Unfortunately for herself she was too active and restless to keep up any longer the feint of repose. She got up for her work, and her son, seizing his advantage, pursued her with questions. Not one of those questions would Mrs. Gregory answer directly. When he urged her, saying he would rather she should answer them than anyone else, she pleaded that she was as bewildered as he was. He could understand that, he said, but she must know more. For instance, she had met the rajah—he had heard her say so to General Elton. What was he like?
'Did I say so?' said Mrs. Gregory.
'Mother dear,' cried the boy, 'do you object to being questioned?'
'Oh no. Why should I?' she said, the colour mounting to her face. 'But it is so many, many years ago.'
'That you met the rajah?'
'Yes.'
'Still, you remember him.'
'As he was then?'
'Of course, as he was then. Couldn't you give me your impression of him? That will be some little guide.'
'Why are you so anxious, Tom?'
'Well, mother; but isn't it natural? He has come into my life as a new power—new to me, although, of course, he must have known of me, and been thinking of me for a long time.' Then breaking off: 'How pale you are, dearest; have I said anything to hurt you?'
'No, no, it is nothing. It is only that I see you moving away from me—so far—so far—and——'
'Mother!'
She came to herself with an effort. 'Forgive me, my son,' she said. 'I am not very strong, I suppose, and you know'—with a little smile—'a great change like this always gives one a certain shock.'
'I am tiring you with my silly questions.'
'Not at all; and I don't think they are silly. It is natural you should wish to know something of the man who has enriched you. But I had rather, on the whole, you went to Mr. Cherry. The business has been in his hands for a number of years.'
'It isn't the business, mother——'
'I understand, dear. I understand perfectly. Well!' drawing her lace shawl about her, 'another day. How curiously chilly it is becoming! Will you shut the window?'
'Certainly, mother.' He had been sitting close beside her. He now took a chair at a little distance and took up a book.
Mrs. Gregory watched him with a wistful pain at her heart. She was conscious to the finger-tips of his disappointment, and she hated herself for inflicting it; but there was nothing to be done. She could not speak. She would not if she could. Yet the distance he was putting between them wounded her intolerably. After she had borne it as long as she could she called him. He was at her side at once. 'I am afraid I have disappointed you, dear,' she said. 'Sit down near me again, and we will talk.'
He obeyed silently. He thought he would give her the initiative this time, determining, whatever she might say, not to show his feelings again. By that delicate perception, which was one of heaven's best gifts to him, he had long since learned to understand and shield his mother's sensitiveness.
She, poor woman, scarcely knowing what she said, drifted into mysterious warnings and entreaties. He must be wise; he must do nothing rashly; he must be guided by Mr. Cherry, who was a good man and a Christian. Tom gave her the assurances she asked; but they did not satisfy her; and, I think, it was a relief to them both when, on the stroke of ten, the little maid of the establishment came in with her Bible to take part in the pathetic ceremony with which their day always closed.
When his mother left him Tom sat down and looked round for a few moments, blankly. He was tired; but he could not rest until he had thought out this strange thing that had come to him, and here it was impossible to think. The atmosphere of the room oppressed him. He had a curious, irritating impression that, though his mother's bodily presence had gone, her spirit was haunting the place, preventing him from thinking freely. At last he opened the French window softly, let himself out into the garden, and, allowing his feet to carry him along mechanically, found himself presently on the lower lawn, close by the boat-house and willows. There he stopped and let his eyes wander at their will. Ah! what a world it was—this soft, mysterious midnight world of June! Think! How could he think? But, happily, there was no need yet. The hours of the sweet summer night were before him. With a deep inspiration, in which he seemed to be throwing off a heavy burden, he flung himself down on the grass, his face towards the sky, his feet towards the river, while he gave himself up to the rapturous sense-impressions of the moment. He saw the upper sky, veiled here and there with thin, vaporous cloud-wreaths; and it was so near it seemed to be stooping to embrace him. There was a streak of silver between the cloud-wreaths. It shone out, disappeared, shone out again, and the fleece about it was tinged with pale gold. It was a horn of the young moon—the moon on which Endymion's heavenly love descended, when on that starry night long ago she kissed his eyes open to behold her. Through 'the solemn midnight's tingling silentness' he could hear the swish of the water as it swept over the long grasses and reeds at his feet. Lovely water! and the fish that swam in it, were they awake too? Did they go on swimming all the night through? Lovely water! And lovely, lovely little earth! Ah! how sweet it was to live—only to live and breathe in her arms on such a night as this!
It might have been a moment, it might have been an hour, that the boy lay upon the river bank. He could never tell. Of the prick—the tiny throb of self-consciousness, that called him out suddenly from his Eden he would often speak later with a smile. He sat up, frowned, drew his relaxed muscles together.Thiswas not what he had meant when he came out into the solitude, he said to himself severely. He was a man, not a thing; it was a weakness, a folly, to allow himself to drift into mere sensuousness.
