubtfully.</p> + +<p>“You can take your ease at your inn, Uncle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> Dan, and spin copy for your +ravening editors, while I push on to that place.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps it would be best so, Eustace,” answered Mr. Mayfield, +thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>He divined that the young man was anxious that his first visit to that +scene should be made companionless. The memories connected with that +spot were too sad for sympathy—too bitter for friendly commune.</p> + +<p>After an evening which the indefatigable essayist, devoted to a review +of a new translation of Juvenal for the <i>Areopagus</i>, and Eustace +to meditations of the most sombre hue, they left Aberdeen at daybreak +next morning, and went on to a small station, which was their nearest +point to Halko’s Head.</p> + +<p>This nearest point proved five-and-twenty miles distant from the +fishing-village; but on inquiry the travellers discovered that there +was a comfortable halting-place at a village or small town eighteen +miles farther on, and only seven from the wild headland to which +Eustace Thorburn’s steps were bent.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> + +<p>Vehicles were not easily to be obtained at this remote station, and +the travellers decided upon walking the eighteen miles at a leisurely +pace, stopping to examine anything worth seeing which they might find +on their route.</p> + +<p>The day was bright and clear, and their road lay across the short turf +of broad uplands overhanging the wide northern sea.</p> + +<p>They reached the little town at set of sun, and found the chief inn +a somewhat rude but not comfortless hostelry. Here they dined upon +liberal Scottish fare, and sat long after their meal smoking by the +wide hearth, where sea-coal and odorous pine-logs made a glorious fire.</p> + +<p>Even his Uncle Dan’s talk could not distract the younger man’s +thoughts from that one subject upon which he had of late pondered so +deeply. Within seven miles lay the spot where his mother had lived and +suffered, something less than a quarter of a century ago. All day he +had been thinking of her. The wild scene on which he looked was the +landscape over<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> which her sad eyes had wandered wearily, looking for +some faint star of hope where hope was none. The waves of this northern +sea had sounded the monotonous chorus of her melancholy thoughts.</p> + +<p>“O mother!” he said to himself, “and of all your young day-dreams, +your girlish sorrows, there were none which you dared speak of to the +son you loved so dearly! Even this bitter penalty you had to pay—the +penalty of a lifelong silence. For your grief there was no sympathy, +for your memories no confidant.”</p> + +<p>He left the mountain-shanty quietly at daybreak next morning. Host and +hostess were stirring, but Daniel was sleeping profoundly in his humble +nest—a mere cupboard in the wall of the room where the travellers had +dined. Eustace had occupied a similar cupboard, and was not sorry to +exchange so stifling a couch for the fresh breath of the north wind +blowing over the red mountains.</p> + +<p>The path from Killalochie to Halko’s Head<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> traversed a wild and +picturesque country, high above the sea. Eustace looked down from the +mountain-road, across the edge of precipitous cliffs, upon a broad +sweep of sand—the sands on which his nameless father had walked full +of fear on the night of his mother’s disappearance. Before noon he +entered the little village, if village it could be called, a straggling +group of rude stone cottages, inhabited by fishermen, whose nets hung +on the low granite walls, and lay on the stunted turf before the +doors. Two or three cottages of a better class were to be seen on +the outskirts of the little colony, but even these presented small +attraction to the eye of the English traveller.</p> + +<p>This was Halko’s Head. Eustace questioned a rough fisher-boy before +he could convince himself that he did indeed tread the scene of his +mother’s sad experiences—of his father’s selfish perfidy.</p> + +<p>For artist or poet the place had ample charm, but for the ordinary +pleasure-seeker it would have appeared as barren as it was remote.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> +Wilder or less fertile landscape was not to be found in North Britain; +and to this untravelled wanderer the rough fishermen and brawny +fisherwives seemed as strange as the inhabitants of Central Africa.</p> + +<p>How was he to find the house in which his mother had lived, the people +who had known her, after the lapse of four-and-twenty years? This was +a question which he had not asked himself until this moment, when he +stood a stranger amongst that scanty population, upon the headland he +had come to explore.</p> + +<p>He walked about the little place, descended a steep flight of steps cut +in the cliff, which he identified as the Devil’s Staircase of Dion’s +narrative; walked about half a mile along the sands, and then saw, +glimmering in the sunlight, high above him, the little white temple, +where his mother had so often sat alone and pensive, looking out at the +barren sea.</p> + +<p>From the sands where he was walking, this classic summer-house was +inaccessible; but Eustace had no doubt of its identity with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> temple +described by Dion. How such an elegant affectation as this classic +edifice should exist among those barren moorlands, peopled only by +grouse and ptarmigan, was in itself an enigma, and one which Eustace +was anxious to solve.</p> + +<p>As the temple was unapproachable from the sands, the traveller was +fain to retrace his steps to the Devil’s Staircase, and thence to the +village. Here he found a humble place of entertainment, where he asked +for such refreshments as the house could afford him, in order that he +might use the privileges of a customer in the way of asking questions. +A healthy-looking matron, past middle life, neatly clad in linsey +petticoat and cotton bedgown, with snow-white muslin headgear and +brawny bare feet, brought him his meal, and with her he began at once +to converse, though the worthy dame’s dialect sorely puzzled him, and +but for his familiarity with the immortal romancer, would most probably +have baffled him altogether.</p> + +<p>Happily, his intimate acquaintance with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> Gregoragh, and the Dougal +Creature, his long-standing friendship for Caleb Balderstone and Douce +Davie Deans, with many others of the same immortal family, enabled him +to comprehend the greater part of the guidwife’s discourse, though he +had occasional difficulty in making himself intelligible to her.</p> + +<p>The gist of the conversation may be summed-up thus. Did gentlefolks +from the south ever come to Halko’s Head? Yes, some, but not many. +There were but three houses suitable to such folks—Widow Macfarlane’s, +the cottage beyond the Devil’s Staircase; Mistress Ramsay’s on the +Killalochie road; and a shooting-box of Lord Pendarvoch’s. But this +latter had been suffered to fall into decay many years ago. It had been +shut up for the last quarter of a century, except now and then, when my +lord had lent it to one of his friends that came for the shootings. All +the shootings round about, farther than you could see, belonged to Lord +Pendarvoch. But he was just dead, poor old body! and little loss to any +mortal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> creature, for he had been nothing better than a miser since his +young days, when he was wild and wasteful enough, if folks spoke true. +That “wee bit stone hoosie” on the cliff had been put there by my lord, +who brought the stone “posties” from foreign parts.</p> + +<p>Here was the mystery of the classic temple fully explained. Eustace +knew very little of the peers of the realm, and Lord Pendarvoch was to +him only as other lords—an unfamiliar name.</p> + +<p>“You have lived here many years, I suppose?” he said to the hostess.</p> + +<p>She told him with a pleasant grin, that she had never lived anywhere +else. That pure mountain air she had breathed all her life. On Halko’s +Head her eyes had first opened.</p> + +<p>On this Eustace proceeded to question her closely as to her +recollections of any strangers who had made their abode at the +fishing-village about four-and-twenty years before. He described the +young couple—a gentleman and lady—“bride and bridegroom,” he said, +with a faint blush.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span></p> + +<p>After much questioning from Eustace, and profound consideration upon +the worthy dame’s part, a glimmer of light broke in upon her memory.</p> + +<p>“Was it at Lord Pendarvoch’s they lived?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“That I cannot tell you. But since you say there are only three houses +suitable to strangers of superior condition, I suppose it was at one +of those three the lady and gentleman had lived. They were here some +months. The lady was very young, very pretty. She left suddenly, and +the gentleman followed her a few days afterwards.”</p> + +<p>“Ay, ay, puir thing! I mind her the noo!” exclaimed the woman, nodding +her head sympathetically.</p> + +<p>After this she told Eustace how such a couple as he described—the +lady “as bonny a lass as ye’d see for mony a lang mile”—had lived for +some months at Lord Pendarvoch’s shooting-box; and how the lady had +been very sad and gentle, and much neglected towards<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> the last by the +gentleman, until she ran away one day, in a fit of jealousy, as it was +thought, because the gentleman had been seen riding and driving with a +strange foreign woman from London; and the gentleman had thought she’d +drowned herself, and had been well-nigh mad for a night and a day, till +news came that quieted him, and then he went away.</p> + +<p>This much—full confirmation of Dion’s story—the woman could tell +Eustace; but no more. The name of these southern strangers she had +never heard, or, having heard, had utterly forgotten. Of their +condition, whence they came, and how they had obtained license to +occupy Lord Pendarvoch’s house, she was equally ignorant. Nor could +she direct Eustace to any inhabitant of the village likely to know +more than herself. There had not been for years any care taken of the +shooting-box. Lord Pendarvoch was just dead. His old steward had died +six years before, and a new man from the south—“folks were all for +southrons noo”—had succeeded to his post.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span></p> + +<p>Pendarvoch Castle was a day’s journey off, on the other side of the +county.</p> + +<p>To obtain further information seemed hopeless; but Eustace was +determined to leave no stone unturned. Why should he not go to +Pendarvoch Castle before he left Scotland, see the old servants?—for +old servants there must be in a large household, whatever changes time +and death might have brought about in four-and-twenty years. Some one +there might be who would remember to whom Lord Pendarvoch had lent his +house in that particular year. It was at least a chance, and Eustace +resolved upon trying it.</p> + +<p>He questioned his hostess as to the way back to Killalochie. She +told him that there were two ways, one by the sands at low tide, +the shorter of the two, since there was an inlet of the sea between +Halko’s Head and Killalochie, which was dry at low tide. It was a +place that strangers went to see, the dame told Eustace, because of a +cavern dug in the face of the cliff, that a saint lived in once upon a +time—“joost<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> a wee bit cavey,” the good woman called it.</p> + +<p>Eustace thanked his hostess for her civility, paid her liberally for +his humble refreshment, and bade her good-day, after inquiring his way +to the disused abode of Lord Pendarvoch.</p> + +<p>This dwelling he found easily enough. It was built in a hollow of the +cliff, about a quarter of a mile from the village, midway between the +fishermen’s cottages and the classic temple. The house was small, but +built in the Gothic style, and with some attempt at the picturesque. +“Decay’s effacing fingers,” however, had done their worst. The stucco +had peeled off wherever there was stucco to peel; the stone was stained +with damp, and disfigured with patches of moss; the woodwork rotted for +want of an occasional coat of paint. A scanty grove of firs sheltered +the house on its seaward side, and tossed their dark branches drearily +in the spring breeze, as Eustace opened the rusty iron gate and entered +the small domain. No element of desolation<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> was wanting to the dreary +picture. A bony goat cropped the stunted grass pensively, but fled at +sound of the intruder’s footfall.</p> + +<p>No barrier defended the deserted dwelling. Eustace walked round the +house, and peered in at the casements, whereof the shutters gaped open, +as if their fastenings had rusted and dropped off with the progress +of time. Within the traveller saw scanty furniture of a remote era, +white with dust. He pulled the rusty handle of a bell, and a discordant +jangle sounded in the distant offices; but he had no hope of finding +any inmate. The abode bore upon its front an unmistakable stamp of +abandonment.</p> + +<p>After pulling the jangling bell a second time, Eustace tried one of +the windows. Half a dozen broken panes gaped wide, as if in invitation +to the burglar’s hand. He unhasped the sash, pushed open the spurious +Gothic window, and went in. The room in which he found himself had once +been gaily decorated; but little except the tawdry traces of vanished +colour and tarnished gilding remained in evidence<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> of its former +splendour. The furniture was battered and worn, and of the scantiest +description. Lank, empty book-cases of painted and gilded wood stood +in the recesses of the fire-place. He tried to picture his father +and mother seated together in that dreary room; his mother watching +by that dilapidated casement. The room might have been bright enough +five-and-twenty years ago.</p> + +<p>On the same floor there was another room, with less evidence of +departed decoration; above there were four bed-chambers, and here the +furniture was piled pell-mell, as in a lumber-room. The view from +the windows was sublimity itself, and Eustace did not wonder that a +Scottish nobleman should have chosen to build himself a nest on so +picturesque a spot.</p> + +<p>He walked slowly through the rooms, wondering where <i>her</i> aching +head had lain, where <i>her</i> sad heart had stifled its griefs, where +<i>her</i> penitent knees had bent to the Heaven her sin had offended. +To tread these floors which she had trodden, to look from these windows +whence she<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> had gazed, seemed to him worth the journey the barren +privilege had cost him.