Mr. Temple celebrated the return of his son by a great dinner, at which a number of distinguished persons were present; later in the evening his mother held a reception. The evening before the party Arthur was sitting with his parents looking over the list of guests, and he could not help being struck with their quality. Nearly every man invited was a man of mark in the land--politicians, lawyers, a few whose chief merit was their wealth, and some few also of the foremost workers in the ranks of art and literature. Arthur was pleased at the opportunity of becoming personally acquainted with these shining lights.
"You will regard this as your first introduction into society," said Mr. Temple to his son. "I shall be glad to see you form friendships, which will bring you both pleasure and profit."
It was unfortunate that, despite his affection for his son, Mr. Temple could never avoid introducing into their conversations chance words and phrases which grated upon the sensitive mind of the younger man. The word "profit" was one of these. Arthur, however, made no comment upon this, and the rebellious expression which overcast his features for an instant was not observed by his father.
"You have much to speak of," continued Mr. Temple, "that will be new and interesting to many of our friends, and I need not say that as my son you will be heartily welcomed."
"That, of course, sir," said Arthur; "it will not be, I am afraid, for my own deservings."
"That cannot come, Arthur, until you are personally known, and then I trust it will be for your sake as well as for mine that friends will attach themselves to you. But indeed I have no doubt that such will be the case."
"You are more confident than I am, sir," said Arthur seriously. "I have my fears as to whether I shall feel at home in this new and polished atmosphere, after my experiences of the last two years."
"You have no need to fear, Arthur; I am satisfied with you. I think I shall not make you vain when I tell you that your manners are fitted for any circle."
Arthur's mother gazed fondly upon him as he replied, "It is an inheritance, sir, as are honour and truth, which I owe equally to you."
"I must confess that it was not with entire confidence I saw you depart for your travels, but you have returned improved, if anything. Contact with the world has already improved you, and has opened your mind to the value of the requirements of society."
"Whether it be so," said Arthur, with seriousness, "has yet to be proved. In the New World, with its rougher manners, I have seen much to admire--more, indeed, than in these more civilised surroundings. It is not whether they are fitted for me--it is whether I am fitted for them."
"There is plenty of romance to be found in these more sober scenes; it will come to you, Arthur, as it has come to others."
"In what shape, sir? And have you met with yours?"
Mr. Temple coloured slightly, and devoted himself more closely to his paper, which he was perusing in the intervals of the conversation. Mrs. Temple sighed and looked away. Arthur had inadvertently touched a chord which vibrated keenly in the breasts of his parents. He did not know, and had never heard, that his father had married for money and position, had married without love, but it was no less a fact. A fact of which his mother was not aware until after marriage. It was not a sudden discovery on her part; it was a gradual awakening, made more bitter by the womanly suspicion of another face, fairer perhaps than hers, and better loved in the past. In this she invested Mr. Temple with qualities which he did not possess, and fashioned a hero--not hers, but another woman's--out of very common clay. There had never been any bickerings between her and her husband; she had not distressed him with any outburst of jealously; and he gave her no cause for complaint that the world would have recognised and sympathised with. He was an exemplary husband, faithful and attentive, and was held up as a model by other wives. Mrs. Temple, before her marriage, had had her romance in her love for her husband; a romance carefully fed by him at that time, for he played the lover skillfully. But shortly after they became man and wife her dreams faded slowly and surely away. She saw that he had no heart for her, and it was most natural in her to be positive that, with his attractive person and the soft blandishments of speech of which she had had experience when he wooed her, he had bestowed his heart elsewhere. She kept her secret well, and he was ignorant of it. Had she led him to suspect that she believed herself to be betrayed, it would have caused him much amazement. In the early years of her married life she was not regardless of his movements, but she made no discovery to confirm her jealousy. She was in the habit of watching his expressions when he opened his letters, and of listening with agonised attention to the murmurings in his sleep; but she learnt nothing. Had there been anything to discover she would not have discovered it; she was no match for him in subtlety. Slowly she accepted her fate, with no outward repining, and they lived that calm passionless life which to some souls is worse than death, and which with some highly nervous organisations occasionally leads to violent terminations and tragic results.
"You were saying, Arthur," said Mr. Temple, with a direct evasion of Arthur's light question, "that you saw much to admire in the rough manners of the men among whom you travelled."
"Very much, sir. The proper assertion of a proper independence, for instance. The kingliness of manhood has no such exemplification in this city of unrest as it has in the free air of the New World, where men and women are not unhealthfully crowded together in small spaces. I see here, among the lower classes of society, no such free step, no such blithe spirits, as I have been accustomed to see among men in the same position at the other end of the world."
"There are grades even there, Arthur."
"Surely, sir; and human beings, wherever they cluster, must be dependent upon each other; but there, all grades express in their tone and bearing their obligation to each other, as equally from those above to those below, as from those below to those above. It is mutual, and there is no shame in it. Now, such dependence as I see here is ingrained in either real or assumed humiliation. Where it is real, it is pitiable and unnatural; where it is assumed, it is detestable. Either way it is bad and degrading."
"Admitting all this--which I do not--to what do you attribute this worse condition of affairs?"
"If you will pardon me," replied Arthur with modesty, "I have not gone as far as that. I have my thoughts, but I must see more before I should consider myself justified in accusing. I merely record what present themselves as clear pictures to my mind."
