The age of Bronze, the age of BronzeWhere Boadicea----
"Loved and sung," finished Dick. "I say old chap, you're cribbing from the Isles of Greece."
Whereupon Ferdinand entered into a lively discussion with Dick to prove that he had not plagiarised from Byron while Dick in reply mercilessly chaffed the unhappy poet with such success that he fled from the room, pursued by his laughing antagonist.
"What is the matter, Reggy?" asked Pumpkin, seeing how quiet Blake had remained, "anything wrong?"
"Oh no," he replied hastily, "but I was wondering how the Squire is this morning."
"You'd better go over and see, Blake," said the vicar, looking up. "I hope that strange doctor did him some good. By the way who is this doctor?"
"I don't know, sir," answered Blake, turning towards Dr. Larcher, "he said he was on a walking tour, and I fancy is a friend of Beaumont's."
The vicar frowned.
"Birds of a feather," he said decisively. "I don't think much of Beaumont, Blake, and if this Dr. Nestley is his friend, I'm afraid he's not much good."
"That is severe, papa," said Pumpkin.
"My dear," replied her father emphatically. "I hope I am the last man in the world to speak ill of my fellow creatures, but I am afraid that Basil Beaumont is not a good man--you can hardly call him 'integer vitæ,'--I knew him before he left the parish, and even then his nature was not all that could be desired, but now his worst traits of character have become developed in the pernicious atmosphere of London life, and as I am the guardian of three youths whose minds are naturally open to seductive influences it is but right that I should take a severe view of the matter; if Basil Beaumont became the companion of my pupils I should tremble for the result--ille dies utramque ducet ruinam."
"But Dr. Nestley, papa?"
"As to Doctor Nestley," said the vicar majestically, "I do not yet know him--when I do, I will be in a position to judge of his character--but like draws to like and I fear--I fear sadly," finished Dr. Larcher shaking his head sagaciously, "that no one of strictly upright principles can be an intimate friend of Basil Beaumont's."
"I don't think they are very intimate friends," said Reggy thoughtfully, "rather the opposite."
"Ah, indeed," replied Dr. Larcher, "well, well, we shall see; however--non hæc jocosæ conveniunt lyræ--you can go over to the Grange, Blake, and inquire after the Squire's health."
At this moment a tapping was heard on the floor above which signified that Mrs. Larcher required some little attention, whereupon Pumpkin left the room with alacrity in order to see what "The Affliction" wanted. Left alone with the vicar Reggy was about to retire, when Dr. Larcher stopped him.
"By the way, Blake," he said gravely, "I wish to speak to you on a serious subject."
Reggy flushed red and bowed without saying a word, as he intuitively guessed what was coming.
"I am aware," observed the vicar in his ponderous manner, "that I may be about to interfere in your affairs in what you may consider a most unjustifiable manner."
"Not at all, sir," answered Reginald warmly, "no one has such a right to speak to me as you have--my second father--I may say my only father."
Dr. Larcher smiled in a gratified manner and looked at the tall young man standing near him with approval.
"I am glad to have your good opinion," he said, politely bending his head, "but in order that you may understand me clearly you must permit me to recapitulate as shortly as possible the story of your life--this is a very critical period of your career--remember Horace,Tu nisi ventis debis ludibrium cave."
Blake turned pale, then, with a forced smile resumed his seat and waited for the vicar to proceed, which that worthy gentleman did, not without some embarrassment.
"Of course you understand," he said clearing his throat, "that I am quite unaware of your parentage--whether your father and mother are alive I do not know--about two-and-twenty years ago you were brought to me by Patience Allerby, your nurse, who had just then returned from London, where she had been in service. She told me that you were the son of a poor literary man and his wife, whose servant she had been, they went away to France and--I understand--died there. She was left with you on her hands so brought you down here and delivered you to my charge; since then you have been an inmate of my house."
"The only home I ever knew," interposed Blake with emotion.
"I will not deny," said Dr. Larcher, "that I have received through your nurse certain sums of money for your education which leads me to believe--in spite of her denial--that your parents may be still alive. This is well enough in the past, but now you are twenty-two years of age and I wish to make some arrangements about your future career--you will of course choose your own vocation in life--but meantime I wish you to ask Patience Allerby about your birth and obtain from her all information regarding your parents which may be of use to me--you can do so when you go over to the Grange to-day--and then let me know the result; afterwards we can discuss ways and means regarding your future."
"It's very kind of you, sir to talk like this," said Blake in a low voice, "and I feel deeply grateful to you. I will see Patience and get her to tell me all she knows, but I'm afraid I can expect nothing from my parents, even though they are alive--a father and mother who could leave their child to the mercy of strangers all these years cannot have much humanity."
"Do not judge them too harshly," said the vicar hastily, "there may be reasons."
"I've no doubt of that," replied Blake bitterly, "reasons which mean shame."
"Not necessarily--a secret marriage----"
"Would have been declared long before the lapse of twenty years," said Reggy quickly. "I'm afraid there is worse than that and my birth was my mother's shame."
There was a cloud on the good vicar's brow as the young man spoke, but he delicately refrained from saying anything. Going over to Blake he patted him gently on the shoulder, a mark of kindliness which touched the young man deeply.
"Come! come, Blake," he said cheerfully, "you must not cherish these morbid fancies. You are young and clever, with the world before you, who knows but what you may achieve success, and then your unknown parents, if they live, will acknowledge you only too gladly. Do not be so easily cast down. What is the manly advice of the Venusinian?