</p> + +<p>He lingered in the dusty rooms for some time, thinking of that one sad +inhabitant whose presence had made the house sacred to him as the holy +dwelling of Loretto to faithful pilgrims, and then softly and slowly +departed, pausing only to gather a few sprigs of sweet-brier that grew +in a sheltered corner of the neglected garden. With these in his breast +he went back to the road leading to Killalochie, and bent his steps +towards that humble settlement. He looked at his watch as he regained +the road. It was three o’clock, and by six he could be with his uncle, +who would scarcely care to dine until that hour.</p> + +<p>“I can take him to that house to-morrow,” he said to himself, “if he +would like to see it. And I dare say it would be a mournful pleasure +to him to see the rooms, as it has been to me. It is like looking at a +grave.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.<br> +HOPELESS.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>BETWEEN Killalochie and Halko’s Head the road was of the loneliest. +On his morning journey Eustace Thorburn had encountered about three +people, sturdy mountaineers, who gave him friendly greeting as they +passed him. For the first few miles of his return he met no one; and +when he seated himself to rest on a rough block of stone near the +junction of two roads, the wide expanse of land and sea which the spot +commanded was as solitary as if he had been the first man, and the +world newly-created for his habitation.</p> + +<p>It is not to be supposed that even on this day every thought of Helen +de Bergerac had been banished from the wanderer’s mind. He had too +long and too habitually indulged himself<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> with tender memories of the +pleasant hours they had spent together. Thoughts of her were interwoven +with all other thoughts and all other memories.</p> + +<p>Upon that lonely road he had found ample leisure for meditation; and +now, as he sat alone amidst the solitary grandeur of that mountain +district, it was of Helen and of the future he thought. Nor were his +meditations hopeful. Alone, nameless, his task well-nigh finished for +the one kindly patron whom fortune had sent him, with nothing but a +manuscript poem and a publisher’s half-promise between him and poverty, +was he a fitting suitor for Theodore de Bergerac’s only daughter? +By what right could he demand her father’s confidence? What promise +could he make? what hopes advance? None. To sum up his best claim, his +brightest aspiration, would be only to say, “Sometimes, when the demon +of self-doubt ceases for the moment to torment me, I believe I am a +poet. Of my chances of winning the world to believe as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> much, I know +nothing. Assured income in the present or expectation in the future, I +have none.”</p> + +<p>He considered his position with a gloomy hopelessness that was almost +despair. What could he do but despair? He knew that his patron liked +him; nay, indeed, had honoured him with a warm regard; but would that +regard stand him in good stead should he presume to offer himself as +a husband for his patron’s only daughter? Mr. Jerningham’s influence +would, he knew, be exercised against him, since, for some mysterious +reason, that gentleman had chosen to regard him with a malignant eye. +And he knew that Mr. Jerningham’s counsel would not be disregarded by +his old friend.</p> + +<p>“No; there is no ray of hope on the dark horizon of my life,” thought +the young man. “Better for me that I should never see Helen again.”</p> + +<p>The sound of carriage-wheels startled him from his reverie. He looked +up, and saw a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> landau and pair approaching him by the cross-road. The +apparition of such an equipage in that rugged district surprised him. +He stood up and looked at the advancing carriage, and in the same +moment recognized its occupants.</p> + +<p>They were M. de Bergerac, his daughter, and Mr. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>The Frenchman was quick to recognize his secretary.</p> + +<p>“<i>Holà!</i> Stop, then!” he cried to the coachman; and then to +Eustace, “Come hither, young wanderer. To see the ghost of the +Chevalier—your hapless Charles Edward—standing by that stone, would +not more have surprised me. Jump in, then. There is no objection to his +taking the fourth place, I suppose, Harold?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham bowed, with an air which implied that, upon a subject so +utterly indifferent to him as the secretary’s movements, he could have +no opinion but that of his friend.</p> + +<p>“Why, how bewildered you look, Eustace!” exclaimed M. de Bergerac, as +the young man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> took his place in the carriage with the manner of a +sleep-walker. “And yet you must have expected to see us. You followed +me down here with your papers. What foolish devotion!—Tell your man to +drive on, Harold.”</p> + +<p>Eustace had recovered himself a little by this time, and had shaken +hands with Helen, whose too expressive face betrayed an emotion no +less profound than his own. Nor were those eloquent glances lost upon +Mr. Jerningham, who watched the young people closely, from beneath +thoughtful brows.</p> + +<p>“And so you thought your French documents worth a pilgrimage to +Scotland?” said M. de Bergerac.</p> + +<p>“No, indeed, sir. This meeting is only a happy accident for me. I knew +you were in Scotland. They told me as much in Greenlands; but they +could tell me no more.”</p> + +<p>“But in that case, what brings you here?” cried the Frenchman.</p> + +<p>“I am here with my uncle—on business.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> + +<p>“On business!” exclaimed M. de Bergerac, looking at his secretary, in +amazement.</p> + +<p>Harold Jerningham also regarded the young man, with a new sharpness of +scrutiny.</p> + +<p>“On business!” repeated M. de Bergerac. “But what business could +possibly bring you into these remote wilds?—to the utmost limits of +your civilization.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps it can scarcely be called business,” replied Eustace. “It +would be nearer the mark to call it a voyage of discovery. I came from +Paris when my work was done, and found Greenlands deserted. My time was +my own, awaiting your return. My uncle and I had a fancy for a holiday, +and we came here.”</p> + +<p>“It is, at least, a remarkable coincidence.”</p> + +<p>“Very remarkable,” said Mr. Jerningham, with a suspicious look.</p> + +<p>He was not inclined to regard the meeting as a coincidence. The young +adventurer had, no doubt, been informed as to their whereabouts, and +had followed them. And yet of their <i>precise</i> whereabouts he could +not have been informed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> for beyond the border of Aberdeenshire neither +Mr. Jerningham’s steward nor any one else had been apprised of their +movements.</p> + +<p>“Unless there were secret communications between Helen and him,” +thought Harold Jerningham. And this seemed utterly impossible. To +suspect Helen—to suspect the girl whom he had learned to adore as the +very type of all feminine excellence, the incarnate ideal of womanly +innocence! Great heaven, to discover deceit <i>there</i>!</p> + +<p>“It would be a fitting end to my career,” he thought, bitterly.</p> + +<p>“Your uncle is travelling with you, then?” said M. de Bergerac.</p> + +<p>“Yes; he is now at the inn yonder, at Killalochie, where I must rejoin +him; so I must ask you not to take me too far off the right road.”</p> + +<p>“But is it imperative that you rejoin him to-day? Do you think I am not +eager to question you about the work you have done for me in Paris? Can +you not dine with us? Mr. Jerningham will, I know, be charmed to have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> +you.” That gentleman bowed an icy assent. “Can’t you spare us this +evening?”</p> + +<p>To refuse this invitation Eustace Thorburn must have been something +more than mortal. Happily for his honour he had told his uncle that it +was just possible he might find his explorations at Halko’s Head too +much for one day’s work, and might sleep at that village. He was thus +free.</p> + +<p>“We dine and sleep at a village ten miles from here,” said M. de +Bergerac. “The people of the inn can give you a bed, no doubt; and you +can get back to Killalochie to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Eustace accepted the invitation, and was then favoured with some +account of his employer’s wanderings.</p> + +<p>“We have rested nowhere, but have seen everything worth seeing between +the Tweed and these mountains,” said M. de Bergerac. “I begin to think +that Jerningham is the original Wandering Jew. He knows everything, +every trace of Pictish camp, and every relic of the early convents, +from St. Columba to St. Margaret.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> There is a cave on this coast +which we are to see before we leave the neighbourhood; a cave cut in +the face of the cliff, with outer and inner chamber, in which one of +the Scottish saints spent the evening of his pious days, among the +sea-gulls.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I heard of that cave at Halko’s Head,” said Eustace.</p> + +<p>“You have been to Halko’s Head?” asked Mr. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“I was returning from that place when your carriage picked me up.”</p> + +<p>“Why do we not go to Halko’s Head, if it is worth seeing?” asked M. de +Bergerac.</p> + +<p>“It is not worth seeing. A mere handful of fishermen’s cottages, on a +craggy headland;” replied Mr. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“And yet Mr. Thorburn goes there?”</p> + +<p>“I cannot help Mr. Thorburn’s bad taste; but we can drive to Halko’s +Head to-morrow, if you please. I told you, when we came into this part +of the country, that there was little calculated to interest any one +but a sportsman.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span></p> + +<p>“But I was determined to see Aberdeenshire,” replied M. de Bergerac, +with playful insistence. “Why not Aberdeenshire? Why should we explore +all other shires of Scotland, and neglect Aberdeenshire? I had read of +the Cairn-gorm mountains, and wanted to behold them.”</p> + +<p>“You know Halko’s Head, Mr. Jerningham?” said Eustace, thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>“I know every inch of Scotland.”</p> + +<p>“Did you know Halko’s Head four-and-twenty years ago?”</p> + +<p>For some reason the question startled Harold Jerningham more than he +was wont to be moved for any insignificant cause.</p> + +<p>“No,” he answered, shortly. “But what motive had you for such a +question?”</p> + +<p>“I want to find some one who knew that place four-and-twenty years ago.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Because a person very dear to me was living there at that time.”</p> + +<p>“An insufficient reason for such curiosity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> about the place, I should +think,” replied Mr. Jerningham, coldly. “But you are a poet, Mr. +Thorburn, and are not bound by the laws of reason.”</p> + +<p>Helen interposed here, and began to question Eustace about his Parisian +experiences. She had felt that Mr. Jerningham’s tone was unfriendly, +and was eager to turn the current of the conversation.</p> + +<p>The two young people talked together during the rest of the drive, and +Mr. Jerningham listened and looked on. He had fancied himself gaining +ground rapidly during this northern tour; and now it seemed to him all +at once as if he had gained no ground, as if he were no nearer to the +one dear object of his desires. What delight these two seemed to find +in their frivolous discourse! To listen and look on,—was that to be +his lot for the rest of his weary days?</p> + +<p>“O God, am I an old man?” he asked himself, with passionate +self-abasement.</p> + +<p>The consciousness that his days of hope and pride are over,—the +wretched revelation that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> for him there are to be no more roses, no +more spring-time, no more of the brightness and glory of life,—will +come upon a man suddenly like this, in brief, bitter gusts, like the +breath of an east wind blowing in the face of midsummer.</p> + +<p>M. de Bergerac had watched his old friend and his daughter with +pleasure during this Scottish tour. It seemed to him also as if Harold +Jerningham was gaining ground, and it pleased him that it should be so. +To him the master of Greenlands appeared no ineligible suitor, for of +the darker side of his friend’s life and character he knew nothing.</p> + +<p>The ten miles’ drive upon a very indifferent road, uphill and downhill, +occupied more than two hours, and it was seven o’clock when the +carriage entered the little town where the travellers were to dine. At +the inn all was prepared for them. They dined in a room commanding a +noble view of the sea, and having a half-glass door which opened on a +rude kind of terrace-walk.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span></p> + +<p>Here M. de Bergerac and his secretary strolled after dinner, talking of +Oriental manuscripts in the spring moonlight, while Harold Jerningham +and Helen played chess, upon a little board which the travellers +carried, in the room within.</p> + +<p>“And when we return to Greenlands, which we are to do in a week, shall +I find you at your post?” asked M. de Bergerac, kindly. “A great deal +of work remains to be done before my first two volumes will be ready +for publication. Jerningham strongly recommends my publishing the first +two volumes as soon as they are ready. We shall have plenty to do in +giving them the final polish. Much that I have now in the form of notes +must be interwoven with the text. The frivolous reader recoils from +small type. You are not tired of your work, I hope?”</p> + +<p>On this Eustace spoke. He felt that the time had come, and that he dare +not longer keep silence.</p> + +<p>“Tired of my work! Oh, if you knew how<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> delightful my service has been +to me!” he exclaimed; and then in the next breath added, “but I fear I +shall never again inhabit Greenlands.”</p> + +<p>And then he made full confession of his offence. He told how this mad +folly had grown upon him in the happy days of the previous year.</p> + +<p>“I was counting my chances as you drove up to me to-day,” he said, +“little thinking I was so soon to see your daughter’s sweet face. I was +fighting with despair as I sat by the mountain-road. Speak plainly, +dear sir, you cannot say harder things to me than I have said to +myself.”</p> + +<p>“Why should I say anything hard? It is no sin to love my daughter. +I ought to have known that it was impossible to live near her, and +refrain from loving her. But do not talk to me of despair. What is a +young man’s love but a fancy which is blown to the end of the earth +by the first blast of Fame’s mighty trumpet. My dear young friend, +I am not afraid<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> that you will break your heart, or, at least, that +the heart-break will kill you. I broke my heart at your age. It is an +affair of six weeks; and for a poet a broken heart is inspiration.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, sir, for God’s sake, do not trifle with me!”