"When you see more, and are able from positive experience and observation to form just conclusions, you will admit that we must accept the world as we find it, and that the only wise course is to make use of it to our advantage."
"To turn its foibles to our advantage, sir?"
"Most certainly."
"Its shipwrecks and calamities--you know what I mean, sir--to turn even those to our advantage?"
"It is always a difficult thing to argue with an enthusiast, especially with an enthusiast whom one loves as I love you."
"I know you love me, sir," interrupted Arthur, warmly, "but I do not like the idea you have expressed. I think you would scarcely uphold it in its fulness."
"It is not difficult for a skilful disputant to turn his adversary's words against himself, and so to colour them as to make them bear a stronger and therefore different interpretation. Logic is an excellent weapon, Arthur, but it may be much abused."
"Admitted, sir. But it seems to me that it would be more noble and honourable to turn the experience we gained of the world to the world's advantage instead of to our own."
"The two aims may go together; but it is an absolute necessity that we should never lose sight of ourselves."
"And of our own aggrandisement?" interrupted Arthur.
"Yes, if you put it that way, though there are pleasanter ways of expressing it."
"More polished ways, sir?"
"Yes."
"But not more truthful."
"Probably not," said Mr. Temple, with no show of irritation, though he was secretly annoyed. "Remember that self-preservation is Nature's first law."
"Which does not mean," said Arthur, flying off at a tangent, as is the way with most impulsive natures, "that we should be continually stabbing our comrades in the race, or grudging to others honours worthily won--such as yours, sir--or withholding from others a true meed of admiration because our own merits--which, of course in our own estimation, are very great--have not been so generally recognised."
"These are common phrases, Arthur. Let me warn you to beware of platitudes. No platitudinarian ever rose in the world, or made for himself more than a mediocre reputation."
"That is flying away from the argument, sir," said Arthur vivaciously.
"Very well, then. I understand you to express that you should deem yourself as fortunate if you were unsuccessful in an ambition as if you had accomplished it."
"Not quite that, sir, but in some small way I can imagine circumstances in which I should deem defeat a victory."
"Do not imagine, Arthur--or, at all events, imagine as little as you can. Action is what the world calls for, is what the world demands of its leaders. And if you can act in such a way as not to oppose an established order of things, success is all the more sure."
"There is much to admire in souls which, animated by high desires, suffer from opposing an established order of things, and are consequently not prosperous."
"You have hit a nail, Arthur," said Mr. Temple, with emphasis; "'consequentlynot prosperous.'"
"Exactly so, sir; you take my meaning. I see in these unprosperous men much more to admire than in successful time-servers. And remember, sir," said Arthur, who frequently showed much pertinaciousness in argument, "that the very carrying out in its integrity of the axiom that preservation is Nature's first law would rob history of its most noble and heroic examples. I hope you do not mind my expressing myself thus plainly and, as I perceive, antagonistically to your views."
"Not at all. It is better that you should speak plainly to me what is in your mind than that you should needlessly betray yourself to strangers, who would not understand you." (Arthur was about to say here that he should not be deterred from expressing himself clearly in any society, but his father anticipated the declaration, and gave him no opportunity of expressing it.) "It does one good to be able to relieve himself in confidence of the vapours that oppress him. The air becomes clearer afterwards. Notwithstanding our seeming difference, I trust that our sympathies are in common----"
"I trust so, sir."
"We speak and judge from different standpoints; I from a long and varied experience of human nature, you from the threshold of life. When you are my age, you will think exactly as I do, and will be perhaps endeavouring, as I am endeavouring now, to check in your own children the enthusiasm which blinds one with excess of light, and which almost invariably leads to false and unpractical conclusions."
Arthur pondered over these words in silence, as he sat and glanced at a newspaper, as his father was doing. The calm judicial air which Mr. Temple assumed in these arguments enabled him generally to obtain an apparent victory, but it was seldom that either of the disputants was satisfied with the result. Purposely cultivating the intimacy between himself and Arthur, so that he might counteract the enthusiasm which he feared might step in the worldly way of his son, Mr. Temple was conscious that he effected but little good, and he could not but acknowledge to himself with inward trepidation that Arthur never failed to advocate the nobler side. This acknowledgment brought to his soul a sense of deep reproach--reproach which had he not loved his son, and based all his hopes upon him, might have caused an estrangement between them. For it was Arthur's words which awoke, not exactly his conscience, but his intellectual judgment, which compelled him to admit within the recesses of his own heart that he always played the meaner and the baser part in their arguments. Sometimes he asked himself if the lad was sincere; he subjected his own life as a young man to a critical analysis, to discover whether he had been led away in his estimate of men and things as he feared Arthur was being led away. It was characteristic of the man that at this period of his life--whatever he may have done in his more youthful days--he did not juggle with himself. In his solitary musings and communings with his inner nature he admitted the truth--but the glowing and delicate promptings never passed his lips, never found utterance. So now, on looking back, he saw at a single mental glance the wide barrier which divided his passions and his enthusiasms from those of his son. This barrier may be expressed in one word: selfishness. It was this sentiment that had ruled his life, that had made him blind to the consequences he might inflict upon others by his acts. Whether it were a voluntary or involuntary guiding, by this sentiment had he been led step by step up the ladder, casting no look at the despair which lay behind him. It was otherwise with Arthur; his father recognised that his son's promptings were generous and noble, and that there was no atom of selfishness in his judgment of this and that. And when he came to this point a smile played about his lips, and a world of meaning found expression in his unuttered thought: "Arthur has not yet begun to live."