'Rebus angustis animosus atqueFortis appare.'"
"I don't think Horace was ever called upon to bear trouble undaunted," said Blake rather sadly, "but if my belief is true it will cast a shadow on my life."
"Morbid! morbid!" replied the vicar gaily, "do not go out in a coach and four to meet your troubles, my lad--see Patience first--if your thoughts prove true there will be time enough to lament them, but with youth and brains on your side you should not turn recreant in the battle of life."
"Nor will I," said Reggy, grasping the kind hand held out towards him. "Whatever comes or goes I have at least one man who has been to me father and mother both."
Then, overcome by his emotion, he hastily left the room, while the vicar, taking up the bronze sword, prepared to follow.
"Ah!" said the worthy gentleman with a sigh. "I trust his forebodings may not prove true, but Patience Allerby knows more than she tells, and I fear for the worst; however,Non si male nunc et olim sic erit, and the boy has at least had a few happy years--what says glorious John?
'Not heaven itself over the past hath powerFor what hath been hath been,And I have had my hour.'"
And with this somewhat pagan sentiment Dr. Larcher went away to discuss the Bronze period, illustrated by the newly-found sword, with a certain old crony who always differed from him and constantly said "No," to the vicar's "Yes."
A snake you were in other daysEre you attained the human state;Still in your veins the snake blood playsWhich leads you now to gloze and hate,The magic of the serpent gazeLurks in your eyes to fascinate.
A snake you were in other days
Ere you attained the human state;
Still in your veins the snake blood plays
Which leads you now to gloze and hate,
The magic of the serpent gaze
Lurks in your eyes to fascinate.
As it was a holiday the pupils were left to their own devices, and on going outside, Blake found Dick Pemberton amusing himself with Muffins and a fishing rod. Ferdinand having been worsted by the volatile Dick, had long since departed to work at a tragedy he was composing, and Mr. Pemberton was evidently getting ready for a fishing excursion in company with Muffins.
"Now what do you think you are doing?" asked Reggy pausing at the door.
"None so blind as those who won't see," retorted Dick coolly. "I'm goin' fishin'."
"Fishing?" repeated Reggy with emphasis.
"With the accent on the 'G'," replied Richard gaily. "Don't be a pedant, old chap--fishin' means the same thing as fishing, and not so much trouble to say. I suppose I ought to call Muffins 'Muffings.'"
"Oh, bosh!" retorted Reggy politely, walking down to the gate.
"Quite right--it is bosh, oh King. Where are you off to?"
"Grange?"
Dick arched his eyebrows, shook his head, and whistled, at which Reginald flushed a little.
"What do you mean?" he asked, turning round.
"Nothin', nothin'," said Dick demurely; "you're 'goin' a-courtin', sir, she said,' I suppose."
"What nonsense, Dick," said Blake angrily, "as if Una----"
"Oh! ho!" replied Pemberton; "sits the wind in that quarter? I never mentioned the lady's name. You ought to get our one and only poet to write you some verses--
'Oh, I could spoon aGirl like dear UnaAileen Aroona,'
'Oh, I could spoon aGirl like dear UnaAileen Aroona,'
--bad poetry, but beautiful sentiment."
"I wish you'd be serious, Dick," said Reginald in a vexed tone; "I am only going over to the Grange to ask after the Squire's health."
"All right," replied Dick good-naturedly; "give old Cassy my love, and tell her I'm going to propose to her--odd, isn't it?--so very odd." And with a capital imitation of Miss Cassandra's fidgety manner, he walked away followed by Muffins, while Reginald went out of the gate on to the village street.
The interview with Dr. Larcher had touched him more nearly than he liked to confess even to himself, and his frivolous conversation with Dick had been somewhat of a relief to him, but now, being alone, he relapsed into sombre thoughts. He was dissatisfied with his position, and longed to know more about himself--who were his parents?--were they dead or alive?--why was he thrust into the world as an outcast? The only person who could explain the mystery of his life was Patience Allerby; he determined therefore to apply to her for the explanation.
Filled with these dismal thoughts, he sauntered slowly up the street as far as the bridge. Here he paused, and leaning over the parapet, began to think again. It was a curious thing that this young man, brought up in a quiet, Christian household, should let his thoughts run on such a morbid idea as the possibility of his being a natural son. He had no experience of vice, and should therefore have accepted the marriage of his unknown parents as a fact, especially when his nurse asserted that they had been married. But the strangeness of his position led him to believe that there must be some motive for concealment, and this motive, he determined in his own mind, was the want of a marriage certificate.
The real cause, however, which led to this morbid analysis of the possible relations between his parents, lay in a discovery which he had lately made--a discovery which changed the simple manly life he was leading into a raging hell of doubts and self-torturings.
He was in love--and Una Challoner was the woman he loved. It was not that sickly evanescent affection common to adolescence, known by the name of calf love--no; but that strong overwhelming passion of the soul which has no limits and which dominates and sways the whole nature. Drawn in the first place towards Una by simple admiration of her beauty, he learned later on to discard this passion without soul, and found in the kindred sympathy of her spirit with his own that ideal union which so rarely exists. She, on her part, had been attracted to him by the same qualities which he found in her, and this perfect agreement developed in each a pure and spiritual adoration.