</p> + +<p>“My dear friend, I am telling you the truth, I thank you for your +candour, and in return will be as candid. I admire and love you, almost +as I could have loved a son. If you could give my daughter a secure +position—a safe and certain home, however unpretending—I would be +the last to oppose your suit. But you cannot do this. You are young, +hopeful, ambitious. The world—as your poet says—is your oyster, which +with your sword you’ll open. But the oyster is sometimes impenetrable. +I have seen the brightest swords blunted. I am an old man and an exile; +my sole possession in the form of <i>rentes viagères</i>. You would +promise my child a home in the future. I cannot wait for the future. I +am an old man, and I must see my darling provided with a safe shelter<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> +before I die, so that, when death crosses my threshold, I may be able +to say, ‘Welcome, inevitable guest. The play is finished. <i>Vale et +plaudite.</i>”</p> + +<p>“God grant you may live to see your grandchildren’s children.”</p> + +<p>“I will not gainsay your prayer. But when it is a question of +grandchildren, a man is bound to be doubly circumspect. What is the +meaning of an imprudent marriage, of which the world talks so lightly? +It is not my daughter only whom I doom to care and poverty, but how +many unborn innocents do I devote to misfortune? Forgive me if, upon +this subject, I seem hard and worldly. I would do much to prove my +regard for you; but my child’s future is the one thing that I cannot +afford to hazard.”</p> + +<p>“You are all goodness, sir,” replied Eustace, with the gentle gravity +of resignation. “I scarcely hoped for a more favourable sentence.”</p> + +<p>He said no more. He had, indeed, cherished<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> little hope; but the +agony of this utter despair was none the less acute. M. de Bergerac +compassionated this natural sorrow, and was conscious that he was in +some wise to blame for having brought the two young people together.</p> + +<p>“If she, too, should suffer!” he thought. “I have seen her interest in +this young man—her regret when he left us. Great heaven! how am I to +choose wisely for the child I love so well?”</p> + +<p>He looked to the window of the room where Harold Jerningham and Helen +sat together in the dim light of two candles. The man’s patrician +face and the girl’s fresh young beauty made a charming picture. M. +de Bergerac had no sense of incongruity in the union of these two. +The accomplishments and graces of middle age harmonized well with the +innocent beauty of youth, and it seemed to him a fitting thing that +these two should marry.</p> + +<p>“Not for worlds would I sacrifice her to a father’s ambition,” he said +to himself; “but to see her mistress of Greenlands, to know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span> that her +life would be sheltered from all the storms of fate, would comfort me +in the hour of parting.”</p> + +<p>Eustace bade his patron good-night presently, making some lame excuse +for not returning to the sitting-room. In vain did the kindly Frenchman +essay to comfort him in this bitter hour.</p> + +<p>“I thank you a thousand times for your goodness to me on this and every +other occasion,” the young man said, as they shook hands. “Believe me, +I am grateful. I shall be proud and happy to go on working for you in +London, if you will allow me; but I cannot return to Greenlands—I +cannot see your daughter again.”</p> + +<p>“No, it is better not. Ah, if you only knew how short-lived these +sorrows are!”</p> + +<p>“I cannot believe that mine will be short-lived. But I do not want to +complain. Once more, good night, and God bless you! I shall leave this +place at daybreak to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>“And when shall you return to London?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span></p> + +<p>“That will rest with my uncle. I will write to you at Greenlands +directly I do return. Good night, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Good night, and God bless you!”</p> + +<p>Thus they parted. Eustace did not go back to the house immediately, +but wandered out into the little town, and thence to the open country, +where he indulged his grief in solitude. It was late when he went back +to the inn, and made his way stealthily to the humble garret-chamber +which had been allotted to him.</p> + +<p>Here he lay, sleepless, till the cock’s hoarse crow blent shrilly +with the thunderous roll of the waves. At the first faint streak of +daylight he rose, dressed, and went softly down stairs, where he +found a bare-footed servant-girl opening the doors of the house. By +one of these open doors he departed unobserved, while the bare-footed +damsel was sweeping in some mysterious locality which she called +“Ben.” The morning was dull and drizzling; but what recks despair of +such small inconveniences? The young man set out on his lonely walk,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> +breakfastless and hopeless, scarce knowing where his steps led him.</p> + +<p>After walking about a mile, he took the trouble to inquire his +whereabouts from the first person he encountered, who informed him that +he was fifteen miles from Killalochie, and fourteen from Halko’s Head.</p> + +<p>On this he determined to walk to Halko’s Head. He wanted to see that +place once more, and to visit the little classic temple on the cliff, +which on the previous day he had omitted to examine. He was in no +humour for even his uncle’s society, and dreaded a return to the little +inn at Killalochie, where genial Dan would question him about his +adventures, and where he must perhaps reveal his disappointment, if +that could be called a disappointment which had annihilated so frail a +hope.</p> + +<p>“A day’s solitude will do me good,” he thought, as he turned his face +towards Halko’s Head. “I can get back to Killalochie by nightfall, +before my uncle can alarm himself about my absence.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span></p> + +<p>The walk occupied some hours, and when the traveller entered the little +fishing village nature asserted itself in spite of despair, and he was +fain to order breakfast at the humble hostelry where he had lunched the +day before.</p> + +<p>The same woman waited upon him: she was the mistress of the house, and +again he questioned her about the lady and gentleman who occupied Lord +Pendarvoch’s house four-and-twenty years ago; but she could tell him +no more to-day than yesterday. No new facts had returned to her memory +during the interval.</p> + +<p>As Eustace Thorburn sat alone after this unprofitable conversation, +the first anguish of despair yielded to the sweet whispers of hope. +Was his case indeed utterly hopeless? M. de Bergerac asked security +for the future. That he could not now offer; but if his poem should +win recognition, the pathway of literary success would be opened to +him, and on his industry and perseverance alone would depend his speedy +achievement of a secure position in the world<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span> of letters. Such an +income as his Uncle Daniel earned with ease, and squandered with even +greater facility, would support a home which M. de Bergerac’s simple +taste would not despise.</p> + +<p>“Why should I not win her as fair a home as she has at Greenlands,” he +said, “and if she loves me she will wait. Ah, if I had only seen her, +if I had but told her how devotedly she is loved!”</p> + +<p>And then he reproached himself for his precipitancy. In his desire to +act honourably, he had played too much the part of a little boy who +asks a boon of his schoolmaster. He had at least the right to plead his +own cause with Helen de Bergerac.</p> + +<p>He told himself that if his poem should be a success, he could go to +Greenlands once more to entreat permission to speak to his divinity. +Armed with the talisman of success, he could ask as much. And then he +thought of Helen’s youth. What might he not achieve in a few years? +He remembered what his uncle had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span> said to him—“If her love is worth +winning, she will wait.”</p> + +<p>He took a manuscript volume from his pocket, and turned the leaves +thoughtfully. It was the fair copy of his <i>magnum opus</i>, which he +had brought with him on this journey for leisurely revision, but on +which he had as yet worked little. From these manuscript pages he tried +to obtain comfort. If the world would only listen! He measured his +strength against the minor poets of his day. Surely there was something +in these verses that should win him a place among the younger singers.</p> + +<p>He left the inn by and by, and walked slowly along the cliff to the +little classic temple. The April day had brightened, and the sun shone +upon the waves, though there were ugly black clouds to windward.</p> + +<p>The temple on the cliff could tell him nothing. But it was the scene +of his mother’s loneliest hours, and he contemplated it with a tender +interest. The mountain weeds—such wild flowers as flourish in the +breath of the sea, had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span> clustered thickly round the bases of the slim +Ionian pillars; gray moss and lichen defaced the marble, white as it +looked from the distance. Eustace seated himself on the crumbling +stone bench, and lingered for some time, looking out over the sea, and +thinking now of his mother, now of Helen de Bergerac, anon of that +unknown father whose sin had made him nameless.</p> + +<p>From this long reverie he was disturbed by the soft thud of hoofs upon +the short turf, and looking landwards, he saw a horseman trotting +towards the temple. Within a few yards of the spot he dismounted, +and came to the temple, leading his horse. Before this Eustace had +recognized Mr. Jerningham, the man who had surprised him reading +<i>The Disappointments of Dion</i>, the man who bore some resemblance +to himself, and must therefore resemble his father—the man who, by a +series of coincidences, seemed involved in that mystery of the past +which he was so eager to penetrate.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span></p> + +<p>If Mr. Jerningham’s appearance here was surprising to Eustace, the +presence of Eustace at this spot seemed no less astounding to Mr. +Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“They told me you had returned to Killalochie,” he said.</p> + +<p>“No; I wanted to see this place before I left this part of Scotland.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot imagine what interest you can possibly have in a spot so +remote.”</p> + +<p>“The interest of association,” Eustace answered. “But have I not as +much reason to wonder what should bring you here, Mr. Jerningham?”</p> + +<p>“That question is easily answered. A proprietor is generally anxious to +examine his newly acquired possessions. This summer-house comes to me +with the rest of my kinsman Pendarvoch’s property.”</p> + +<p>“Lord Pendarvoch was related to you!” exclaimed Eustace.</p> + +<p>“He was.”</p> + +<p>“Strange!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span></p> + +<p>“What is there so strange in such a relationship?”</p> + +<p>“Nothing strange except to me. It is only one more in a sequence of +coincidences which concern me alone. I came to this part of Scotland +to discover a secret of the past, Mr. Jerningham, and perhaps you can +help me to penetrate that mystery. Four-and-twenty years ago, Lord +Pendarvoch lent his shooting-box yonder to a gentleman whose name +I want to know. Can you tell me if I shall find any old servant at +Pendarvoch likely to be able to answer this question for me, or do you +yourself know enough of your kinsman’s friends at that period, as to be +able to give me the information I seek.”</p> + +<p>To these inquiries Mr. Jerningham had listened gravely, with his face +somewhat averted from the speaker.</p> + +<p>“No,” he replied, coldly, “I knew very few of Pendarvoch’s friends. I +cannot help you to identify the person who may have borrowed his house +a quarter of a century ago. Every man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span> makes a <i>tabula rasa</i> of +his memory half a dozen times within such a period. Existence would be +unbearable if our memories wore so well as you seem to suppose they +do. As to my cousin’s old servants, they are all dead or imbecile. If +you want information, you may spare yourself the trouble of going to +Pendarvoch, and question these marble columns. They will tell you as +much as the Pendarvoch servants.”</p> + +<p>“Do not think me obstinate if I put that to the test. I have determined +not to leave a stone unturned.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot understand your eagerness to pry into the secrets of the +past. I begin to fancy you are hunting some lost estate—perhaps +plotting to dispossess me.”</p> + +<p>“No, Mr. Jerningham, it is not an estate I am hunting; it is a lost +name.”</p> + +<p>“You appear to delight in enigmas. I do not.”</p> + +<p>“I will not bore you with any further talk of my affairs. And this +temple is yours, Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span> Jerningham. I may never see it again. Forgive me +if I ask you not to pull it down. Let it stand. For me it is sacred as +a tomb.”</p> + +<p>Harold Jerningham stared aghast at the speaker. A question rose to his +lips, but his voice failed him, and it remained unspoken. He stood +pale, breathless, watching the young man as he bent his knee upon one +of the steps of the temple, and gathered a handful of the wild flowers +that clustered about the stone.</p> + +<p>“Your friends and I are to dine at Killalochie,” he said, presently, +while Eustace’s head was still bent over the flowers; “we both return +by the same road, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“I think not; the tide is low, and I have set my heart upon going back +by the sands.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think it quite safe to venture?”</p> + +<p>“I should imagine so. At Halko’s Head they told me the way was safe at +low tide.”</p> + +<p>“But are you sure the tide is on the ebb?”</p> + +<p>“It looks like it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span></p> + +<p>“I would warn you to be cautious. The tide upon this part of the coast +is dangerous, at least I have heard people say as much.”</p> + +<p>“I am not afraid,” answered Eustace, with some touch of bitterness. “A +man whose life is hardly worth keeping may defy fortune.”</p> + +<p>“Life at five-and-twenty is always worth keeping. Take my advice, Mr. +Thorburn, and ask advice from the fisher-folk before you set out on +your walk.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks; you are very good; I will take your advice. And M. de Bergerac +and his daughter are to dine at the Killalochie Inn, where I am pledged +to rejoin my uncle to-day. I did not think I should see them again +before I left Scotland.”</p> + +<p>After this, Eustace Thorburn bade Mr. Jerningham good morning, and +departed in the direction of that rough flight of steps known as “The +Devil’s Staircase.” Harold Jerningham tied his horse’s bridle to one of +the marble columns, and paced to and fro upon the short grass, darkly +meditative.