The lad thought also; he did not pause to ask himself whether his convictions were right or wrong--to those he was fixed by an unerring instinct. But he tried, with little success, to bring his views into harmony with his father's worldly wisdom. The only consolation he derived was in the reflection that there was more than one fair road to a goal. As to throwing a doubt upon his father's rectitude and honour, no shadow of such a thought crossed his mind. He felt, as his father did, that there was a barrier between them, and he mentally resolved to endeavour to break it down. He glanced at his father's immovable face and tightly-closed lips, and saw that he was occupied by musings that distressed him. "It is I," thought Arthur, "who have given him pain. He is disappointed in me. Surely it is only because we cannot arrive at an understanding." How to commence to break down this barrier? The first means were in his hands--a newspaper, the epitome of life in all its large and small aspects, from the deposing of an emperor to the celebration of a new style in bonnets, from the horrible massacre of thousands of human beings in the East of Europe to the mild kicking of his wife by a costermonger in the East of London.
He commenced in a trembling voice--for the lad was the soul of ingenuousness, and could not play a part, however small, without betraying himself--by an introductory comment on a political question of the day. Mr. Temple instantly aroused himself, and replied, without observing Arthur's agitation. Gaining confidence, Arthur proceeded, and an animated conversation ensued. Their views were again antagonistic, but there was nothing personally painful in their dissent. With the skill of long experience Mr. Temple drew Arthur out upon the theme, and the lad became eloquent, as earnestness generally is--but this eloquence, combined with this earnestness, was of a standard so high, and the language and periods in which Arthur illustrated his points were at once so powerful and polished, that Mr. Temple thrilled with exultation, and he thought, "All is well." His face cleared, his manner was almost joyous, and when the subject was exhausted he said:
"Arthur, you have afforded me great delight. I cannot express my pride and pleasure. You are an orator."
Arthur blushed and stammered; the praise unnerved him, and brought him back to sober earth.
"Yes," continued Mr. Temple, "you are an orator, and you will fall into your proper groove in life---- Nay, do not interrupt me; you will verify my prediction. When a great, a noble gift is given to a man, and he knows that it is his, and when opportunity is given to him as it will be given to you, it is impossible for him to neglect it. God has given you the gift of eloquence, and you will fail in your duty if you do not properly use it. You are far in advance of me; I am accounted a good speaker, but I confess to you that I never lose myself in my words; if I did, I should become incoherent. I know beforehand what I am about to say; your words are unstudied, and are conveyed with a fire which cannot but stir your listeners to enthusiasm. That your political views differ from mine hurts me but little." Arthur raised his face to his father's in quick, affectionate response. "I am a Conservative; if your views do not undergo change, you will become a Liberal; and in this you will but march with the times. The fields are equally honourable. You will become a champion, a leader of your party. My dear boy, my fondest hopes will be realised in you."
From politics they passed to other themes, drawn from the columns of the newspaper, and then silence reigned for a little while. Mrs. Temple had left the room, and Arthur was now engaged in a column which appeared to interest him more than politics, foreign complications or the state of the money market, all of which matters had formed subject of conversation.
Presently he spoke.
"It is a great pleasure to me to be able to speak openly to you, sir, and to feel that, though you do not always agree with me, I can say exactly what is in my mind."
"Unhappily, Arthur, this kind of confidence is too rarely cultivated. It needs no cultivation in us. It already exists."
As he spoke his arm stole about Arthur's shoulder, and fondly rested there.
"You have so directed my thoughts to myself and the career before me that as I read I find myself almost unconsciously examining the relative impressions produced upon me by current events."
"An intellectual sign, Arthur."
"Pray, sir, do not flatter me too much," said Arthur, seriously; "it produces in me a sensation which is not entirely agreeable."
"You must make allowance, Arthur, for a father's pride in his son."
"Forgive me for my remark; I forgot myself for a moment. I doubt whether I deserve the love you bestow upon me."
"You more than deserve it, my dear boy, by returning it."
"Which I do sir, heartily, sincerely. Well then, I was about to say that I find myself much more affected by the domestic and social incidents in the newspapers than by the larger historical records. For instance, neither the political crisis nor the war produces within me so strong an impression as the sad history comprised in this short paragraph."
Mr. Temple turned his head towards the paper, and glanced at the paragraph pointed out by Arthur, making no attempt to read it.
"Concerning any public person, Arthur?"
"No, sir. Concerning one whose name might never have been known but for her misfortunes."
"Hermisfortunes! A woman, then?"
"A poor girl, found drowned in the river."
"Murdered?"