Ha! what was that? He turned round suddenly. It was a sound like a silver bell ringing close beside him. If he had been a child he might have thought that a fairy in a lily cup was laughing at him; the sound was so definite, so curiously round and clear.
Giving no attention to it he set himself sternly to his task, and two or three ideas about the relative values of riches and poverty—ideas far too fine and exalted to be put down here—followed one another through his mind. It was a young mind, as we know. Young minds are superior. If we have ever tried to walk on a tightrope, get up early in the morning, or take a precipitous hillside at a rush, and succeeded, we shall know how they feel. It is their newness which we experienced people should not grudge them. In a little time—we know how very little—they will find out that there is nothing new under the sun.
Now the young heir, who was exceedingly new, felt a certain throb of exultation in the circumstance that he was able to feel as a serious man should when a great change comes into his life. The train of thought being pleasant he followed it out. I believe he made one or two correct resolutions. He would not be led away into foolish and selfish extravagance; he would avoid flatterers; he would do as much good as he could with his money. Not original. Oh dear no! commonplace, I am afraid. But goodness is just the one thing that does not require genius to conceive it. I wonder if that is the reason why it is so often thought dull? The kind of thinking on which Tom was engaged tends to restlessness, and hence the downfall which I am about to record.
He got up from the grass, and walking on aimlessly left his mother's garden, and went on for a few paces down the road. Presently he pulled up with a smile and a start. He was at the side gate of the Eltons' garden. An irresistible desire seized him to go in. Trying the latch, and finding the gate unlocked, he stole in noiselessly. He was in a narrow path that led through a thick shrubbery. In its midst he paused. All his wise thoughts, all his correct resolutions, had flown, and his heart was beating fast and furiously. What was this—what was this—which was rushing through him, tingling in his veins like wine of Paradise? 'And a spirit in my feet'—he murmured the words half aloud—
'A spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber-window, sweet.'
Slowly he went on along the dark little path. It came out on the rose-garden, Grace's special pride and care, which was now in its full glory. By the faint light of the summer dawning, for the night was already on the turn, he could see the clustered blossoms, crimson and pink and yellow, hanging from trellises and pillars, and weighing down the branches of the young standards. But it was not this that made him pause and catch at a pillar of the verandah for support. Once already that night the beauty of the earth had touched him. Now it was something more. As he stood the branch of a tall standard was swept towards him by the breeze. There were roses on it, opened and half opened. He caught at it passionately. Ah! how well he knew the touch of the soft pale petals, the odour they exhaled! It was a La Trance, Grace's favourite rose. The last time he saw her she had worn one in her girdle. Scarcely knowing what he did he kissed the sweet flower that had touched him. But in the next instant the colour had flooded his face, and he was passing on rapidly to the lawn by the river, for it was as if he had stolen what he had not won, as if his lips and her lips had met on the petals of the flower that was her darling.
At the end of the lawn there was a bank crowned with willows, at whose roots purple loosestrife and rosy willow-herb were growing. He could see these things dimly as he looked out before him. Under one of the willows was a rustic seat, where the girls often clustered in the evening. Tom sat down upon it and gave himself up to the dreams that were crowding upon him. Dreams! Dreams! In a misty radiance of lovely shapes they swept by him. What a fool he had been! It was the beauty of nature; it was love that binds young lives together; it was passion, whose feet were on earth, and whose soul was in heaven which was the reality. These other things—reason, philosophy, maxims of prudence—they were an illusion—webs that the dull of heart weave to hide their own dullness from themselves. And, after all, why should a man think; why should a man be serious when happiness such as this—this!was opening out before him?
He got up and walked on for a few steps. His feet were unsteady, and, with a smile of self-ridicule, he sat down again. He spread out his arms with a low cry. 'Grace!' he murmured. 'Grace! do you know that I love you?'
He paused. The faint, sweet kiss of the pale-petaled rose was lingering about his lips. He was remembering how, two days ago, only two, when he and she were together here—here at this very spot, he had longed to speak but dared not. That rose was in her girdle. His lips had been open to ask for it. Something had sealed them. He was too young—too insignificant—his fortunes were too uncertain. For her sweet sake he had held himself in check.