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span></p> + +<p>“What does it mean?” he asked himself, “this young man’s appearance +at this spot—his searching inquiries about the people who occupied +Pendarvoch’s house four-and-twenty years ago? The very time! A spot so +remote, so rarely visited—a house so seldom inhabited! Can he be any +relation of—<i>hers</i>? A nephew, perhaps. And yet, is that likely? +Her father and mother died more than twenty years ago. Who should +have set this man upon the track? And he gathered those wild flowers, +and put them in his breast, with the air of a man whose associations +with the spot were of the closest and most tender. And in Berkshire +I came upon him reading <i>that</i> book—that wretched record of +heartlessness and folly. Yes, it is the spot. When I last stood here I +was young and beloved. I, who now hang upon the looks of a girl less +lovely than she who gave me a kind of worship. Nothing that I possess, +nothing that I can do, will win me such a love as that I spurned. O +God! the bitterness of late remorse! I let her go,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span> broken-hearted, +and I know not how long she lived or how she died. I cannot think a +creature so tender could long survive sorrow and ignominy, such as +I made her suffer. Here we have sat side by side, and I have grown +weary of her company. If she could arise before me now—pale, faded, +in rags—I would fall upon my knees before her, and claim her as my +redeeming angel. ‘Welcome back, sweet spirit!’ I would cry. ‘In all +these years I have sought for happiness, and found none so pure and +perfect as that you offered me. In all these years I have sought the +love of women, and have never been loved as you loved me.’”</p> + +<p>Alas! that the dead cannot return! To her whose fate had been so +dreary, what warm welcome, what atoning tears, might have been given if +she could have come to claim them! A cold gust of wind swept along the +cliff as Mr. Jerningham invoked the departed spirit. It seemed to him +like a breath from the grave.</p> + +<p>“She is dead,” he said to himself; “I call her in vain.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span></p> + +<p>He, too, stooped to gather a few of the yellow hill-flowers, and put +them in his breast. Then, after one long, mournful look at the deserted +summer-house, he mounted his horse, and rode slowly to the dilapidated +shooting-box which had come to him with the rest of his kinsman’s +estate. At the gate of this humble domain he dismounted again, and +left his horse cropping the rank grass in the neglected garden, while +he made his way into the house, very much after the manner in which +Eustace Thorburn had penetrated it upon the previous day.</p> + +<p>He walked quickly through the rooms, and left the house hurriedly. To +him the gloom of the dust-whitened chambers was almost intolerable.</p> + +<p>“Why do I grope among dry bones and dead men’s skulls?” he asked +himself. “Can any man afford to retrace his steps over the ground he +trod in his youth? Shall I, above all men, dare the phantoms of the +Past?”</p> + +<p>He mounted his horse, and rode away without a glance behind him, as +if he had, indeed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> encountered some ghostly presence in that empty +dwelling-place.</p> + +<p>“I will have it rased to the ground next week,” he said to himself. +“Why should it stand for ever as a monument of my faults and follies? +And that young man, de Bergerac’s <i>protégé</i>, entreated me to spare +the summer-house yonder, because it is sacred to him! To him? What +should make it sacred in his eyes? What connexion can he have with +<i>that</i> dark story! And they say he is like me—indeed, I have +myself perceived the resemblance. I will question him closely to-night +at Killalochie.”</p> + +<p>At Halko’s Head Mr. Jerningham stopped to refresh his horse, and +ordered refreshment for himself, for the benefit of the humble hostelry +where he stopped. Here he dawdled away an hour and a half very +drearily, for the repose of his steed. The weather had changed for +the worse when he emerged from the little inn. Ominous black clouds +obscured the horizon, and a shrill east wind whistled across the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> +barren hills. Looking seaward from the lofty headland, Mr. Jerningham +saw that the tide had risen considerably since he had last looked at +the sands.</p> + +<p>“When did the tide turn, my man?” he asked, of the lad who brought him +his horse.</p> + +<p>“Above two hours ago, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Two hours ago! It was turning then when Thorburn went down to the +sands,” thought Mr. Jerningham. And then he again questioned the boy: +“I suppose any one setting off by the sands for Killalochie at turn of +tide would get there safely?” he asked.</p> + +<p>The boy shook his head with a doubtful grin.</p> + +<p>“I dinna ken, sir. Folks fra’ Halko’s Head mun start when the tide +wants an hour o’ turning, if they’d get to Killalochie dry-shod.”</p> + +<p>“Great heaven!” cried Harold Jerningham, “and that young man is a +stranger to the coast.”</p> + +<p>He left his horse in the care of the lad, and went to consult a little +group of idle fishermen congregated before one of the cottages. From<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span> +these men he received the most dismal confirmation of his fears. The +walk from Halko’s Head to Killalochie could not be done between the +turning of the tide and its full. Between the two places there was no +way of getting from the sands to the cliffs, or only points so perilous +and difficult of ascent, as to be impossible to any but the hardiest +samphire-gatherer, or boldest hunter of eaglets, bred on those rough +coasts. What was just possible for a Highland fisherman, would be, of +course, impossible to a literary Londoner.</p> + +<p>“Do you tell me that the distance cannot be walked in the time?” asked +Mr. Jerningham, desperately.</p> + +<p>The answer was decisive. Captain Barclay himself could not have walked +from Halko’s Head to Killalochie within the given period. The hardiest +of these villagers were careful, at this time of year, to start an hour +before the turn of the tide. The more cautious among these good folks +left Halko’s Head as soon as the ebbing waves left a dry path upon the +sand.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span></p> + +<p>“Then he is doomed!” Mr. Jerningham said to himself. “But what is his +doom to me? I am not his keeper.”</p> + +<p>He did his uttermost, however, towards the rescue of the unwary +pedestrian from the peril he had tempted. To the fishermen he offered a +noble reward should they succeed in saving the imprudent stranger. The +men ran to their boats, and in five minutes had pushed off, and were +making all the way they could against a heavy sea. But those who stayed +behind told Mr. Jerningham that the chances were against the boats +overtaking the pedestrian, if he were anything of a walker. They told +him there was a stiff wind blowing from the land, and it was as much as +the rowers could do to make any way against it. This, indeed, he could +see for himself, and those dark clouds in the windward quarter boded +ill. Mr. Jerningham lingered for some time, talking with the two men +who had stayed on shore. He questioned them closely as to the measures +to be taken for the rescue of the stranger; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span> they assured him that +in sending the boats he had done all that mortal aid could do.</p> + +<p>With this assurance he was obliged to be satisfied. What could it +matter to him whether Eustace Thorburn lived or died; or would not the +young man’s untimely end be for his advantage? He had seen, the day +before, only too plainly, that all his patient devotion, his watchful +anxiety to please her, had not made him as dear to Helen de Bergerac +as this hired secretary had become without an effort. And all the old +envy, and the old anger had returned to Harold Jerningham’s breast as +he made this discovery.</p> + +<p>“Will she lament his death?” he asked himself, “or is her love for +him only a girlish fancy, that will perish with its object. She +seemed tolerably happy in his absence, and I hoped she had completely +forgotten him, and was learning to love me. Why should I not win her +love? And he comes back, and in the first moment of his return I +discover that I have been building on sand. The divine attraction of +youth is with my rival, and all my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span> dreams and all my hopes are so much +foolishness and self-delusion.”</p> + +<p>This is what Mr. Jerningham thought as he rode across the barren +hills towards Killalochie, whither he went as fast as his horse could +carry him, but not faster than the dark storm-clouds which overtook +him half-way, and drenched him with heavy rain. The sky grew black as +Erebus, and looking seaward every now and then, he saw the breakers +leap and whiten as they rolled in.</p> + +<p>That common humanity which prompts a man to help his direst foe in +extreme peril, made Mr. Jerningham eager to reach Killalochie. There, +perhaps, he might find he had been deceived by the gloomy presages of +the fishermen, or thence he might send other means to help the missing +traveller. He rode up to the little inn an hour after leaving Halko’s +Head. M. de Bergerac and his daughter had arrived some time before, and +Mr. Jerningham was informed that dinner would be served immediately.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span></p> + +<p>“Put it off for a quarter of an hour,” he said to the servant, “and do +not let my friend or his daughter know of my arrival. I want to see the +landlord on most urgent business.”</p> + +<p>The landlord was in the bar, talking to a portly, middle-aged +gentleman, who was lounging against an angle of the wall, smoking a +cigar.</p> + +<p>“I really wish my nephew were safe in this house,” said this person, +“for I think we are in for a rough night.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham told the landlord of his fears, and asked whether the +walk from Halko’s Head to Killalochie by the sands were indeed as +perilous as it had been represented by the fisherman.</p> + +<p>The landlord confirmed all he had heard.</p> + +<p>“Is there anything to be done?” cried Mr. Jerningham; “a gentleman, +whom I met at Halko’s Head, set out to walk here at the turn of the +tide. I sent boats after him, but the men seemed to fear the result.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span></p> + +<p>“From Halko’s Head,” exclaimed the lounger, taking his cigar from his +mouth, and staring aghast at Harold Jerningham. “I expect my nephew +from Halko’s Head. Do you know the name of the man you met there?”</p> + +<p>“He is my friend’s secretary, Mr. Thorburn.”</p> + +<p>“O God,” cried Daniel, “it’s my boy!”</p> + +<p>For a few moments he leant against the wall, helpless, and white as +death. In the next instant he called upon them hoarsely to help him, to +follow him, and ran bare-headed from the house.</p> + +<p>“Who is that man?” asked Mr. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“He’s fra the south, sir; Mayfield by name.”</p> + +<p>“Mayfield!” muttered the questioner. “Of <i>her</i> blood.”</p> + +<p>Daniel Mayfield came back to the inn. “Is no one going to help me?” he +cried. “Are you going to let my sister’s son perish, and not stir a +foot to save him?”</p> + +<p>The landlord caught Daniel’s strong arm in his own muscular grip.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span></p> + +<p>“You joost keep y’rsel quiet,” he said. “It’s no guid to fash y’rsel. +Whatever mon can dee, I’ll dee. It is’na runnin’ wild in the street +as’ll save y’r nevy. I ken the place, and I ken what to be doin’. Leave +it to me.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Mr. Jerningham, huskily; “you can do nothing. Let the good +man manage things his own way. And mind, my friend, I will guarantee +fifty pounds to the man who saves Eustace Thorburn. I want to speak +to you, Mr. Mayfield. Come in here.” He opened the door of a little +sitting-room, and would have led Daniel in; but Daniel shook off his +grasp roughly.</p> + +<p>“Do you think I can talk of anything while <i>his</i> life is in +peril?” he cried.</p> + +<p>“Yes, you can—you must talk of <i>him</i>. I tell you that your help +is not wanted. You can do nothing. The men, who know the coast, will do +their utmost. Come! I must and will be answered.”</p> + +<p>He half led, half dragged, Daniel Mayfield into the little room. The +journalist was much<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span> the stronger man of the two, but at this moment he +was helpless as a child.</p> + +<p>“Your name is Mayfield? You do not know what feelings <i>that</i> name +awakens in my mind, heard in this place, and after my meeting that +young man where I did meet him this morning. For God’s sake tell me if +you are in any way related to a Mr. Mayfield who——”</p> + +<p>“My father kept a circulating library at Bayham,” answered Daniel, with +angry abruptness. “I am a journalist, and get my bread by scribbling +for newspapers and reviews.”</p> + +<p>“And that young man—Eustace Thorburn—is your sister’s son? You must +have had more than one sister?”</p> + +<p>“No, I had but one.”</p> + +<p>“And she is dead?”</p> + +<p>“She is.”</p> + +<p>“And this young man—Eustace Thorburn—is the son of your sister, Mrs. +Thorburn?”</p> + +<p>“He is the son of my only sister, Celia Mayfield.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span></p> + +<p>“His father—Mr. Thorburn—is dead, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“I can answer no questions about his father,” answered Daniel, sternly; +“nor do I care to be catechized in this manner at such a time.”</p> + +<p>“Pardon me. Your name has painful associations for me, and I thought it +possible you might be related to——One question more, and I have done. +In what year was your nephew born?”</p> + +<p>“He was born on the 14th November, 1844.”</p> + +<p>“Then he is not twenty-four years of age. You are quite sure of the +date?”</p> + +<p>“I am; and if you care to verify it, you may find the registry of his +baptism in St. Ann’s Church, Soho.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks. That is all I have to ask. Forgive me if I seem impertinent. +And now let us go to the jetty together; and God grant this young man +may come back to us in safety.”</p> + +<p>Daniel uttered no pious aspiration. There are terrors too profound for +words—periods of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> anguish in which a man cannot even pray. He followed +Harold Jerningham out of the house, both men pale as death, and with +an awful quiet fallen upon them. They went silently down to the little +wooden jetty where the fishing boats were moored.</p> + +<p>The tide was at the flood, the rain driving against their pale, +awe-stricken faces, the waters leaping and plunging against the timbers +of the jetty. Nothing could be more hopeless than the outlook.</p> + +<p>The landlord of the inn was there. He had sent off a boat’s crew in +search of the missing stranger.</p> + +<p>“How do we know that he has not returned by some other way?” asked Mr. +Jerningham; while Daniel Mayfield stood, statue-like, staring seaward.</p> + +<p>The men pointed significantly to the perpendicular cliffs on each side +of the jetty. The only cleft in these grim barriers, for miles along +the coast, was that opening in which the little harbour and jetty had +been made. Only by this way could the traveller have approached<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span> the +village, and no traveller had come this way since the turning of the +tide. This was the gist of what the men told Harold Jerningham, in +cautious undertones, while Daniel Mayfield still stood, statue-like and +unlistening, staring out at the roaring waste of waves.