His love thus being pure, he would not dare to offer her anything but purity, and anxiously began to examine his life in order to discover all flaws which marred its whiteness. He was not an ideal young man, still he discovered nothing in his life which could embarrass him to explain, so felt quite easy in himself, but now this shadow of possible illegitimacy seemed to threaten disaster. He would not dare to offer to the woman he loved and respected a name which was not legally his own.
However, it was no use indulging in self-torture when it could be ended by getting a proper explanation of the circumstances of his birth from Patience Allerby. Hitherto he had shrunk from doing this with the vague hesitation of a man who dreads to hear the truth, but now it was imperative he should learn all, be it good or evil, and shape his course accordingly. At this moment of his life he stood at the junction of two roads, and the explanation of Patience Allerby would decide which one he was to take. Having come to this logical conclusion, he resolutely banished all dismal thoughts from his heart, and walked rapidly across the common in the direction of Garsworth Grange. It was the quest, not for El Dorado or the Holy Grail, but for the secret which would make or mar his whole life.
Dull and heavy was the day, with a cold grey sky overhead, a humid wind blowing chill with the moisture of the fens, and a sense of decay in the atmosphere. The gaunt, bare trees with their slender branches and twigs outlined with delicate distinctness against the sad grey sky--the withered leaves with their vivid reds and yellows which carpeted the ground--the absence of song of bird or cheerful lowing of kine--all weighed down and depressed his spirits. The uniform tints of the landscape with their absence of colour and life seemed like a type of his own existence at present; but lo, when he raised his eyes a golden shaft of sunlight was above the distant towers of the Grange, where he hoped to find the talisman which would change the grey monotony of an uneventful past to the glory and joy of a happy future. It was an omen of success, and his eyes brightened, his step grew springy and he clutched his stick with determination as he strode towards the glory of the sun, leaving the grey mists and desolate landscape behind him.
As he walked on he saw a short distance ahead the tall figure of a man, and on coming abreast of him, he recognised Basil Beaumont, who was listlessly strolling along, thinking deeply. Remembering the vicar's dislike to the character of Beaumont, he was about to pass on with a conventional nod, when the artist spoke, and he could not with courtesy refuse to answer.
"Good morning, Blake," he said in a friendly tone. "Taking a constitutional?"
"Not exactly," replied Reginald, falling into the leisurely walk of the artist; "the vicar wants to know how Squire Garsworth is?"
"Had I met you earlier I could have saved you the walk," said Beaumont indolently; "he is much better--they sent to Nestley this morning to tell him about it."
"Where is Dr. Nestley now?" asked Blake.
Beaumont pointed to the Grange with his stick.
"Over there," he answered, "seeing his patient. I expect he'll have to remain down here for some time--the Squire has taken a great fancy to him--rich men's likings are poor men's fortunes."
"Good. I wish someone would take a liking to me," said Blake with a sigh. "I need a fortune."
"You've got one."
"Indeed! Where?"
"In your throat!"
Reginald laughed and shook his head.
"I hardly think that," he answered gaily.
"Don't be so mock modest, my dear boy," said Beaumont with a shrug. "I assure you I'm not one to praise unnecessarily. You need training, severe training, to bring your voice to perfection; but you've got a wonderful organ to work on--not that voice is everything, mind you; I've known people with good voices to whom such a gift is absolutely worthless."
"Why?"
"Because they've got no talent. To make a singer needs more than voice--it needs great perseverance, powerful dramatic instinct, an educated mind, and a strong individuality."
"I don't think I've got all that," said Reggy rather disconsolately.
"Let me see," observed Beaumont deliberately, "you've a good voice and dramatic instinct, as I know from the way you sang that song last night--you are educated, of course, and I can see for myself you have an individuality of your own--there only remains perseverance. Have you perseverance?"
"I think so."
"Ah! doubtful. I'll put the question in another way. Are you ambitious? If you are, you must have perseverance--one is the natural outcome of the other."
"How so?"
"Logically in this way--an ambitious man wants to succeed--he can't succeed without perseverance--ergo, he perseveres to succeed in his ambition. Now then, are you persevering or ambitious?"
"I'm not sure."
"No!" Beaumont did not seem disappointed at this reply, but went on talking. "Then you have no incentive; you are in the chrysalis stage; get an incentive, and you will change to a butterfly."
"What incentive can I obtain."
"That depends upon your temperament--the desire to leave the dull village--the desire to have money, and above all, the desire to be loved by some woman."
"Ah," said Blake, whom this last remark stung sharply, "at least I have that incentive."
Beaumont laughed.
"Then the result must follow, you will persevere and succeed."
Blake was much impressed with Beaumont's remarks, for a vision rose before him of a bright future and a famous name with Una for his wife. Then the recollection of the dark secret of his birth came back to him; if what he surmised were true, he would have nothing to work for as there would be an insuperable bar between him and the girl he loved. The roseate scenes he had conjured up vanished, and in their place he only saw the sorrow of a lonely life. He sighed involuntarily, and shook his head.
"It all depends on one thing," he said sadly.
"And that one thing?" asked Beaumont keenly.
"It is at present a secret," replied Blake curtly, whereupon Beaumont laughed lightly in no wise offended, and they walked on for a short distance in silence.
They were now nearing the Grange, and Beaumont was going to turn back when he saw Nestley coming down the road.
"Here is Nestley," he said carelessly, "so you can learn all about the Squire from him, and need not go to the Grange."