"She met her death by her own hands. On the river bank she had placed her child, a mere infant three or four months old. The poor girl--scarcely my age, and well-looking, the account says--must have drowned herself in the night when it was dark. First she stripped herself of her warm underclothing, and wrapped her baby in it to protect it from the cold, hoping, no doubt, that it would fall into humane hands soon after she walked to her doom. But the night passed, and the child was not discovered. By a strange fatality, within a few hours after the girl-mother was drowned, the waves washed her body on to the river's bank near to the form of her child, and when the sun shone, its light fell upon the dead mother and her living child lying side by side. There was nothing about her to prove her identity; even the initials on her clothes had been carefully removed. But a paper was found, on which was written, evidently by one of fair education: 'By my sinful act I remove myself and my shame from the eyes of a cruel world. I die in despair, unconsoled by the belief that retribution will fall upon the head of him who betrayed and deserted me.' On the head of him who betrayed her! Is it possible that such a man, after reading this record of his guilt--as perhaps he may be doing at this very moment--can enjoy a moment's happiness? Is it possible that he can sleep? Though by this dead girl's generosity his secret is safe, retribution will fall upon him--as surely as there is a heaven above us! If I discovered that ever in my life I had clasped the hand of such a man, I should be tempted to cut mine from its wrist to rid myself of the shameful contamination of his touch! What is the matter, sir? You are ill!"
"A sudden faintness, Arthur--nothing more. I have been working hard lately, and I need rest. Goodnight."
As Mr. Temple rose to leave the room, he turned from Arthur's anxious gaze a face that was like the face of a ghost.
In more than one respect Mrs. Lenoir was an object of interest to her neighbours, and in some sense a mystery, which they solved after a fashion not uncommon among poor people. That she was a woman of superior breeding to themselves, and that she did not associate freely with them, would certainly, but for one consideration, have stirred their resentment against her. Mrs. Lenoir did not, to adopt their own vernacular, give herself airs. "At all events," said they, "there's nothing stuck up about her." Moving among them, with her silent ways, she exhibited no consciousness of superiority, as other women in a similar position might have done; instead of holding her head above them, she walked the streets with a demeanour so uniformly sad and humble, that the feeling she evoked was one more of pity than of resentment. There is in some humilities a pride which hurts by contact. Had this been apparent in Mrs. Lenoir, her neighbours' tongues would have wagged remorselessly in her disfavour; but the contrary was the case. There was expressed in her bearing a mute appeal to them to be merciful to her; instead of placing herself above them, she seemed to place herself below them, and she conveyed the impression of living through the sad days weighed down by a grief too deep for utterance, and either too sacred or too terrible for human communion. When circumstances brought her into communication with her neighbours, her gentleness won respect and consideration; and what was known of her life outside the boundary of the lonely room she occupied, and which no person was allowed to enter, touched their hearts in her favour. Thus, as far as her means allowed her--and indeed, although they were not aware of it, far beyond her means--she was kind to the sick and to those who were poorer than herself, and she frequently went hungry to bed because of the sacrifices she made for them. Such small help as she could give was invariably proffered unobtrusively, almost secretly; but it became known, and it did her no harm in the estimation of her neighbours.
But what excited the greatest curiosity and the most frequent comment was the strange fancy which possessed her of seeking out young girls who were sweethearting, and voluntarily rendering them just that kind of service which they were likely most to value--ministering to their innocent vanities in a manner which they regarded as noble and generous. Mrs. Lenoir was a cunning needlewoman, and in the cutting out of a dress had no equal in the neighbourhood. She possessed, also, the art rare among Englishwomen, of knowing precisely the style, colours, and material which would best become the girl she desired to serve. To many such Mrs. Lenoir would introduce herself, and offer her services as dressmaker, stipulating beforehand that she should be allowed to work for love, and not for money. The exercise of this singular fancy made her almost a public character; and many a girl who was indebted to her, and whose wooing was brought to a happy conclusion, endeavoured gratefully to requite her services by pressing an intimacy upon her. Mrs. Lenoir steadily repelled every advance made in this direction. She gave them most willingly the work of her hands, but she would not admit them to her heart, nor would she confide her sorrows to them. She received their confidences, and sympathised with and advised them; but she gave no confidence in return.
Had they been cognisant of the life that was hidden from them, they might have declared her to be mad. This silent, reserved, and strangely-kind woman was subject to emotions and passions which no human eye witnessed, which no human breast shared. In the solitude of her poorly-furnished attic, she would stand motionless for hours, looking out upon the darkness of the night. At these times, not a sound, not a movement escaped her; she was as one in a trance, incapable of motion. And not unlikely, as is recorded of those who lie in that death-like sleep, there was in her mind a chaos of thought, terrible and overwhelming. It was always in the night that these moods took possession of her. It was a peculiar phase of her condition that darkness had no terrors for her. When dark shadows only were visible, she was outwardly calm and peaceful; but moonlight stirred her to startling extravagances. She trembled, she shuddered, her white lips moved convulsively, she sank upon her knees, and strove, with wildly-waving hands, to beat away the light. But she was dominated by a resistless force which compelled her to face the light, and draw from it memories which agonised her. The brighter and more beautiful was the night, the keener was her pain, and she had no power to fly from it. If she awoke from sleep, and saw the moon shining through the window, she would hide her eyes in the bedclothes, with tears and sobs that came from a broken heart, and the next moment her feeble hands would pluck the clothes aside, so that she might gaze upon the peaceful light which stabbed her like a knife. She was ruled by other influences, scarcely less powerful. Moonlight shining on still waters; certain flowers; falling snow--all these terribly disturbed her, and aroused in full force the memories which tortured her. Had her neighbours witnessed her paroxysms on on these occasions, they would have had the fairest reason for declaring that Mrs. Lenoir was mad.
She lived entirely out of the world; read no newspapers; played a part in no scandals; and the throbs of great ambitions which shook thrones and nations never reached the heart, never touched the soul of this lonely woman, who might have been supposed to be waiting for death to put an end to her sorrows.