</p> + +<p>There the two men waited for upwards of an hour. The rain fell +throughout that dreary interval. Mr. Jerningham paced slowly to and fro +the little jetty. He could scarcely have recalled another occasion upon +which he had exposed himself thus to the assaults of those persistent +levellers the elements, but he was barely conscious of the rain that +drifted in his face, and drenched his garments. The greatest mental +shock that had ever befallen this man had come upon him to-day. A +revelation the most startling had been made to him: and with that +strange revealment bitter regret, vain remorse, had taken possession +of his mind. He had borne himself with sufficient calmness in his +interview with Daniel Mayfield, but the tempest within was not easily +to be stilled. As<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span> he paced the jetty, he tried to reason with himself, +to take a calm survey of the day’s events, but he tried in vain. All +his thoughts travelled in a circle, and perpetually returned to the +same point.</p> + +<p>“I have a son,” he said to himself; and then, with a sudden shudder, +and a glance of horror towards the pitiless sea, he told himself, “I +<i>had</i> a son.”</p> + +<p>While he walked thus to and fro, oblivious alike of Daniel Mayfield and +of the patient, lounging fishermen, Daniel came suddenly to him, and +laid a strong hand upon his shoulder.</p> + +<p>“Where is my nephew?” he asked. “Where is my only sister’s only child? +You saw him at Halko’s Head this morning, and parted from him there. +Why did you let him return by the perilous route, while you travelled +safely?”</p> + +<p>“I did not know the danger of the road. I took prompt measures enough +when I discovered the hazard. I sent two boats from Halko’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span> Head, in +search of your nephew. Please God, he may return in one of them!”</p> + +<p>“Amen!” cried Daniel, solemnly; and then, for the first time, he seemed +to awake from the stupor that had come upon him with the dread horror +of his kinsman’s peril. He began to question the men closely as to the +distance between the two places, and the time in which the boats might +be expected to make the voyage. By the showing of the fishermen, the +boats were already due.</p> + +<p>After these questions and calculations, the watchers relapsed into +silence. Daniel still stood looking seaward, but no longer with +the blank stare of stupefaction. He watched the waves now with +eagerness—nay, even with hope.</p> + +<p>The night closed in, cold, wet, and stormy, while he watched; and by +and by, through the thick darkness, and above the roar of the waves, +came the voices of the boatmen, calling to the men on the jetty.</p> + +<p>One of these men had lighted a lantern, and swung it aloft to a mast, +at the end of the rough<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> landing-place. By the red glimmer of this +light Daniel Mayfield saw the boats coming in, and the faces of the men +looking upward, but no face he knew. The wonder is that humanity can +survive such anguish. He called to the men hoarsely—</p> + +<p>“Is he found?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>Short phrases best fit such announcements.</p> + +<p>“There is the boat that set out from here,” murmured Mr. Jerningham; +“he may be picked up by that.”</p> + +<p>“Not if these have failed to find him. These men had the start by an +hour and a half, and have come close along the shore. Oh, damnable, +ravenous waves, roar your loudest for evermore, and overwhelm this +miserable earth!—You have swallowed up my boy!”</p> + +<p>He fell on his knees, and beat his forehead against the rough timber +rail of the jetty. In broad daylight he would, perhaps, have shown +himself a stoic; but in the darkness, and amidst<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span> the thunder of the +stormy sea, he abandoned himself to his despair.</p> + +<p>Nor did Mr. Jerningham attempt to console him. To him also the return +of the boats had brought despair, but he betrayed his grief by no +passionate word or gesture.</p> + +<p>“I had a son,” he said to himself; “a son borne to me by the only +woman who ever loved me with completely pure and disinterested love; +and I never looked upon his infant sleep; I never shared his boyish +confidence; and I met him in the pride of his manhood and hated him +because he was bright, and young, hopeful, and like myself at my best. +And I put myself between him and the girl who loved him,—I, his +father,—and tried to steal her heart away from him. O God! to think +of his uncherished childhood, his uncared-for boyhood, his friendless +manhood! My only son! And I have squandered thousands on old coins, +I have locked up the cost of half a dozen university educations in +doubtful intaglios. My son! made after my own image—my very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> self—the +reproduction of my youth at its brightest—the incarnation of my hopes +and dreams when they were purest! O Celia! this is the vengeance which +Fate exacts for the wrongs of the forgiving. Here, on this dreary +shore, which that poor girl fled from in her despair—here, after +four-and-twenty years, the hour of retribution sounds, and the penalty +is exacted!”</p> + +<p>Thus ran Harold Jerningham’s thoughts as he waited for the return of +the boat that was still away on its vain, desperate errand. It came +back too soon, a lantern at the prow gleaming bright through the +rainy darkness. No, the men had found no one—no trace of the missing +wanderer.</p> + +<p>“What if he went back to Halko’s Head by the sands, and is kept there +by stress of weather?” cried Daniel, suddenly; “there is that one +chance left. O God! it is but a chance. What vehicle can I get to take +me to that place? I must go at once!”</p> + +<p>“There is the horse I rode this morning,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span> said Mr. Jerningham. “I will +go to Halko’s Head.”</p> + +<p>“Why should you do my duty?” asked Daniel, angrily. “Do you think I +am afraid of a strange road or a shower of rain, when I have to go in +search of my dead sister’s son?”</p> + +<p>To this Mr. Jerningham made no reply. He would fain have gone himself +to the fishing village on the headland, to see if, by any happy chance, +Eustace had returned thither. But he, Harold Jerningham, had no right +to put himself forward in this search. Acknowledged tie between him and +the missing man there was none. He could only submit to the natural +desire of Daniel Mayfield.</p> + +<p>Upon inquiry, it appeared that the landlord of the “William Wallace” +inn possessed a vehicle, which he spoke of vaguely, as a “wee bit +giggy,” and which, with the sturdy steed that drew it, was very much +at the service of Mr. Mayfield. A hanger-on of the inn could drive +the gentleman to Halko’s Head, and would guarantee his safe conduct +thither, and safe return to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span> Killalochie, despite of the darkness and +foul weather.</p> + +<p>Daniel was only too glad to accept the offer, and in ten minutes the +gig—a lumbering, obsolete vehicle of the hooded species, on two +gigantic wheels—was ready for departure. The driver clambered into his +seat, Daniel followed, and the big, bony horse, and clumsy carriage +went splashing and plunging through the night.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham stood at the inn-door, watching its departure. Then, for +the first time since his arrival at the humble hostelry, he thought of +the dinner that had been prepared for him, and the friends with whom he +was to have eaten it.</p> + +<p>He went up to the sitting-room, where he found Helen alone, waiting the +return of her father, who had gone down to the harbour. She sat in a +meditative attitude, anxious and dispirited. Some hint of the ghastly +truth had reached this room, in spite of Mr. Jerningham’s precautions, +and Theodore de Bergerac had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> gone out to ascertain the extent of the +calamity.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I am so glad you have come!” cried Helen, eagerly, as he entered +the room. “You can tell us the truth about this dreadful rumour. The +people here say that there has been some one—a stranger—lost on the +sands to-night. Is it true?”</p> + +<p>“My dear Helen, I——” Mr. Jerningham began, but the girl stopped him, +with a faint shriek of horror.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it is true,” she cried; “your face tells me that. It is deadly +white. Is there no hope? Is the traveller really lost?”</p> + +<p>“It would be too soon to suppose that,” answered Mr. Jerningham, with +calmness that cost him no small effort. “The whole business may be +only a false alarm. The young man may have chosen another path. After +all, no one <i>saw</i> him go down to the sands. There is no cause for +despair.”</p> + +<p>M. de Bergerac came into the room at this moment. He, too, was ghastly +pale.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span></p> + +<p>“This is dreadful, Jerningham,” he said. “There is every reason to fear +this poor young fellow has been drowned. I have been talking to the men +on the jetty—men who know every foot of the coast—and they tell me, +if he went by the sands, there is no hope. Poor fellow!”</p> + +<p>“Papa, in what a tone you speak of him!” cried Helen. “It is natural +you should be sorry for a stranger, but you speak as if you had +known this young man—and there are so few travellers in this part +of Scotland. Oh, for pity’s sake, tell me!” she exclaimed, looking +piteously from one to the other, with clasped hands. “Did you know him? +did we know him? Your secretary was in this neighbourhood yesterday, +papa, and was to meet his uncle here at Killalochie. Oh, no, no, no! it +cannot be him. It cannot be Eustace Thorburn!”</p> + +<p>“Dear child, for God’s sake restrain yourself. There is no +certainty—there is always hope until the worst is known.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span></p> + +<p>“It <i>is</i> Eustace Thorburn,” cried Helen. “Neither of you will deny +that.”</p> + +<p>A stifled shriek broke from her lips, and she fell senseless, stretched +at the feet of her father and Harold Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“How she loves him!” murmured Mr. Jerningham, as he bent over her, and +assisted her father in carrying her to the adjoining room. “So ends my +dream!”</p> + +<p>At midnight the lumbering, hooded gig returned with Daniel +Mayfield—and despair. He had been into every dwelling-place at Halko’s +Head, had roused drowsy fishermen from their beds, but no trace or +tidings of Eustace Thorburn had reached that lonely village. He came +back when all possible means of finding the lost had been exhausted.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham was up, and watching for him. More than this had he +done. He had hired a couple of men, provided with lanterns, who were +ready in the inn, prepared to accompany Harold Jerningham and Daniel +Mayfield on an exploration of the coast, for the tide was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span> now out. The +rain had ceased, and faint stars glimmered here and there on the cloudy +sky.</p> + +<p>“Will you go down to the sands with these men and me?” asked Mr. +Jerningham, when Daniel had described his bootless errand.</p> + +<p>To this proposal Daniel assented, almost mechanically. In his utter +despair he had ceased to wonder why Harold Jerningham should take so +keen an interest in his nephew’s peril. He was glad to do anything—he +knew not, cared not what. That seemed like action. But since his +useless journey to Halko’s Head hope had left him.</p> + +<p>They went down to the sands and wandered there for hours, examining +every turn and angle of the rugged cliff that towered above them, dark +and gloomy as the wall of some fortress-prison. The exploration only +strengthened their despair. Against that iron-bound coast how many a +helpless wretch must have been crushed to death! Between the swift +advancing wall of waters, and that perpendicular<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span> boundary what was +there for the traveller but a grave! They pored upon the sand, lighted +by the fitful glare of the lanterns, looking for some trace of the +lost—a handkerchief, a glove, a purse, a scrap of paper—but they +found no such token.</p> + +<p>Harold Jerningham remembered the yellow wild flowers which the young +man had put in his breast. With those poor memorials of his mother’s +youth he had gone to his untimely death.</p> + +<p>“If the superstitions of priests have any foundation, and my son and I +shall meet before the judgment-throne, surely I shall see those wild +flowers in his hand,” thought Mr. Jerningham, as he remembered the last +look of the bright young face which had been said to resemble his own.</p> + +<p>He thought also of such a night as this four-and-twenty years ago, when +he had searched the same coast, with terror in his mind. Then his fears +had been wasted. Oh, that it might be so now!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span></p> + +<p>They paced the dreary sands until daybreak, and for an hour after +daybreak; and by that time the tide was rolling in again, and they +had to hasten back to the little harbour. As the fierce waves dashed +shorewards with a hoarse roar, each of the explorers thought how +the missing traveller had been thus overtaken by the same devouring +monsters, savagely bent upon destruction to mankind. In that hour +Daniel Mayfield conceived a detestation of the sea—a horror and hatred +of those black, rolling waves, as ministers of death and desolation, +deadliest foes to human weakness and human love.</p> + +<p>With daybreak, and the beginning of a new day, came a despair even +more terrible than that of the long, dark night. Blank and chill was +the dawn of that miserable day. All had been done. Human love, human +effort, could do no more, except to repeat again and again the same +plan of action that had proved so hopeless.</p> + +<p>If Eustace Thorburn had taken that fatal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span> path under the cliffs, he had +inevitably gone to his death. Of that the people who knew the coast +said there could be no doubt. If he had changed his mind at the last +moment, and set off in some other direction, why did he not return +to Killalochie? Was it likely that he, at all times so thoughtful of +others, would show himself on this occasion utterly indifferent to his +uncle’s feelings, reckless what anxiety he caused him?</p> + +<p>Upon that dreary day there was nothing but watching and waiting for +the little party at the “William Wallace” inn. Helen, and her father +sat alone in their room, the girl pale as marble, but very calm, and +with a sweet resignation of manner, which seemed to indicate her regret +for that outbreak of passionate sorrow on the previous night. Little +was said between the father and daughter, but Theodore de Bergerac’s +affection showed itself on this bitter day by a supreme tenderness of +tone and manner. Once only did they speak of the subject that filled +the minds of both.