"I must go to the Grange," replied Blake.
Beaumont smiled and whistled the air of "Love's Young Dream," for he had heard rumours in the village which led him to believe that Blake was in love with the Squire's beautiful cousin.
Reginald understood him, and was about to make some angry remark, when Nestley came up to them and put an end to the conversation.
"Well, doctor," said Beaumont lightly, "and how is your patient?"
Nestley's face wore a frown as he recognised Beaumont, but he evidently determined not to give his enemy the pleasure of seeing his annoyance, so, smoothing his features to a bland smile, he replied in the same conversational manner:
"Better--much better--he'll be all right soon--less excitable--but the body is worn out."
"And the brain?" asked the artist.
"Oh, that's all right--he's got a wonderful brain."
"Slightly cracked," interposed Blake, nodding to Nestley.
"Just slightly," replied Nestley, coolly. "But his madness has a good deal of method in it. He's got queer ideas about the re-incarnation of the soul--but we've all queer ideas more or less."
"Particularly more," observed Beaumont, indolently. "Are you coming back, Nestley? I'll be glad of a companion."
Nestley hesitated. He did not like Beaumont, and mistrusted him. Still, there was a wonderful fascination about the man which few could resist, and in spite of his dislike Nestley rapidly found himself falling once more under the old spell of that suave, cynical manner.
"I don't mind," he said, carelessly, "particularly as I want to give you a message from the Squire."
"To me?" said Beaumont in surprise. "What about?"
"A picture. The squire wants his portrait taken, and----"
"You thought of me," said Beaumont, with a cold smile; "how charming you are, my dear Nestley. I'll be delighted to paint the Squire, he's a Rembrandtian study, full of light and shade and wrinkles."
"Where are you going to, Mr. Blake?" asked Nestley, abruptly turning to the young man and eyeing him keenly.
"To the Grange," replied Blake carelessly, "to see the Squire. Good morning, gentlemen," and with a cool nod, the young man strolled away in the direction of Garsworth Grange.
Nestley stood looking after him oddly.
"To see the Squire," he repeated. "Yes and Una Challoner."
"Ah," said Beaumont cynically. "You've seen that, my dear fellow."
"Yes. Do you know Una Challoner loves him?"
"Not exactly. I know he loves Una Challoner."
"She returns it," said Nestley gloomily. "I found that out from her manner this morning."
Beaumont smiled and looked strangely at the downcast face of the doctor.
"I understand," he said, lighting a fresh cigarette.
"Understand what?" asked Nestley angrily.
"That you also love Una Challoner."
"Absurd, I've only seen her twice."
"Nevertheless----"
"What?"
"Oh nothing, nothing," replied Beaumont airily. "I'll tell you all about it in a week."
Nestley did not reply, but stood silently looking at the ground, on seeing which, Beaumont drew his arm within his own, with a gay laugh.
"Come along," he said cheerfully, "we'll walk back to Garsworth, and you can tell me all about the Squire and his picture."
Like a lone mountain white with virgin snow,Which holds within its breast eternal fireThis woman cold and pale with face of woeYet feels at heart an unappeased desire.
Like a lone mountain white with virgin snow,
Which holds within its breast eternal fire
This woman cold and pale with face of woe
Yet feels at heart an unappeased desire.
Reginald Blake walked briskly up the avenue. It had an excessively dreary appearance, for the black looking trees with their angular branches seemed starved and attenuated while the leaves underfoot were sodden with rain. The marble statues which were standing here and there, wore a disconsolate look, as if they longed for the sunny skies of their native Italy, and mutely protested against this misty climate which discoloured and marred their beauty.
When he arrived at the terrace, the long white façade of the house seemed grim and uninviting. No smoke ascended from the slender chimneys, no face appeared at the bare staring windows, and the terrace, which should have been thronged with gay company, was silent and deserted, chilling the very soul with its mute sense of desolation.
The young man rang the bell in the monstrous porch, and before the harsh jangling had ceased to echo through the dreary house, the door was opened by Jellicks. On recognising Blake, she wriggled a welcome and admitted him into the vault-like hall which still retained the musty smell observed by Nestley. Outside the grey sky, inside the grey twilight, it seemed as though the sun had not warmed this dismal place with his cheerful beams for centuries.
"I want to see Miss Challoner," said Reginald, when the heavy door was once more closed, "is she at home?"
Jellicks replied that she was, in a serpent-like hiss, and then, still more like a serpent, she wriggled along the dark corridor on the ground floor followed by Blake, who felt depressed by the surrounding atmosphere of decay.
At length she stopped midway in the passage and on knocking at a door was bidden by a thin voice, seemingly that of Miss Cassy, to enter.
Reginald did so, and Jellicks having twisted herself apologetically out of the room, he stepped forward to greet Una and Cassandra, who were seated in the wide window looking out on to the white terrace and dreary landscape.
Una, flushed with life and beauty, seemed somewhat out of place in this charnel house though, truth to tell, the room had a more homelike appearance than the rest of the Grange. Not very large, panelled with carved oak, dark and solemn-looking, it was hung round with pictures in tarnished gilt frames, the floor being covered with a comfortable-looking carpet of reddish tint. In the huge fireplace burned a goodly fire, which somewhat warmed the chill atmosphere. The furniture was quaint and old-fashioned, of all dates, ranging from heavy oak tables of Tudor days to spindle-legged Chippendale chairs and curiously inlaid cabinets of more modern construction. There was only one window in the room, a deep oriel with benches set in its depths and its diamond panes rich with brightly tinted escutcheons of the Garsworth family. A quaint room of ancient and incongruous appearance, yet having withal a quiet beauty of its own, a tone of intense restfulness, which was not without charm.