A few weeks after she had made Lizzie's dress, Mrs. Lenoir was sitting as usual alone in her room. She was not at work; with her hand supporting her face, she was gazing with tearful eyes upon three pictures, which she had taken from a desk which stood open on the table. This desk was in itself a remarkable possession for a woman in her position in life. It was inlaid with many kinds of curious woods, and slender devices in silver; it was old, and had seen service, but it had been carefully used. The three pictures represented sketches of a beautiful face, the first of a child a year old, the second the child grown to girlhood, the third the girl grown to womanhood. The pictures were painted in water-colours, and the third had been but recently sketched. Over the mantelshelf hung a copy of this last picture, which--as was the case with all of them--though the hand of the amateur was apparent, evidenced a loving care in its execution. Long and with yearning eyes did Mrs. Lenoir gaze upon the beautiful face; had it been warm and living by her side, a more intense and worshipping love could not have been expressed by the lonely woman. The striking of eight o'clock from an adjacent church roused her; with a sigh that was like a sob, she placed the pictures in her desk, and setting it aside, resumed the needlework which she had allowed to fall into her lap.
Winter had come somewhat suddenly upon the city, and snow had fallen earlier than usual. One candle supplied the room with light, and a very small fire with warmth. For an hour Mrs. Lenoir worked with the monotony of a machine, and then she was disturbed by a knock at the door. She turned her head, but did not speak. The knock was repeated, and a voice from without called to her.
"Are you at home, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Yes, Lizzie."
"Let me in."
"I will come to you."
Mrs. Lenoir went to the door, which was locked, and, turning the key, stepped into the passage.
"Well, Lizzie?"
"But you must let me in, Mrs. Lenoir. I want to tell you something, and I can't speak in the dark."
"Lizzie, you must bear with my strange moods. You know I never receive visitors."
"To call me a visitor! And I've run to tell you the very first! Mrs. Lenoir, I have no mother."
Lizzie's pleading conquered. She glided by Mrs. Lenoir, and entered the room. Mrs. Lenoir slowly followed. Lizzie's face was bright, her manner joyous. "Guess what has happened, Mrs. Lenoir!"
Mrs. Lenoir cast a glance at Lizzie's happy face.
"You will soon be married, Lizzie."
"Yes," said Lizzie, with sparkling eyes, "it was all settled this evening. And do you know, Mrs. Lenoir, that though I've been thinking of it and thinking of it ever since me and Charlie have known each other, it seems as if something wonderful has happened which I never could have hoped would come true. But itistrue, Mrs. Lenoir. In three weeks from this very day. It's like a dream."
Mrs. Lenoir had resumed her work while Lizzie was speaking, and now steadily pursued it as the girl continued to prattle of her hopes and dreams.
"You will make my dress, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Yes, Lizzie."
"And you'll let Charlie pay for the making?"
"You must find another dressmaker, then. What I do for you I do for----"
"Love!"
"If you like to call it so, Lizzie. At all events I will not take money for it."
"You are too good to me, Mrs. Lenoir. I can't help myself; youmustmake my dress, because no one else could do it a hundredth part as well, and because, for Charlie's sake, I want to look as nice as possible. And that's what I mean to do all my life. I'll make myself always look as nice as I can, so that Charlie shall never get tired of me. But one thing youmustpromise me, Mrs. Lenoir."
"What is that, Lizzie?"
"You'll come to the wedding."
Mrs. Lenoir shook her head.
"I go nowhere, as you know, Lizzie. You must not expect me."
"But I have set my heart upon it, and Charlie has too! I am always talking to him of you, and he sent me up now especially to bring you, or to ask if he may come and see you. 'Perhaps she'll take a bit of a walk with us,' said Charlie. It has left off snowing----"
Mrs. Lenoir shuddered.
"Has it been snowing?"
"Oh, for a couple of hours! The ground looks beautiful; but everything is beautiful now." Lizzie looked towards the window. "Ah, you didn't see the snow because the blind was down. Do come, Mrs. Lenoir."
"No, Lizzie, you must not try to persuade me; it is useless."
"But you are so much alone--you never go anywhere! And this is the first time you have allowed me to come into your room. You are unhappy, I know, and you don't deserve to be. Let me love you, Mrs. Lenoir."
"Lizzie, I must live as I have always lived. It is my fate."
"Has it been so all your life? When you were my age, were you the same as you are now? Ah, no; I can read faces, and yours has answered me. I wish I could comfort you."
"It is not in your power. Life for me contains only one possible comfort, only one possible joy; but so remote, so unlikely ever to come, that I fear I shall die without meeting it. Leave me now; I have a great deal of work to get through to-night."
Lizzie, perceiving that further persuasion would be useless, turned to leave the room. As she did so, her eyes fell upon the picture of the girl-woman hanging over the mantelshelf. With a cry of delight she stepped close to it.
"How beautiful! Is it your portrait, Mrs. Lenoir, when you were a girl? Ah, yes, it is like you."
"It is not my portrait, Lizzie."
"Whose then? Do you know her? But of course you do. What lovely eyes and hair! It is a face I could never forget if I had once seen it. Who is she?"
The expression of hopeless love in Mrs. Lenoir's eyes as she gazed upon the picture was pitiful to see.
"It is a portrait painted from a heart's memory, Lizzie."
"Painted by you?"
"Yes."