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span></p> + +<p>“My darling,” said Theodore, “it is too soon to abandon hope.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, papa! I cannot hope, but I have prayed. All through the long night +I prayed for my old companion and friend. You think I have no right +to be so sorry for him. You do not know how good he was to me all the +time we were together. No brother could have been kinder to a favourite +sister.”</p> + +<p>“And you shall weep for him and pray for him, as you would for a +brother,” answered the father, tenderly, “with grief as pure, with +prayers as holy. Happy the man who has such an intercessor!”</p> + +<p>After this they sat in pensive silence, unconscious of the progress +of time, but with the feeling that the day was prolonged to infinite +duration. It was like the day of a funeral; and yet, a lurking sense +of tremulous expectancy fluttered the hearts of those silent mourners. +A step on the stair, the sudden sound of voices at the inn-door, +threw Helen into a fever. Sometimes she half rose from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> her chair, +pale, breathless, listening. The cry almost broke from her lips, “He +is here!” But the footstep passed by—the voice that for the moment +sounded familiar grew strange—and she knew that her hopes had deluded +her. It is so difficult for youth not to hope. The waves could not have +devoured so much genius, so much goodness. Even pitiless ocean must +needs be too merciful to destroy Eustace Thorburn. Some such thought as +this lurked in Helen’s mind.</p> + +<p>While Theodore de Bergerac and his daughter sat alone, absorbed in this +one bitter anxiety, Daniel Mayfield wandered helplessly to and fro +between the “William Wallace” and the harbour, or the road to Halko’s +Head—now going one way, now another, but continually returning to the +inn-door, to ask, with a countenance that was piteous in its assumed +tranquillity, if anything had been heard of the missing man.</p> + +<p>The answer was always the same—nothing had been heard. The landlord, +and some of the hangers-on of the inn, tried to comfort<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span> Daniel with +feeble suggestions as to what the young man might have done with +himself. Others made no attempt to hide their gloomy convictions.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t the first time a stranger has lost his life on those sands,” +they said, in their northern patois. “Folks that have gone to see St. +Kentigern’s Cave, and would go without a guide, have paid dearly for +their folly.”</p> + +<p>Daniel Mayfield scarcely heard this remark about the cave. The fears, +or indeed the certainties, of these people could scarcely be darker +than his own. He told himself that he should never look upon his +nephew’s living face again.</p> + +<p>“Dead I may see him—the dear, bright face beaten and bruised against +those hellish cliffs; but living, never more; oh, never more! my more +than son—my pride—my hope—my love!”</p> + +<p>And then he remembered how he had hoped to hold his nephew’s children +in his arms. He had almost felt the soft, clinging hands upon his neck.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span></p> + +<p>“I was created to end my days as old Uncle Dan,” he had said to himself.</p> + +<p>Now the day-dream was gone. This brighter life, in which he had found +it so easy to renew his own youth, was broken off untimely—this dear +companionship, which had made him a boy, was taken from him. Down to +dusty death he must tramp alone, between a lane of printer’s devils +clamorous for copy, and insatiable editors for ever demanding that each +denunciatory leader, or scathing review, or Juvenalistic onslaught on +the social vices of his day, should be racier and more trenchant than +the last.</p> + +<p>His nephew taken from him, there remained to Daniel nothing but tavern +friends, and the dull round of daily labour, and old age, cheerless, +lonely, creeping towards him apace, athwart the dust and turmoil of his +life.</p> + +<p>While Daniel walked, purposeless, on the dreary road, or stood +listless, and hopeless, on the quiet jetty, Harold Jerningham sat alone +in his own apartment, and pondered on the events that had befallen him.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span></p> + +<p>A son, found and lost—found only in the very hour of his loss. What +chastisement of offended God—or blind, unconscious destiny, gigantic +Nemesis, with mighty, brazen arms, revolving, machine-like, on its +pivot, striking at random into space, and striking <i>sometimes</i> +strangely to the purpose—what chastisement could have seemed more +fitting than this?</p> + +<p>“I would have bartered half my fortune, or twenty years of my life, for +a son,” he said to himself. “How often I have envied the field-labourer +his troop of rosy brats—the gipsy tramp her brown-faced baby! Fate put +a barren sceptre in my hand. If my wife had given me a son, I think I +should have loved her. And I had a son all the time—a son whom I might +have legitimated, since his mother lived as my acknowledged wife on +this Scottish ground. Yes, I would have set the lawyers to work, and +we would have made him heir of Greenlands, and Ripley, and Pendarvoch. +I would have given him the girl who loves him—whom I have loved. It +would be no shame<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span> to resign her to my son—my younger, better self. +And we met—that unknown son and I—and we held scornfully aloof from +each other, with instinctive dislike. Dislike? It was dislike which +needed but a word to melt into love. In a stranger, this reflection of +my youth was an impertinence—a plagiarism. In my son it must be the +strongest claim upon my love. My son! It needs not the agreement of +dates to confirm his kindred. His paternity is written upon his face.”</p> + +<p>And then to Mr. Jerningham also there came the thought that had come +to Daniel Mayfield. That face in life he was never more to see. Should +he even look upon it in death—changed, disfigured by the fierce +destruction of the waves. Even to see it thus was almost too much to +hope. To reclaim the dead, so lost, would be well nigh as impossible as +it had been to save the living.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.<br> +STRONGER THAN DEATH.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>THE day that followed was even more utterly blank and hopeless than +the last. Mr. Jerningham had sent scouts in every direction, and both +from him and Daniel the men had received promises of liberal reward for +any tidings of the lost one. But no tidings came. The men returned, +dispirited and weary; and at the close of this second blank, wasted +day, fairly confessed that they could do no more.</p> + +<p>So the night closed; and the sleepless hours wore away in a house of +mourning and desolation.</p> + +<p>During these two days Mr. Jerningham and Helen de Bergerac had not met. +The girl had retired when her father’s friend entered the sitting-room +which they shared in common.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span> She shrank from seeing him after that +moment of anguish in which she had betrayed that secret which, of all +others, she would most jealously have guarded. She now avoided Mr. +Jerningham, and he guessed the reason of her avoidance. Nor did her +father attempt to conceal the truth.</p> + +<p>“You were wiser than I, dear friend,” he said, “when you warned me +against the peril of that young man’s residence in our home. Only the +night before his unhappy disappearance he made a confession of his +love for my darling, and pleaded his cause with me, with all possible +humility, and with very little hope of acceptance, I am sure.”</p> + +<p>“And you rejected his suit?”</p> + +<p>“What else could I do? In the first place I considered myself pledged +to you. I had no brighter hope than that you should win my daughter’s +love, and I believed her heart to be free. In the second place this +young man—for whom I have a real affection—could offer no security +for my dear girl’s happiness, except his love; and at my age one has +outlived the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span> idea that true love will pay rent and taxes, and butcher +and baker. No, I gave Eustace a point-blank refusal, and he left me +broken-hearted.”</p> + +<p>“Did Helen know of his appeal to you?”</p> + +<p>“Not a syllable. Nor did I imagine until the other night that he had +made so fatal an impression on her mind. I see now that it is so, +and fear that his untimely doom will only render the impression more +lasting.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied Mr. Jerningham, gravely; “that is a thing to be dreaded. +My dear friend, do not think of <i>my</i> disappointment, though I +will own to you without shame that it is a bitter one. The dream was +so bright. Let us think only of this dear girl’s happiness, or if that +cannot be secured, her peace of mind. Would it not be wise to remove +her from this scene as soon as possible?”</p> + +<p>“Decidedly; she broods perpetually upon that poor young man’s fate, and +is kept in a fever of expectation by the hope of tidings which I fear +will never come. Yes, it would certainly be better to take her away.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span></p> + +<p>“That is easily done. You can take her to Pendarvoch. We are expected +there, you know. I will remain here a day or two longer, for the last +feeble chance of the missing man’s reappearance, and will then follow +you. We are only fifty miles from Pendarvoch, and you can manage the +journey easily with one change of horses. Shall I order the carriage +for to-morrow morning?”</p> + +<p>“If you please. I will talk to Helen about the arrangement. I do not +think she can object.”</p> + +<p>“If she does, you must do your utmost to overrule her objections. Be +sure that it is of vital consequence to remove her from this scene of +gloom and terror. Believe me, I am influenced by no selfish motive +when I ask you to take her to Pendarvoch. If that young man should be +restored to us, I will bring him there to her. He shall plead to you +again, and this time shall not be rejected.”</p> + +<p>“Harold!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, you think me mad, no doubt. For<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span> my own part, I can only wonder +that I am not mad. I tell you, if Eustace Thorburn comes forth from the +jaws of death, he shall come to you a new creature—with new hopes, new +ambitions—perhaps even a new name. Oh, for pity’s sake do not question +me. Wait till we know the issue of this hideous uncertainty.”</p> + +<p>“My dear Harold, you astound me. I thought you disliked my secretary, +and you speak of him with emotion that seems foreign to your very +nature. The change is most extraordinary.”</p> + +<p>“The circumstances that have brought about the change are not ordinary +circumstances. I say again, for God’s sake do not question me. Prepare +Helen for the journey. I will go and give the necessary orders. Good +night!”</p> + +<p>The two men shook hands, and Harold Jerningham departed, leaving his +old friend sorely perplexed by his conduct.</p> + +<p>“What a heart that man conceals under an affectation of cynicism!” +thought Theodore de Bergerac. “He is immeasurably distressed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span> by the +untimely fate of a man whom he pretended to dislike.”</p> + +<p>M. de Bergerac called his daughter from the adjoining room. She came to +him, deadly pale, but with the sweet air of resignation that made her +beauty so pathetic.</p> + +<p>“My darling,” said her father, tenderly, “Mr. Jerningham wishes us to +leave this sad place, early to-morrow morning, for Pendarvoch, where +we are hourly expected. He will remain here some days longer, in the +hope of obtaining some tidings about poor Eustace; but he wishes us to +leave immediately. You have no objection to this arrangement, have you, +dearest?”</p> + +<p>“I had rather we stayed here, papa.”</p> + +<p>“But, my dear girl, what good can you and I do here?”</p> + +<p>“None, oh, none! But I had much rather we stayed.”</p> + +<p>“My child, it is so useless.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, papa, I know that,” she answered, piteously. “I know we can do +nothing, except pray for him, and I do pray for him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span> without ceasing; +but to go away—to abandon the place where he has been lost—it seems +so cruel, so cowardly.”</p> + +<p>“But, my darling! the place will not be abandoned. Mr. Jerningham will +remain here, and will omit no effort to discover our poor friend’s +fate. His uncle, Mr. Mayfield, will be here. What could we do that they +will not do better?”</p> + +<p>“I know that, dear father! I know we can do nothing. But let me stay. I +loved him so dearly!”</p> + +<p>The words slipped from her lips unawares, and she stood before her +father, blushing crimson.</p> + +<p>“Oh, papa! you must think me so bold and unwomanly,” she said. “Till +this sorrow came upon us I did not know that I loved him. I did not +know how dear he had become to me in the happy, tranquil days at home. +When he left us, I felt there was a blank in my life, somehow, except +when I was with you. But I thought no more than this. It was only when +I heard that he was lost to us for ever that I knew how truly I loved +him.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span></p> + +<p>“And he loved you, darling, as truly and as fondly!” answered the +father, hiding the blushing face upon his breast.</p> + +<p>“Did he tell you that, papa?”</p> + +<p>“He did. The night before he started on that fatal excursion. And now, +dearest girl! be brave, and let me take you from this place, where your +presence can do no possible good.”</p> + +<p>“I will, dear father—if you will first grant me one favour.”</p> + +<p>“What is that?”</p> + +<p>“Let me see the place where he perished. Take me to the sands along +which he was to come, and upon which he must have met his death.”</p> + +<p>“My darling! what good can that do?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, none, perhaps,” cried Helen, impatiently; “but it is just the one +thing that can reconcile me to leaving this place. If he had died a +natural death, and been buried among the quiet dead, I should ask you +to take me to his grave, and you could not refuse.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span> I ask you almost +the same thing now. Let me look upon the scene of his death!”</p> + +<p>“It shall be so, Helen,” replied Theodore, gravely, “though I fear I +shall do wrong in yielding to such a wish.”</p> + +<p>“My darling father! Then you will go with me to the sands to-morrow at +low tide? You will inquire the time at which we ought to go?”</p> + +<p>“I will do anything foolish for your sake! But, Helen, when I have done +this you will go with me to Pendarvoch quietly?”</p> + +<p>“You shall take me where you please.”</p> + +<p>Later in the evening M. de Bergerac saw Harold Jerningham, ascertained +the hour of the turning tide, and arranged the counter-ordering of the +carriage. At noon, they told him, the tide would be within an hour of +turning, and any ordinary walker, starting for Halko’s Head at that +time, might arrive there with ease and safety.