"Good morning, Miss Challoner," said Reginald politely, mindful of the presence of Miss Cassy. "I have called by the desire of Dr. Larcher to see how the squire is."
"Oh, better, much better," interposed Miss Cassy before Una could speak. "I said it was nerves all along--so very odd--quite excitable he was, but the dear doctor's medicine you know--so soothing, really very soothing--I don't know what the dear squire will do without the dear doctor."
"He's not going to do without him, aunt," said Una with a smile; "my cousin is afraid of getting ill again, so has asked Dr. Nestley to stay down here for a few weeks to complete the cure."
"What about his own practice?" asked Reginald.
"Oh, he says that will be all right, as he has left it in charge of his partner. Have you met Dr. Nestley?"
"Yes, at the gates; he has gone back to Garsworth with Mr. Beaumont."
"Beaumont," said Miss Cassy with vivacity, "that is the painter, very odd, isn't it? he's going to paint the dear squire's picture--how nice."
"Why does the squire want his picture painted?" inquired Blake.
Una laughed.
"Not for his beauty, at all events," she said mischievously, "but, you know, there is only one picture of him in the gallery--as a young man. I presume this will be for the sake of contrast. Do you know Mr. Beaumont?"
"Slightly. He's a stranger here," replied Blake, a little coldly. "I should say he was a very clever man--but he is hardly the style I care about."
"He looks wicked," said Miss Cassy, nodding her head sagely; "worn, you know--oh, shocking!--but very handsome--just the kind of man I would like for a son."
"Oh, aunt!" said Una, slightly shocked.
"Well, I would, Una. You know I should like to have been married--I'm sure I don't know why I haven't been married," said the poor lady, pathetically. "I'm sure anyone can see I'm not made for a spinster--it's so odd, isn't it?"
Blake, being directly appealed to, suppressed a smile, and, and assented politely; whereupon Miss Cassy resumed:
"It's so hard for an unmarried girl to know when to leave off being a girl--I'm sure I don't know--ivy, you know, I feel like it; I'm made to cling to a manly oak--no, I mean an oakly man--no! not that--mixed, you see! I mean a man like an oak--yes, that's it, and then I might have had twelve stalwart sons--all oaks! Odd, isn't it?--most peculiar."
"My dear aunt, what curious things you say!" said Una, looking reproachfully at Reggy, who was trying to smother his laughter.
"Yes, I know, dear," replied Miss Cassy, complacently, "we're all odd--nerves--quite chronic; anyone can see that it comes of being an ivy--I mean a woman--so very nice--yes, I always say so--don't you, Mr. Blake?"
Reginald could not exactly say he did, as he was in doubt as to what Miss Cassy meant, but made some confused answer, and then asked to see Patience Allerby.
"She's in the housekeeper's room, I think," said Una. "Auntie will take you there, and when you are done with her I'll go to Garsworth with you."
"Will you, really? I'm so glad!" said Reginald, eagerly.
"I want to see Cecilia in the church," replied Miss Challoner, "about the concert."
"What concert?"
"Don't you know? Oh, we're going to have a concert in the school-room shortly. You are to be asked to sing."
"Delighted."
"Cecilia will play a piece--she doesn't like the piano as much as the organ, but we can hardly get that out of the church."
"I'm going to sing also," said Miss Cassy, shaking her curls, "so nice--quite operatic. I'll sing a duet with you, Mr. Blake, if you like."
Blake hastily excused himself, as he had great dread of Miss Cassy's vocal performances, which were, to say the least, somewhat screechy. The lady accepted his apology graciously, and then led him out of the room to find the housekeeper, leaving Una to get ready for the walk.
Miss Cassy, being delighted to have a charming young man for audience, chattered all the way in a disconnected fashion.
"So damp, isn't it--quite chilly. I never did like the weather. Very watery--rheumatic, you know. I mean the weather, of course--not myself! I think Patience is in her room--so kind of you to see your old nurse--quite delightful! Light of what's his name, you know--Moore--exactly; Irish melodies--so pretty! This is the door. Oh, Patience--you are in--so glad--here is Mr. Blake to see you! The squire's easier--yes, nerves, of course--I knew it. I'll go back to Una, Mr. Blake, and see you later on--very pleased, indeed--quite a treat to see a male. Sounds like the post--very odd, isn't it?--yes!"
And Miss Cassy, closing the door after her, departed leaving Reginald alone with his old nurse.
The tall, placid woman, standing near the fireplace, made a step forward, as if to embrace Reginald, but restrained herself, as though doubtful how to proceed. Blake, however, crossed over to her and kissed her affectionately, which seemed to awaken a feeling of emotion in her breast, for she flushed a little at the caress, and smiled lovingly at him. In her demure, slate-coloured dress, with the white apron and pale, rigid face, she looked like a woman who had never known what it was to love or be loved; but every now and then a flash in the sombre depths of her eloquent eyes betrayed the fiery nature hidden beneath that calm exterior. The young man's kiss seemed to warm her frozen soul to life, and, as she resumed her seat, her face was rose-flushed, her eyes soft, and the hard lines about her mouth disappeared under the magic of Reginald Blake's presence. He, dark and handsome, leaned against the mantelpiece, looking down at her curiously, as if puzzled how to begin the conversation.