"How beautifully it is done! I always knew you were a lady. And I've been told you can speak languages. I was a little girl when I heard the story of a poor foreigner dying in this street, who gave you, in a foreign language, his dying message to his friends abroad. That is true, is it not, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"It is quite true. It would have been better for me had I been poor and ignorant, and had I not been what you suppose me to have been--a lady. Lizzie, if you love me, leave me!"
"Mrs. Lenoir, is there no hope of happiness for you?"
"Have I not already told you? I have a hope, a wild, unreasoning hope, springing from the bitterest sorrow that ever fell to woman's lot. Apart from that, my only desire is to live and die in peace. And now, Lizzie, goodnight."
Constrained to leave, Lizzie took her departure, saddened by the sadness of this woman of sorrow; but the impress of another's grief soon fades from the heart in which happiness reigns, and, within a few minutes, the girl, in the company of her lover, was again rapt in the contemplation of her own bright dreams.
The moment Lizzie quitted the room, Mrs. Lenoir turned the key in the door, so that no other person should enter. The interview had affected her powerfully, and the endeavour she made to resume her work was futile; her fingers refused to fulfil their office. Rising from her seat, she paced the room with uneven steps, with her hands tightly clasped before her. To and fro, to and fro she walked, casting her eyes fearsomely towards the window every time she turned to face it. The curtains were thick, and the night was hidden from her, but she seemed to see it through the dark folds; it possessed a terrible fascination for her, against which she vainly struggled. It had been snowing, Lizzie had said. She had not known it; was it snowing still? She would not, she dared not look; she clasped her fingers so tightly that the blood deserted them; she was fearful that if she relaxed her grasp, they would tear the curtains aside, and reveal what she dreaded to see. For on this night, when she had been gazing on the face which was present to her through her dreaming and waking hours, when her heart had been cruelly stirred by the words which had passed between Lizzie and herself, the thought of the white and pitiless snow was more than ever terrifying to her. It brought back to her with terrible force memories the creation of which had been productive of fatal results to the peace and happiness of her life. They never recurred to her without bringing with them visions of snow falling, or of lying still as death on hill and plain. The familiar faces in these scenes were few--a man she had loved; a man who loved her; a child--and at this point, all actual knowledge stopped. What followed was blurred and indistinct. She had ridden or had walked through the snow for months, as it seemed; there was no day--it was always night; the white plains were alive with light; the moon shone in the heavens; the white sprays flew from the horse's hoofs; through narrow lanes and trackless fields she rode and rode until a break occurred in the oppressive monotony. They are in a cottage, she and the man who loved her, and a sudden faintness comes upon her. Is it a creation of her fancy that she hears a woman's soft voice singing to her child, or is the sound really in the cottage? Another thing. Is she looking upon a baby lying in a cradle, and does she press her lips upon the sleeping infant's face? Fact and fancy are so strangely commingled--the glare of the white snow has so dazed her--the air is so thick with shadowy forms and faces--that she cannot separate the real from the ideal. But it is true that she is on the road again, and that the horse is plodding along, throwing the white sprays from his hoofs as before, until another change comes upon the scene. She and the man are toiling wearily through the snow, which she now looks upon as her enemy, toiling wearily, wearily onward, until they reach the gate of a church, when she feels her senses deserting her. Earth and sky are merging into one another, and all things are fading from her sight--all things but the quaint old church with its hooded porch, which bends compassionately towards her, and offers her a peaceful sanctuary. This church and the tombstones around it, the very form and shape of which she sees clearly in the midst of her agony, she has ever clearly remembered. Even in the death-like trance that falls upon her, she sees the outline of the church and its approaches. Friendly hands assist her into the sanctuary of rest. How long does she lie in peace? How many hours, or days, or weeks pass by, before she sees strange faces bending over her, before she hears strange voices about her? What has occurred between the agony of the time that has gone, and the ineffable rapture that fills her veins as she presses a baby to her breast? What follows after this? She cannot tell. During the sad and lonely years that have brought silver streaks into her hair, she has striven hundreds of times to recall the sequence of events that culminated with the loss of her treasure. But she strives in vain. Time and her own weakness have destroyed the record. Long intervals of illness, during which the snow is always falling and the moonlight always gleaming; glimpses of heaven in the bright-blue laughing eyes of a lovely babe--her own child, who lies upon her breast, pure and beautiful as an angel; then, a terrible darkness; and loneliness for evermore.
For evermore? Is this truly to be her fate? Can Heaven be so cruel as to allow her to die without gazing again upon the face of her child? For a blind faith possesses her that her darling still lives. Against all reason--in the face of all circumstance. Can she not believe that, during an illness which almost proved fatal, her child was taken from her, and died before she recovered? When this was told her, in a careless way, as though it were a matter so ordinary as to be scarcely worthy of comment, and when to this were added sharp and bitter words to the effect that she ought to fall upon her knees, and thank God that her child was not living to share her shame and disgrace, she looked with a pitiful smile into the face of her informant, and, rising without a word, went her way into the world. Into the lonely world, which henceforth contained no hand that she could clasp in love or friendship.
Her shame! Yes, truly hers. It held an abiding place in her heart. It caused her to shrink from the gaze of man, and from the words, more surely bitter, which she saw trembling on the lips of those who would address her. Eyes flashed contempt upon her; tongues reviled her; fingers were pointed at her in scorn and abhorrence. What was there before her but to fly from these stings and nettles, and hide herself from the sight of all who chanced to know her? She accepted her lot. Heart-broken she wandered into the great depths of the city, and lived her life of silence.