</p> + +<p>“Helen and I want to see the coast with our own eyes,” said M. de +Bergerac, anxious to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span> shield his daughter’s weakness in some measure +by affecting to share her wish; “so before we leave this place we have +determined to explore the way by which that poor fellow must have come.”</p> + +<p>“Helen!—Will she go with you?”</p> + +<p>“Why not? She, too, would like to see this fatal coast.”</p> + +<p>“A strange fancy.”</p> + +<p>“It may be wiser to indulge it.”</p> + +<p>“Be it so. But the distance to Halko’s Head by the coast is seven +miles. Helen can hardly walk so far.”</p> + +<p>“I think on this occasion she could do so.”</p> + +<p>“I will go with you, and we will take a boat in which she can complete +the journey, should she feel tired.”</p> + +<p>At noon next day they started—Helen, her father, and Harold +Jerningham—attended by a couple of rowers, in a roomy boat. Helen +would have infinitely preferred to be alone with her father, but she +could not advance any objection to Mr. Jerningham’s companionship,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span> and +was indeed grateful to him for not opposing her wish.</p> + +<p>She walked by her father in silence, with her hand clinging to his arm, +and her eyes lifted every now and then to the steep cliffs above them, +unsurmountable, eternal barrier, between the sands and the heights +above. The day was bright and clear, and the April sunlight shone upon +a tranquil sea. Darkness and rain, storm and wind, had overtaken that +missing traveller—against him the very elements had conspired.</p> + +<p>The little party went slowly along the sands, with the boat always +in sight. Little satisfaction could there be in that melancholy +survey. The cliffs and the shore told nothing of him who had perished +amidst their awful solitude. At what spot the rising wall of waters +had overtaken him, no one could tell. Midway between Killalochie and +Halko’s Head they came to the inlet, or cleft in the cliffs, a narrow +passage or chasm, between steep walls of crag, about a quarter of a +mile in length. Here the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span> walking was difficult, and Harold Jerningham +endeavoured to dissuade Helen from exploring the place.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Mayfield and I went down there with our lanterns,” he said. +“Believe me, there has been no trace, not the faintest indication +overlooked. The ground is so thickly scattered with sharp craggy stones +as to be almost impassable.”</p> + +<p>In spite of this, Helen persisted, with a quiet resolution, which +impressed Mr. Jerningham. This pure, country-bred girl was even more +admirable than he had thought her. The calm, still face, so fixed and +yet so gentle, assumed a new beauty in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“The good blood shows itself,” he thought.</p> + +<p>They all three went into the chasm. Only in the red fitful glare of the +lanterns had Mr. Jerningham seen it before. It had seemed to him then +more vast, more awful; but even by day the depth and solitude of the +place had a gloomy solemnity. Very carefully had the searchers, with +their lanterns, examined every angle and recess of the cliff on either +side,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span> every inch of the stony ground, looking for some trace of the +lost, and had found nothing. To-day Mr. Jerningham walked listlessly, +scarce looking to the right or the left, hoping nothing, fearing +nothing.</p> + +<p>M. de Bergerac’s thoughts were absorbed by his daughter. It was her +face he watched, her grief he feared. Thus was it left to the eyes of +that one mourner to catch the first sign of hope. A loud cry burst from +her lips, a cry that thrilled the hearts of her companions.</p> + +<p>“Helen, my love, what is it?” exclaimed her father, clasping her +tightly in his arms.</p> + +<p>She broke from him, and pointed upwards. “Look!” she cried, “look! +There is some one there. He is there! Alive or dead, he is found!”</p> + +<p>They looked upwards in the direction to which she pointed, and there, +fluttering in the fresh April wind, they saw something—a rag—a white +handkerchief—hanging from the dark mouth of a hollow in the cliff.</p> + +<p>This hollow in the cliff was about twelve feet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span> above the sand, and at +first sight appeared utterly inaccessible.</p> + +<p>“He is there!” cried Helen; “I am sure he is there!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Mr. Jerningham, examining the face of the cliff; “there are +niches cut here for foothold. Why, this must be the Saint’s Cave of +which they have told us. Yes, finding himself overtaken by the tide, +he <i>might</i> have taken refuge here. It is just possible he might +clamber to that opening.”</p> + +<p>“I know he was distinguished as a gymnast in Belgium,” said M. de +Bergerac, eagerly.</p> + +<p>“I will run back and fetch the boatmen,” said Mr. Jerningham; “they are +waiting for us yonder.”</p> + +<p>He pointed to the opening in the cliff, and hastened thither.</p> + +<p>“Holà!” shouted Theodore, “art thou up yonder, dear boy?”</p> + +<p>Helen fell on her knees among the rough stones and wet seaweed.</p> + +<p>“Oh! merciful Father, restore him to us!”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span> she cried, with clasped +hands. “Hear our prayers, oh, Giver of all good things; and give him +back to us.”</p> + +<p>Her father watched her with tearful eyes. “My darling,” he said, +raising her in his arms, “we must not hope too much. For pity’s sake, +be firm. That handkerchief may mean nothing; or, if—if he is there, he +may be no less lost to us.”</p> + +<p>“Call to him again, dear father. Tell him we are here.”</p> + +<p>“Holà!” shouted the Frenchman. “Eustace, if you are up yonder, answer +your friends. Holà!”</p> + +<p>Again and again he repeated the call, but there was no answer.</p> + +<p>“How long they are coming—how long!” cried Helen, looking despairingly +towards the sea.</p> + +<p>As she spoke, Mr. Jerningham reappeared in the opening of the cliff, +with the two boatmen. They came running towards the cave, one of them +carrying a rope. Both were bare-footed;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span> and to them the scaling of +St. Kentigern’s Cave was a small affair. But each opined that for a +Southron it would be a difficult business.</p> + +<p>“A man can do desperate things when he is fighting for his life,” +replied Mr. Jerningham. “How is it that this cave was overlooked in our +search?”</p> + +<p>The men replied, rather vaguely, that the cave was too unlikely a place +to search. They might as well have looked on the top of the cliffs.</p> + +<p>While Mr. Jerningham asked this question, one of the boatmen stuck his +boathook into the cliff, and by the aid of this and the foothold cut +in the craggy surface, clambered, cat-like, to the mouth of the little +cave, and hung there, peering into the darkness.</p> + +<p>“There’s something here,” he said; and on this the second boatman, +at Mr. Jerningham’s order, mounted on his shoulders, and hoisted his +comrade into the cavern.</p> + +<p>There was a pause, an awful interval of hope and terror, and then the +boatman shouted to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span> his mate below to lend a hand there, and in the +next instant a limp, lifeless figure, in dust-whitened clothes, was +thrust from the narrow mouth of the cave and lowered gently into the +boatman’s sturdy arms. But not unaided did the boatman receive his +burden, Mr. Jerningham’s arms were extended to assist in receiving +that helpless form; Mr. Jerningham’s hands laid it gently upon Helen’s +shawl, which she had flung off and cast upon the ground a moment before.</p> + +<p>Dead or alive? For some moments that was a moot question. Harold +Jerningham knelt beside the prostrate figure, with his head bent low +upon its breast.</p> + +<p>“Thank God!” he said, quietly, with his hand upon the young man’s +heart. “It <i>does</i> beat.” He tried to feel the pulse, but a faint +groan broke from the white lips as he lifted the wrist.</p> + +<p>“His arm is broken,” said Mr. Jerningham, in the same quiet tone; and +then he turned to Helen, with a sudden burst of feeling. “It<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span> is you +who found him,” he cried, “I dedicate his life to you.”</p> + +<p>At any other moment such words might have provoked interrogation; but +this was a time in which the wildest words pass unquestioned.</p> + +<p>The two boatmen, aided always by Mr. Jerningham, carried the lifeless +figure to the boat, where it was gently laid upon a bed, composed of a +folded sail, an overcoat, and Helen’s shawl, against the rejection of +which she pleaded piteously.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, I am warmly dressed; I do not want it,” she said.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham seated himself in the boat, with his son’s head upon his +knees. He looked down wonderingly at the pale, still face, so wan and +haggard with pain. It was so difficult to comprehend his own feelings, +and the change that had come upon him, since he had known that this +young man was <i>his</i>.</p> + +<p>“My rival,” he said to himself. “No, not my rival. My representative. +The image I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span> can show to the world, and say, ‘This is what I was!’”</p> + +<p>Before they reached the inn at Killalochie, the village knew that the +lost had been found. Scouts had posted off from the jetty with the +happy tidings, before the boatmen could carry their burden on shore. He +was found—alive. Every one seemed to know this by instinct. Half-way +between the jetty and the inn, Daniel Mayfield met them, staggering +like a drunken man, pale as a corpse.</p> + +<p>He hung over the unconscious man with womanly fondness. He pushed +Harold Jerningham aside, and asserted his right to his kinsman.</p> + +<p>“Let no one stand between me and my boy,” he cried, huskily.</p> + +<p>Scouts rushed to fetch the village surgeon, other scouts bade the +landlady prepare her best room. All the common business of life was +suspended in favour of this one stranger, snatched from the jaws of +death.</p> + +<p>They carried him to the best room, which happened<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span> to be Mr. +Jerningham’s room, and here he was laid, still unconscious, upon his +father’s bed.</p> + +<p>The local surgeon came, a feeble old man, in spectacles, and sounded +and examined the prostrate form, while Daniel Mayfield and Harold +Jerningham stood by in agony. The latter hurried from the room, sent +for his servant, bade him mount one of the carriage-horses, and gallop +to the station, thence by first train to Aberdeen, where he was to find +and bring back the best surgeon in the place.</p> + +<p>“You’ll say he is wanted for Mr. Jerningham, of Pendarvoch,” he told +the man, who made haste to obey his orders.</p> + +<p>The local surgeon had by this time discovered that there was a broken +arm, and was eager to set it. But this Mr. Jerningham interfered to +prevent.</p> + +<p>“I have sent to Aberdeen for another surgeon,” he said; “and I would +rather you should wait until you have his coöperation. Don’t you think +it would be as well to apply a cooling lotion, in the meanwhile, to +reduce that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span> swelling? It would be quite impossible to set the bone +while the arm and shoulder are in that swollen state.”</p> + +<p>To this the local surgeon assented, with an air of profound wisdom, and +in the broadest Scotch; after which he departed to prepare the lotion, +leaving Harold Jerningham and Daniel Mayfield face to face beside the +bed.</p> + +<p>“How was he found?” asked Daniel.</p> + +<p>Whereon Mr. Jerningham told the story of Helen’s walk and St. +Kentigern’s Cave.</p> + +<p>“God bless her!” exclaimed Daniel; “and you too, for your interest in +this poor boy’s fate. He once told me you disliked him. He must have +wronged you.”</p> + +<p>“I do not know that. I have been a creature of whims and prejudices, +and may have been prejudiced even against him.”</p> + +<p>“I thank you so much the more for your goodness in this crisis,” +answered Daniel, with deep feeling. “And now we need burden you with +our troubles no longer. He lives! That one great fact is almost enough +for me. I will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span> fight Death hand to hand beside his bed. He is the only +thing I love in this world, and I will do battle for my treasure.”</p> + +<p>He glanced towards the door as much as to say, “Let me be alone with my +nephew.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham understood the look, and answered it.</p> + +<p>“You must not banish me from this room,” he said; “I claim the right to +share your watch.”</p> + +<p>“On what ground?”</p> + +<p>“By the right of a father.”</p> + +<p>“A father’s right!” cried Daniel, with a bitter laugh; “that boy has no +father. He does not know so much as his father’s name. He came to this +place to discover it, if he could.”</p> + +<p>“And he has found a father—a father who will be proud to acknowledge +him.”</p> + +<p>“Acknowledge him!” echoed Daniel, scornfully, “do you think he will +acknowledge you? Do you suppose that hatred of you has not been +his religion? It has. And you would acknowledge him? You break his +mother’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span> heart, and bequeath to him a heritage of shame, and then, one +fine day, four-and-twenty years after that poor heart was broken, you +meet your son upon the road-side, and it is your caprice to acknowledge +him. You stained his fair young life with the brand of illegitimacy. He +can refuse to acknowledge a father on whom the law gives him no claim.”</p> + +<p>“There shall be no question of illegitimacy,” cried Mr. Jerningham, +eagerly; “it is in my power to prove him legitimate.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, by a legal quibble. Do you think he will accept such +rehabilitation.”</p> + +<p>“What other reparation can I make?”</p> + +<p>“Conjure the dead from their graves. Call back to life the girl whose +womanhood you made one long remorse. Restore the country tradesman and +his wife, who died of their daughter’s shame. Give back to that young +man the years of boyhood and youth, in which he has felt the double +sting of poverty and disgrace. Do these things, and your son will +honour you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span></p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham was silent.</p> + +<p>“Let me share your watch,” he pleaded presently, in a broken voice.</p> + +<p>“You are welcome to do that,” answered Daniel; “and when it shall +please God to restore him, I will not stand between you and the voice +of his heart. Win his affection if you can; no counsel of mine shall +weigh against you.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.<br> +RECONCILED.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>THE Aberdeen surgeon arrived late at night, but the setting of the +broken arm was deferred till the next day. The patient was now +delirious, and Mr. Ramsay, the great man from Aberdeen, having heard +the story of St. Kentigern’s Cave, pronounced that rheumatic fever had +been induced by cold and exposure in that dismal hermitage.