"I am so glad to see you, Master Reginald," she said, the hard voice in which she habitually spoke becoming soft and tender. "I have not seen you for a long time."
"A whole week, Patience, that's all," he replied, carelessly. "You see I'm busy with my studies."
"That's right, dear!" she said, eagerly. "Work--work hard, and make a name in the world.
"For whose sake?" he asked, a little bitterly.
"For mine!"
There was a world of tenderness in the way in which she spoke the words, and her eyes seemed to devour him as she gazed. He moved restlessly, and with a supreme effort plunged straight into the object of his visit.
"Why not for my parents' sake?"
The woman's face lost its look of tenderness, and became hard and rigid as she pressed the arms of her chair convulsively, and looked up into his face.
"Who has been speaking to you about them," she asked fiercely.
"Doctor Larcher."
"And the reason?"
"Simply this: I am two-and-twenty years of age, so it's time I had some aim in life. Before I do this I want to know all about my parentage. Are my parents alive or dead?--who are they?--why was I placed in your charge?--can they, or their relations, assist me to get on in the world? I cannot move until I know who and what I am."
He spoke vehemently, and as he did so the woman seemed to shrink back into her chair with a nameless dread in her eyes. There was no sound for a moment. At last she broke the silence.
"Your parents were my master and mistress," she said at length, in a low, harsh voice, "married against their parents' wish."
"They were married, then?"
"Who said they were not?" she demanded, fiercely.
"No one. But the mystery of my birth led me to think there might be----"
"Shame!" she interrupted, vehemently. "You are wrong. There was no shame--they kept the marriage secret, for if known they would have lost their property. When you were born, they went over to France for the sake of your father's health, leaving you in my charge. I was to keep you till they could acknowledge you as their son; but before they could do so they died."
"Died!"
"Yes. Your father died of phthisis at Cannes six months after he left England, and your mother very soon followed him to the grave."
"She died of what?"
"A broken heart," replied Patience, in a low voice, "a broken heart, poor soul."
"Good God!"
"I heard of it shortly afterwards," she went on, rapidly, "and as your birth had never been acknowledged I determined to bring you up without letting anyone know the truth. After staying some time in London, I brought you to Doctor Larcher, and he has had charge of you since."
"Why did you come here?"
"Because it is my native place. I only intended to stay for a time, and then return to service in London, but Squire Garsworth wanted a housekeeper, so I took the situation in order to remain near you."
"Why did you not tell me this before."
"There was no need to," she answered, coldly, "and even now it is useless. Your parents are dead, and the property has gone to distant heirs."
"But I am the heir."
She shook her head.
"No, the property was not entailed--it was left by will, and you have no claim on the present holder."
"Who was my father?"
"He had been in the army, but sold out when he married, and became a writer."
"What was his name?"
"Reginald Blake--the same as your own."
"It's my real name, then?"
She looked at him in surprise.
"Of course! Why should you not take your father's name? There was no reason."
"So I am alone in the world?"
"Yes, except for me."
He stepped over to her, and placed his arm caressingly on her shoulder.
"Ah, you have been a mother to me," he said quickly, "and I shall never forget it. No one could have acted with more kindness and fidelity."
Patience winced and shrank away from his caress while he walked up and down the room, talking cheerfully.
"Now my mind is at rest," he said, with a sigh of relief. "I thought the mystery of my birth involved some stain, but since I have the right to bear my father's name, why! I feel quite happy. I can make my way in the world by myself, can ask the girl I love to be my wife."
"The girl you love," she repeated jealously.
"Yes, I will tell you her name, though no one else knows it--Una."
"Miss Challoner," said the woman, starting up; "impossible!"
"Why impossible?" he retorted gaily. "You think I am not rich enough. Never mind; I carry a fortune in my throat, and will soon be able to keep her in comfort. She loves me and I love her, so we shall be quite happy."
"I hope so," she said fervently. "May God's blessing rest on your efforts. Yes, marry Una Challoner if she loves you, and make your own way without troubling about the dead."
"I never knew my parents," said Reginald, sighing, "so I can hardly regret them, but with Una to work for I will forget the past and look forward to the future. I have nothing to offer her now but a stainless name. Never mind; ambition can perform miracles. Now, good-bye, nurse; I must get back to Garsworth."
"Good-bye," she said, kissing him eagerly. "Come again soon, my dear boy; and although Una Challoner loves you, do not forget your old nurse."
"Of course not," he replied gaily, and walked away humming an air. Patience Allerby waited till the door was closed and the sound of his voice had died away, then fell on her knees, beating her breast with her hands and weeping bitterly.
"God! God!" she cried, amid convulsive sobs, "pardon my sin. It was for his sake, for his dear sake, not for my own. Let the dead past be forgotten. Let him never know anything but what I have told him, and bless him, oh God, in his future life."
There was a crucifix of black ebony against the wall, and from it, with pitying eyes, looked down the face of the Lord at the stricken woman kneeling before him. The ineffable sorrow of the sacred face seemed to calm her spirit, for she ceased to weep and her lips moved in a prayer which seemed to come from her heart.
"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us."