As now she paced the attic, the walls of which had witnessed her long agony, her thoughts, as at such periods they always did, travelled to the fatal time which had wrecked her peace and almost destroyed her reason. She had hitherto suffered without repining, but her spirit began to rebel against the injustice of the fate which had stripped her life of joy. Until now there had been nothing of sullenness in her resignation; she had accepted her hard lot with passive unreasoning submission; and had flung back no stones, even in thought, in return for those that were cast at her. But she seemed on this night to have reached the supreme point of resignation, and some sense of the heartless wrong which had been inflicted upon her stole into her soul. But this new feeling did not debar her from the contemplation of the night outside her room. It was snowing, Lizzie had said. She could not resist the fascination of the words; they drew her to the window; they compelled her to pluck the curtain aside. The snow was falling.
With feverish haste, scarce knowing what she was doing, she fastened her bonnet, flung her shawl over her shoulders, and walked into the streets. There were but few persons stirring in her neighbourhood; the public-houses, of course, were full, and the street-vendors were stamping their feet upon the pavement, more from habit, being in the presence of snow, than from necessity, for the weather was a long way from freezing-point; but Mrs. Lenoir paid no heed to the signs about her. Her thoughts were her companions, to divert her attention from which would need something more powerful than ordinary sights and sounds. She did not appear to be conscious of the road she was taking, nor to care whither she directed her steps. Now and then, a passer-by paused to gaze after the excited woman, who speeded onwards as though an enemy were on her track. So fast did she walk that she was soon out of the narrow labyrinths, and treading the wider thoroughfares, past the Royal Exchange and Mansion House, through Cheapside and St. Paul's Churchyard, into the busier life of Fleet Street--to avoid which, or from some unseen motive, she turned mechanically to the left, and came on to the Embankment, by the side of the river. Then, for the first time, she paused, but not for long. The moon was shining, and a long rippling line of light stretched to the edge of the water, at some distance from the spot on which she stood, where it lapped with a dismal sound the stone steps of a landing-place. The waves washed the rippling light on to the dark slimy stones, and, to her fevered fancy, the light crept up the stones to the level surface of the pavement, along which it slowly unwound itself, like a coil, until it touched her feet. With a shudder, she stepped into this imaginary line of light, not hurriedly now, but softly on and on, down the steps, until her shoes were in the water. A man rose like a black shadow from a tomb, and, with an oath, clutched her arm. She wrenched it from him with an affrighted cry and fled--so swiftly, that though he who had saved her hurried after her, he could not reach her side. She ran along the Embankment till she came to Westminster Bridge, when she turned her back upon the river, and mingled with the people that were going towards the Strand.
She had walked at least five miles, but she felt no fatigue. There are occasions when the weakest bodies are capable of strains that would break down the strongest organisations, and this frail woman was upheld by mental forces which supplied her with power to bear. In the Strand she found her progress impeded. It was eleven o'clock, and the theatres were pouring out their animated crowds. In one of these crowds she became ingulfed, and formed a passive unit in the excited throng, being hustled this way and that, and pushed mercilessly about by those who were struggling to disentangle themselves. This rough treatment produced no effect upon her; she submitted in patience, and in time reached the edge of the crowd. When she arrived at a certain point, where the people had room to move more freely, two persons, a man and a woman, passed her, and the voice of the woman fell upon her ears.
An exclamation of bewildered amazement hung upon Mrs. Lenoir's lips. It was her own voice she had heard, and she had not spoken. Not the sad voice which those who knew her were accustomed to hear, but the glad blithe voice which was hers in her youth, and which she had been told was sweet as music.
She paused and listened; but only the accustomed Babel of sound reached her now. She had distinguished but one word--"Love," and she knew she had not uttered it. Although her nerves were quivering under the influence of the mystery, she had no choice but to pursue her way, and she continued walking in the direction of Temple Bar.
Gradually the human throng lessened in numbers. It was spreading itself towards the home lights through all the windings of the city; and when Mrs. Lenoir had passed the arch of the time-honoured obstruction she had room enough and to spare. Now and then she was overlapped by persons whose gait was more hurried than her own; more frequently she passed others who were walking at a more reasonable pace. Approaching a couple who, arm-in-arm, were stepping onwards as though it were noon instead of near midnight, she heard again the voice that had startled her.
Her first impulse was to run forward and look upon the face of the speaker; but she restrained herself, or rather was restrained by the conflicting passions which agitated her breast; and without removing her eyes from the forms of the two persons before her, she followed them with feeble uncertain steps. For the woman's strength was going from her; she was wearied and exhausted, and she had to struggle now with nature. It was fortunate for her that the man and the woman she was following were walking slowly, or she must inevitably have lost them. And even as it was, she dragged her weary feet after them, as one in a dream might have done.
The woman was young; joyous health and spirits proclaimed themselves in the light springy step; and the musical laugh that rang frequently in the air was like the sound of silver bells. That she was beautiful could not be doubted: it was the theme of their conversation at the present moment.
"And you think me very beautiful?"
"You are more than beautiful. You are the most lovely girl in the world. But if I continue to tell you the same story, I shall make you the vainest as well as the loveliest."
"Oh, no; I like to hear you. Go on."