</p> + +<p>After this came many dreary days and nights, during which the patient +hovered between the realms of life and death, tenderly watched by +his uncle and Mr. Jerningham, who relieved each other’s guard at his +bed-side.</p> + +<p>Then came a blessed change, and he was pronounced out of danger. The +delirium gave place to a languid apathy, in which he seemed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span> faintly +to recognize the watchers by his bed, but to be too feeble to interest +himself in the affairs of this life.</p> + +<p>While the patient was still in this stage, Mr. Jerningham persuaded +Daniel to return to London, where the ravening editors were clamorous +for his presence, and he, yielding to these arguments, left Mr. +Jerningham master of the field.</p> + +<p>This was what the father wanted, to have his son in his own keeping, to +see those dim eyes brighten as they looked at him. To be nurse, valet, +companion, friend, and some day, when he had won his son’s regard, to +say to him suddenly:</p> + +<p>“Eustace, forgive me! I am your father!”</p> + +<p>While the patient had lain helpless and unconscious, Mr. Jerningham +had found the MS. of the great poem, and had read, in those +carefully-written pages, the secrets of his son’s mind. The perusal of +this poem had filled him with pride. He, too, had written verse; but +not such verse as this. The grace, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span> purity of a mind uncontaminated +by vice, were visible here, and touched the heart of the weary +worldling.</p> + +<p>“The romance of his own life is written here,” he said. “It is almost +a confession. But how unlike that hateful confession which I published +at his age! I, whose ambition was to emulate Rousseau—that pinchbeck +philosopher who never ceased to be at heart a lackey.”</p> + +<p>M. de Bergerac and his daughter left Killalochie for Pendarvoch +directly the invalid was pronounced out of danger.</p> + +<p>When he was well enough to be moved Mr. Jerningham conveyed him to +Pendarvoch; whither he consented to go; but not without some show of +wonderment.</p> + +<p>“Your friends, M. de Bergerac and his daughter are there,” said Mr. +Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“You are very kind to wish to take me there,” replied the invalid; “but +I really think it would be better for me to go back to London, to my +Uncle Dan. I am quite strong enough for the journey.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</span></p> + +<p>“Indeed you are not! Besides, I have set my heart upon your coming to +Pendarvoch.”</p> + +<p>“You are very good. How long is it since my uncle left this place?”</p> + +<p>“About five weeks.”</p> + +<p>“And in that time who has watched and nursed me? For the last week, +you, I know. But before that time? I have a vague recollection of +seeing you always there—in that chair by the bed. Yes, I had a faint +consciousness of your tender nursing. I do not know how to thank you. +At Greenlands I used to think you by no means my friend; and yet +you have devoted yourself to me for all these weeks! How can I be +sufficiently grateful for so much kindness?”</p> + +<p>“My presence has not been disagreeable to you?” faltered the guilty +watcher.</p> + +<p>“Disagreeable! I should be a wretch indeed if I were not grateful—if I +were not deeply touched by so much kindness. Your presence has been an +unspeakable comfort to me; your face has grown as familiar, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</span> almost +as dear to me, as Uncle Dan’s. Forgive me for having ever thought +differently—for having misunderstood you so at Greenlands.”</p> + +<p>“Forgive me, Eustace,” said Mr. Jerningham, earnestly.</p> + +<p>“Forgive you! For what offence?”</p> + +<p>“Do not ask that question. Clasp my hand in yours, so, and say, ‘With +all my heart, I forgive you.’”</p> + +<p>The invalid stared in feeble wonder, but did not repulse the hand that +grasped his.</p> + +<p>“With all my heart, I forgive whatever wrong your prejudice may have +done me.”</p> + +<p>“It has been a deeper wrong than prejudice. Look at these two hands, +Eustace; none can deny the likeness there.”</p> + +<p>Again the invalid stared wonderingly at the speaker.</p> + +<p>“Look!” cried Mr. Jerningham, “look at these clasped hands.”</p> + +<p>Eustace looked at the two hands linked together. In every detail of +form and colour, the likeness between them was perfect.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</span></p> + +<p>“Do you remember what De Bergerac said of us the first time we met at +his dinner-table?” asked Mr. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“I remember his saying something about a resemblance between you and +me.”</p> + +<p>“A notion which you repudiated.”</p> + +<p>“I think it was you who first repudiated the idea,” said Eustace, with +a faint smile.</p> + +<p>“It is quite possible. I have been insanely jealous of you. But that is +over now. Do you know by what right I have watched by this bed? Do you +know why I persuaded your uncle to leave you, that I might watch alone?”</p> + +<p>“I can imagine no reason.”</p> + +<p>“The right which I claimed was the right of a father. Yes, Eustace, it +was on your father’s knees your head rested as we brought you home from +death. It is your father who has watched you day and night through this +weary illness.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, God!” cried Eustace, with a stifled groan. “Is this true?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</span></p> + +<p>“As true as that you and I are here, face to face.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know that I have sworn to hate you? For the man who broke +my mother’s heart I can never have any feeling but abhorrence. Your +kindness to me I reject and repudiate. We are natural enemies, and have +been from the hour in which I first learned the meaning of shame.”</p> + +<p>“I have heard you plead the cause of Christianity. Is this +Christianlike, Eustace?”</p> + +<p>“It is natural.”</p> + +<p>“And you say that Christianity is something higher than nature. Prove +it now to me, who have been something of a Pagan. Let me discover the +superiority of your creed to my vague Pantheism. Look at me! I, your +father, who have never knelt to mortal man, and but too seldom to God, +I kneel by your bed, and ask, in abject humility, to be forgiven. I +know that I cannot bring back the injured dead. I know that I cannot +atone for the past. But if that gentle spirit has found a quiet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</span> haven +whence she can look back to those she loved on earth, I <i>know</i> it +would console her to see me forgiven. Judge me as if your mother stood +by your side.”</p> + +<p>“She would forgive you,” murmured Eustace; “God created her to suffer +and pardon.”</p> + +<p>“And will you refuse the pardon she would have granted? You forgave me +just now, when our hands were clasped in friendship. Do you think you +can recall that forgiveness? The words have been spoken. I have the +ancient belief in the power of spoken words. Eustace, am I to kneel in +vain to my only son?”</p> + +<p>The young man covered his face with his hands. He had sworn to hate +this man, his arch-enemy, and the enemy had taken base advantage of +his weakness, and had stolen his affection. This pale, worn face, worn +with the weary night-watches of the past six weeks, was not the face +of a foe. His mother—yes, she would have forgiven, and her wrongs +were greater than his. And if, from the Heaven her penitence had won, +she looked back to earth, it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</span> would grieve that gentle spirit to see +disunion here.</p> + +<p>There was a long pause, and then the son extended his hand to his +father.</p> + +<p>“For my mother’s wrongs I have hated you,” he said: “for her sake I +forgive you.”</p> + +<p>This was all. On the same day they travelled to Pendarvoch, and on that +night Eustace slept in the picturesque castle that sheltered Helen and +her father. All was harmony and affection. The invalid gained strength +rapidly, and spent his evenings in a long, panelled saloon, with his +father and his two friends.</p> + +<p>He told them now, for the first time, the story of that walk which +had so nearly cost him his life: how, finding the tide gaining upon +him as he neared the inlet of the cliffs, he had sought there some +means of reaching the heights above, and, finding none, had essayed to +clamber to the Saint’s Cave. This feat he had achieved, thanks to his +experience as a gymnast; but in the last desperate scramble into the +mouth of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</span> the cave he had broken his arm, and from the pain of this +injury he had fainted. Of the two nights and days which he had spent in +that narrow retreat, he remembered nothing distinctly. He had only a +vague sense of having suffered cold and hunger, and of being tormented, +almost to madness, by the perpetual roar of the waves, which had +seemed to thunder at the very mouth of the cavern, and to be for ever +threatening his destruction.</p> + +<p>For a month Eustace stayed at Pendarvoch, and during this time the +great poem appeared, and won from the press such speedy recognition and +kindly appreciation as would scarcely have been accorded to the work +of an unknown poet, if Daniel Mayfield and Mr. Jerningham had not both +exerted their utmost influence in its behalf. Daniel did, indeed, with +his own hand, write more than one of the notices which elevated his +nephew to a high rank among the younger poets.</p> + +<p>There remained now only the grand question of the new-found son’s +legitimation; but here<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</span> Mr. Jerningham found himself obstinately +opposed.</p> + +<p>“I will accept your affection with all filial gratitude,” said Eustace; +“but I will take no pecuniary benefit from your hands, neither will I +accept a name which you refused to my mother.”</p> + +<p>“That is to make your wrongs irreparable.”</p> + +<p>“All such wrongs are irreparable.”</p> + +<p>Long, and often repeated, were the arguments held between the father +and son upon this subject. But Eustace was not to be moved by argument. +From this new-found father, he would receive nothing. For the rest, his +literary career had opened brightly, and the fruits of his poem enabled +him to enter himself at the Temple as a student of law.</p> + +<p>One day in June, Eustace came to Greenlands to renew his suit with M. +de Bergerac, by Mr. Jerningham’s advice, and this time found his suit +prosper.</p> + +<p>“Jerningham advises me to consult only my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</span> daughter’s heart,” said the +exile, “and that is yours.”</p> + +<p>Within a month of this interview there was a quiet wedding at the +little Berkshire church, in whose gloomy vault poor Emily Jerningham +slumbered—a ceremonial at which Daniel Mayfield shone radiant in an +expansive white waist-coat, and with moustache of freshest Tyrian dye. +Theodore de Bergerac gave his daughter to her husband; while Harold +Jerningham stood by, satisfied with his new <i>rôle</i> of spectator.</p> + +<p>The bride and bridegroom began their honeymoon in a very unpretentious +manner in pleasant lodgings in Folkestone; but one day the bride +ventured to suggest that Folkestone was a place of which it was +possible for the human mind to grow weary.</p> + +<p>“If you would only take me to Switzerland?” Helen pleaded, with her +sweetest smile.</p> + +<p>“My dear love, you forget that, although the most fortunate of created +beings, we are, from the Continental innkeeper’s point of view, actual +paupers.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</span></p> + +<p>“Not quite, dear! There was one little circumstance that no one thought +it worth while to mention before our marriage; but perhaps it would be +as well for you to be informed of it now.”</p> + +<p>She handed to him a paper, of a legal and alarming appearance.</p> + +<p>It was a deed of gift, whereby Harold Jerningham, on the one part, +bestowed upon Helen de Bergerac, the daughter of his very dear friend, +Theodore de Bergerac, for the other part, funded property producing +something over three thousand a year.</p> + +<p>“Good heavens! he has cheated me after all!” cried Eustace.</p> + +<p>“He told us the story of your birth, dear; his own remorse, and your +noble repudiation of all gifts from him. And then he entreated me to +let some benefit from his wealth come to you indirectly through me.”</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +Another wedding, as quiet as the simple ceremony in Berkshire, took +place just twelve<span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</span> months after Mrs. Jerningham’s death. For a year +Lucy Alford had lived very quietly among her new friends at Harrow, +receiving sometimes a package of new books, and a brief, friendly note, +from the editor of the <i>Areopagus</i>, for the sole token that she +was not utterly forgotten by him. But one day he paid an unexpected +visit to the Harrow Parsonage, and finding Miss Alford alone in the +pretty garden, asked her to be his wife. Few words were needed for his +prayer. The sweet face, with its maiden blushes and downcast eyelids, +told him that he was still beloved, still the dearest, and wisest, and +greatest of earthly creatures in the sight of Lucy Alford.</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +While Eustace and his young wife wander, happy as children, amidst +Alpine mountains and by the margin of Alpine lakes, Harold Jerningham +schemes for his son’s future.</p> + +<p>“He shall have the Park Lane house, and go into Parliament,” resolves +the father. “All my old ambitions shall revive in him.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</span></p> + +<p>But scheme as he may, there is always the bitter taste of the ashes +which remain for the man who has plucked the Dead-Sea apples that hang +ripe and red above the path of life.</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">THE END.</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">J. Ogden and Co., Printers, 172, St. John Street, E.C.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="transnote spa1"> +<p class="nindc"><b>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</b></p> + +<p>Simple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced +quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and +otherwise left unbalanced.</p> + +<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a +predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they +were not changed.</p> +</div></div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76887 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76887-h/images/cover.jpg b/76887-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5190c2f --- /dev/null +++ b/76887-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/76887-h/images/i001.jpg b/76887-h/images/i001.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..e78edb8 --- /dev/null +++ b/76887-h/images/i001.jpg diff --git a/76887-h/images/i002.jpg b/76887-h/images/i002.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8590ff3 --- /dev/null +++ b/76887-h/images/i002.jpg diff --git a/76887-h/images/i003.jpg b/76887-h/images/i003.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e5316f --- /dev/null +++ b/76887-h/images/i003.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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