"Naught have I seen of the earth, for mine eyes have been darkenedSince I was born to this life, with its toils and vexations,Yet hath the Maker, in mercy, bestowed compensation,Music, and love of sweet singing to lighten the burden.Here, at the loud-swelling organ, my soul is responsiveTo passion and grandeur of music, and sighings melodious,It bursts from its prison of gloom, soaring upward rejoicing,Borne on the stormy, majestical breath of the organ."
"Naught have I seen of the earth, for mine eyes have been darkenedSince I was born to this life, with its toils and vexations,Yet hath the Maker, in mercy, bestowed compensation,Music, and love of sweet singing to lighten the burden.Here, at the loud-swelling organ, my soul is responsiveTo passion and grandeur of music, and sighings melodious,It bursts from its prison of gloom, soaring upward rejoicing,Borne on the stormy, majestical breath of the organ."
As a rule, the conversations of lovers are hardly worth recording, consisting, as they mostly do, of incoherent rhapsodies of love and devotion, with very little of that useful quality called common sense. But Reginald and Una were the most sedate of sweethearts, and talked of other things besides the ardour of their passion. In this instance they were discussing their future and the chances of their marriage.
It would have been difficult to find a handsomer pair as they walked along; she fair and slender, with a charming smile on her face; he tall and dark, with a touch of haughtiness in his manly dignity. They looked like two lovers who had strayed from the enchanted garden of Boccaccio, with nothing to talk about but the pains and passions of Eros, but, alas, such thoughts are impossible, save under the magic influence of twilight; and this youthful pair, who seemed the incarnation of romance, were talking in a most prosaic fashion.
"You see, dear," said Reginald, after he had explained everything to Una, "it is not the slightest use my depending on my relations, even if I were to find them out."
"I don't think it's much use in any case," replied Una decisively. "It's far better for you to depend upon yourself. But how do you intend to proceed?"
"It's rather difficult to say. I have no money and no chance of obtaining any. Patience had a certain sum which she paid to Doctor Larcher for my education. I believe," said the young man, somewhat bitterly, "that I've been mostly brought up by the vicar out of charity."
"Doctor Larcher has never said so."
"No, he is too kind-hearted and generous for that, but I feel sure that such is the case. Never mind; should it ever lie in my power I will repay his charity a thousand fold."
"Do you think he will like you becoming a singer?" asked Una apprehensively.
"I don't fancy he'll approve of it--at first," said Reginald bluntly, "but what else can I do? The law, the church and medicine all require money to make a start, and even then it is a difficult game to play. I know a good deal about music, and, according to Beaumont, who is certainly no flatterer, I have an excellent voice. So it is my only chance."
"If the vicar approves, what will you do?"
"I'll ask him to lend me some money. I shall then go to London and place myself under a good master, and if my voice is good, with hard work I'll soon be able to do something."
"It seems very risky," said Una, with a sigh. "Many fail."
"And many succeed. If a man be sober, industrious and observant, he can hardly help succeeding. Beggars must not be choosers, and if I don't use the only talent I've got, what else is there for me to do? I cannot remain here all my life on the bounty of Dr. Larcher. If I did, there would be small chance of our marriage."
"I have a little money," she began timidly.
"Yes, I know," he answered hastily, "but I'm not the man to live on my wife. It is your dear self I want, not your money; though, as the squire's heiress, you are far above me."
Una laughed.
"I'm very doubtful about my being an heiress," she said gaily. "It is true I am the squire's next-of-kin, and should inherit, but you know how eccentric he is. The property is not entailed, so he can do as he likes."
"You mean he is going to leave it to his other self. Nonsense! That is the phantasy of a madman's brain. No court of law would uphold such a will. How he is going to leave it to himself when hisalter egois not in existence, I don't know."
"Nor I," replied Una frankly. "I know, of course, he is mad, quite mad, and that any will made on the principle of his hallucination would be set aside, but lately he has dropped hints about a son."
"A son? Why he was never married."
"No; but he says he has a son who is somewhere about, and he intends to leave the property to him."
"Indeed. Then what becomes of his great scheme of enjoying the money in his re-incarnated body?"
"It's a mystery," said Miss Challoner, laughing.
"I should think it was, and whatever will he makes now, leaving the property away from you, would not hold good, for he certainly is not in his right senses. You could claim as next-of-kin."
"And I certainly should do so," replied Una, with decision. "But it is my opinion he'll live for a good long time yet."
"Humph! He's very ill."
"Creaking doors hang longest. But do not let us speculate on his death. I would rather we made our own fortune."
The use of the plural member had a delicious sound for Reginald, and he felt strongly tempted to there and then kiss his lady-love, but as they were now crossing the bridge and several people were about, he restrained himself until a more convenient season.
"Never mind the Squire and his money, dear," he said fondly, "for your sake I am going to be the Mario of the future."
"I'm sure you will," replied Una with the trustfulness of love, "you know I lived a long time in Germany and heard a number of good singers--your voice is quite as good as any, if not better."
"Flatterer!"
"Well, we'll see, Signor Reginald Mario," she said gaily, as they entered the churchyard, "when you are enchanting London audiences you will remember my prediction. You should cross the poor gipsy's hand with silver."
"Can't, mum," he retorted laughing; "I'm stone broke. However, there's no one about, so I'll do better--cross the gipsy's lips with kisses," and before she could draw back, this audacious young man put his words into action.
"Oh, Reginald!"