"Then there's another danger. Though you know I love you----"
"Yes."
"And though you have told me you love me----"
"Yes."
"You do, you little witch?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well, there's the danger of losing you."
"In what way? How?"
"Some one else might see you, and fall in love with you."
"Suppose some one else couldn't help it? This with a delicious silvery laugh.
"By heavens, you're enough to drive a saint out of his senses!"
"Me?"
"Well, your cool way of saying things."
"But go on about the danger of losing me."
"Andyoumight fall in love with some one else."
"I don't think so," said the girl, with the air of one who was considering a problem which did not affect her. "I couldn't fall in love with any man that wasn't a gentleman. And you are one?"
"I hope so."
"That is why I like you. You are a gentleman, you are good-looking and rich; while I----"
"You!" It was scarcely an interruption, for the girl paused, as in curious contemplation of what might follow.
"You! You are fit to be a queen."
"Iama duchess, remember," said the girl, with an arch smile, which became graver with the words--"I wonder why they called me so?"
"Because they saw you were above them, and better than they."
"Why should they have seen that? What made them see it? I could hardly speak at the time, and I don't even remember it."
"Nor anything about yourself before you were brought to Rosemary Lane?" inquired the man anxiously.
"No; nothing that does not seem like a dream."
"One can remember dreams."
"I can't remember mine. But sometimes I have a curious impression upon me."
"May I hear it?"
"Why not? It is upon me now. It is this: that when I dreamt--before I remember anything, you know----"
"Yes."
"That it was always snowing, as it is now."
What subtle vapour affected the fair and beautiful girl--surely subject to no distempered fancies, glowing as she was with health, and with pulses beating joyously--that she should suddenly pause and gaze upon the snow with a troubled air? What subtle vapour affected the wan and exhausted woman behind her that at the same moment she also should pause and hold her thin, transparent hand to her eyes, to shut out the white glare of the snow that troubled her soul? There was a curious resemblance in their attitudes as they thus stood in silence--the girl in the light, the woman in the shade.
A gust of wind, if it did not dispel the vapour, stirred the actors in this scene into motion, and the girl and her lover--for there could be no doubt of the relation they bore to each other--resumed their walk, Mrs. Lenoir still following them with steps that grew more feeble every moment.
Of the conversation between the lovers not a word had reached her. Now and again she heard the sound of the girl's voice when it was raised higher than usual, but the words that accompanied it were lost upon her. She had formed a distinct purpose during the journey, if in her weak condition of mind and body any purpose she wished to carry out can be called distinct. She would keep them in sight until the man had taken his departure, and the girl was alone. Then she would accost the girl, and look into her face. That was the end of her thought; the hopes and fears which enthralled and supported her were too wild and whirring for clear interpretation. And yet it appeared as though she herself feared to be seen; for once or twice when the man or the girl looked back, Mrs. Lenoir shrank tremblingly and in pitiable haste into the obscurity of the deeper shadows of the night.
They were now in the east of London, near Rosemary Lane, and the girl paused and stopped her companion, with the remark:
"You must not come any further."
This was so far fortunate for Mrs. Lenoir, inasmuch as otherwise she would have lost sight of those she had followed. Nature had conquered, and a faintness like the faintness of death was stealing upon her.
The man and the girl were long in bidding each other goodnight. It was said half-a-dozen times, and still he lingered, loth to leave her.
"Remember," he said, as he stood with his arm around her, "you have promised not to mention my name to your people."
"Yes, I have promised. But why won't you come and see them? I should like you to."
"It can't be done, my little bird. You are sensible enough to understand why a gentleman in my position can't run the danger of forming intimacies with common persons."
"But I am a common person," said the girl, archly challenging a contradiction.
"You are a lady, and if you are not, I'll make you one. When you are away from them, I want you to be well away. You wouldn't like to be dragged down again."
"No--you are right, I dare say. Poor Sally!"
"Not a word to her, mind. I'll have to bribe you, I see. What do you say to this?"
He took from his pocket a gold bracelet, shining with bright stones, and held it up to the light. The girl uttered a cry of pleasure, but as she clasped the trinket she looked round in affright. Her glad exclamation was followed by a moan from Mrs. Lenoir, who staggered forward a few steps and sank, insensible to the ground.
"It's only a drunken woman," said the man. "Good night, my bird."
The girl eluded his embrace and ran to the fainting woman, and knelt beside her.
"She is not drunk," said the girl; "she looks worn out and tired. See how white she is. Poor creature! Perhaps she is starving."
Mrs. Lenoir, opening her eyes, saw as in a vision, the face of the beautiful girl bending over her, and a smile of ineffable sweetness played about her lips. But the words she strove to utter were breathed, unspoken, into the air, and she relapsed into insensibility.
"Leave her to me," said the man; "I will take care of her. You musn't get into trouble: it's past the time you were expected home."
He raised the woman in his arms as he spoke.
"You don't know her?" he said.
"No; I never saw her before," replied the girl "You must promisemenow: you'll not leave her in the streets; you'll see her safely home."
"I'll do more; if she's in want, I'll assist her. Now, go; I don't want to be seen by your--what do you call him?--Mr. Dumbrick, or by your friend Sally. Good night. She is recovering already. Run away--and don't forget; to-morrow night, at the same place."
He threw his disengaged arm round the girl and kissed her. The next moment he and Mrs. Lenoir were alone.