"Oh, Una," he mimicked lightly, "don't say a word or I'll take another. Come along, here's the church, and by Jove," as the sound of music broke on their ears, "there's Cecilia at the organ."
"And she's playing the Wedding March," cried Una blushing.
"It's a good omen, dear," he whispered, as they walked up the aisle, "this is like a rehearsal of marriage, isn't it?"
They both laughed gaily, and as their young voices rang through the empty church the organist turned round on her seat rapidly to the direction from whence the sound proceeded.
Cecilia Mosser was one of those light-coloured women who bear the same relation to a full-coloured blonde as a fireless opal does to the same stone with the red spark glowing under its opaque whiteness. While Una had all the characteristics of a true blonde, flushed with the roseate hue of a strong vitality, these same characteristics were reproduced in Cecilia with a distinct want of colour and of life. She had the same pale complexion, the same golden hair and the same blue eyes, but the complexion was a dead white, and lacked the opalescent transparency of Una's, the golden hair was dull in appearance, without any lustre, and the azure eyes were coldly blue, though in this latter case, being sightless, they naturally did not reflect the soul within, having therefore a lifeless appearance. A sad, patient face it was, stamped with that expression of mute appeal so common to the faces of the blind. She was dressed in a dark gown, with a collar and cuffs of white linen, her bleached-looking hair being coiled smoothly at the back of her head.
"How are you, Cecilia?" asked Una, ascending the chancel steps. "I have come to see about the concert."
"Yes, I was expecting you, Miss," answered the blind girl in a soft, fluty voice which, though low, was distinct and clear. "Is Mr. Blake with you? I thought I heard his step."
"Oh, I'm here," said Blake, advancing towards the organ. "What is the matter--eh?"
"I want you to sing at the concert," replied Cecilia, lightly touching the yellow keys of the organ; "Miss Una, of course, also."
"Let us sing a duet," suggested Una; "'Oh, that we two were Maying,' or something of Mendelssohn's."
"The first is the best," said Reginald quickly. "I think every one will like that. Who else is going to perform, Cecilia?"
"Miss Cassandra and Mr. Priggs," she replied, touching off the names on her fingers. "Mr.----"
"What! Is Priggs going to sing?" interrupted Blake laughing.
"No; recite a piece of his own."
"I hope it will be intelligible."
"How severe you are," said Una smiling.
"Ah! you don't know Ferdinand's poetry," replied Reginald pathetically; "I do. It's a mixture of Keats, Thompson, Browning, Shakespeare----"
"And Priggs," finished Una.
"No, by Jove--that's the only thing it doesn't contain, unless you call halting verse and interminable poems Priggian," said the young man gaily. "Well, go on with the list, Cecilia."
"Dr. Larcher is going to give us a reading," said Cecilia, who had been listening to the analysis with a quiet smile, "and Mr. Pemberton sings a sea song; I think that's all, except Miss Busky and Simon Ruller."
"Last, but not least," remarked Una lightly. "The programme is excellent--let us hope the performers will be as good. It's next week, isn't it?"
"No; on Thursday fortnight," answered Cecilia. "Oh, I forgot, the choir sings a glee."
"And you play a piece, of course," said Reginald gravely. "This is capital. Well, now we've finished business, let us go in for pleasure. I want you to play me the 'Cujus animam.'"
"What for?" asked Una.
"I'm anxious to try my voice," said Blake to her in a low tone, while Miss Mosser turned to the organ. "You know why--you must give me your candid opinion about it--so go down to the end of the church and tell me what you think."
"I'll be a very severe critic," observed Una, as she went away.
"The more so the better," called out Blake; "don't spare me--imagine you're theMusical Times."
Una laughed, and ensconced herself in a comfortable pew at the far end of the church just near the white marble font.
The quaint old church, with its high oaken roof and narrow, stained-glass windows with their vivid tints, was filled with great masses of shadow, which produced a faint, misty twilight, eminently suited to the sacred character of the place. At intervals on either side of the wide nave arose the heavy, grey stone pillars, their elaborately carved entablatures being hardly apparent in the semi-gloom overhead.
The flags of the centre aisle, worn by the feet of pious generations, made a broad path of whitish tint leading up to the chancel, ending at a flight of long, shallow steps, in the centre of which stood the brass lectern, in the form of an eagle. Between the nave and the chancel was a lance-shaped arch, on which gleamed a slender ribbon of gold, inscribed with a biblical text in vermillion. The sombre appearance of the choir seats, with their overhanging canopies, was somewhat relieved by the white glimmer of the communion table carved out of pure marble, on which stood a large crucifix of ebony, looking black and sharply defined against the great painted window at the back. Through the fantastically painted windows, with their bizarre figures of red, yellow and green, crept the grey light of the day, but suddenly a shaft of sunshine burst into the church, touching the tomb of a crusader with rainbow tints, while from the tall organ-pipes flashed gleams of golden fire. All was faint and shadowy, like the confusion of a dream, and the dusky atmosphere seemed to be filled with the subtle perfume of the incense which had curled up from silver censers in the old Romish days.
Through the sombre shadows stole the rich, swelling notes of the organ which woke to life under the skilful fingers of the blind girl. A few great notes pealed from the mighty mouths of the pipes--Cecilia played the majestic melody, which floated grandly through the church--and then the volume of melodious sound sank downward to a low-breathed whisper as Blake began the "Cujus animam" with one resonant note which rang out like the sound of a silver trumpet.