Now—ah! everything had changed. He was no longer insignificant—he was the heir of a man of wealth and distinction—his fortunes were certain—he could make a future for the woman he loved. If, as he had imagined, dreamed——
But he could go no further. He flung himself on the grass. His lips were towards the earth, and it was as if he was speaking toit—telling it the secret ecstasy that he had not breathed to any living soul. 'I could not speak then, but I can now. This wealth has freed my hand. They will listen to me—they must! And she! Oh, Grace! oh, my darling! Come to me and I will make the earth a Paradise to you! Others do not know what love means. They promise and they forget. I never will. My love! my beautiful love! Come to me, and let me care for you. I will, I will. Care for you as never woman was cared for before. Your lightest wish shall be my law. Your very imaginations and dreams shall come to pass. You and I, Grace, you and I—our two lives shall flow on together, loving and beloved, until——'
What was this? He pulled up short. It was a pang, sudden and swift, like a cold hand on his heart. He rose slowly, and found that his limbs were stiff, and that his clothes were wet with the night dews. Like one in a maze he went on, for a few steps, blindly. The roots of a willow stopped him, and he saw that he was on the edge of the sloping bank that ran down to the river. He stood where he was, gazing out before him, with eyes that saw nothing. In that little instant all his ecstasy had gone, to be replaced by a dull misery such as he had never felt before. Between night and morning there is a moment when life is said to run sluggishly in the veins of earth's children. It is then that the long-tortured drop into blissful, if brief unconsciousness; that watchers nod drowsily; and that the dying fall on the sleep that knows no waking. That moment had come.
Tom lifted his heavy lids and looked round him. A chill stole through his frame, penetrating to the very marrow of his bones. He buttoned his coat up to the chin and turned to leave the garden. But in the next instant he was transfixed. It was as if a hand of iron was laid upon his wrist, compelling him to stand where he was.
He passed his hand before his eyes dreamily.
When, after a brief interval, he looked up, it seemed to him that the colour of the water had changed from the pale crystal of the morning to deep blood-red. The trees were changing too, taking strange and undistinguishable shapes, while there came towards him on the breeze a confused murmur as of a multitude of steps and voices.
Again he closed his eyes; again he strove to shake off the leaden weights that held his feet in prison; but it was useless. He looked up to find all the familiar features of the landscape gone. What had been the river was a zone of burning sand over which hung a sky lurid and awful; the confused murmur was still in his ears; but it had drawn nearer, and the crimson cloud that had hung between earth and heaven seemed to be descending and distributing itself in multitudinous forms. Then, in a moment or less, the zone of sand is filled with figures—figures dark of face and threatening of aspect, that brandish steel-bright swords in their hands.
He looks, but he cannot stir. It seems to him in those awful moments that there is more to come—that he is waiting for it. Suddenly it rises—or has it been there all the time and has he not seen it?—the vision of a woman, in white garments, with golden hair and sad, wild eyes.Herface—not as he has ever seen it; but hers. A groan breaks from his lips. 'It is a dream,' he says to himself. 'It is a dream.'
But a sound rises above the fierce cries of the warriors, a sound piercing and shrill; it is the voice of his love, wild with terror, calling out upon his name. Passionately he tries to reach her but he cannot, and all the time, like the wild insulting chorus of fiends, his own words, 'Come to me, and I will make the world a Paradise to you,' are running through his brain.
His limbs are trembling now, and the cold drops of anguish stand upon his brow. 'Oh, God!' he cries, 'I have sinned. Be merciful! I can bear no more!'
Scarcely are the words out of his lips before the blood-red pavement, the fierce faces, and the lurid sky have gone. But she—his love—is still before him, a pale, sweet phantom, with wonder and a wistful tenderness in its eyes.
In that same instant the chain that had bound his limbs is loosened. Crying out 'Grace! Grace!' he dashes forward blindly.
In the next instant our dreamer found himself sprawling on his back upon the grass, two hands of iron holding him down, and a pair of glittering grey eyes above him.
'No, you don't,' said an irate voice, as he tried to release himself. 'No, you don't, sir. If you must commit suicide I can't help it, of course, but it shall not be in my compound. Keep, still, I tell you, madman! I'm not so young as I was, but I'm strong enough to fight you, and, by Jove, if you attempt to stir, down you go again.'
By the time this harangue was over Tom had recognised the features of his captor, realised the absurd nature of his position, and was laughing heartily.
'Is it you, General?' he said.
'You know me, I hope,' said the old soldier sternly.
'Oh yes, perfectly. Would you be kind enough? Thank you,' as the General, who was reflecting that intending suicides did not generally preface their last exit with so natural a laugh as this of Tom's, relaxed his hold. 'Do you know, General, your hands are like iron?' Tom sprang to his feet as he spoke.
'Like iron are they?' he said. 'Well, they have had to do hard work in their time. But come, boy—seriously—I should like to know what you mean by it.'
'By what, General?'
'By being here at this extraordinary hour to begin with. I don't believe, myself, that you have been in bed all night.'
Tom looked sheepish. It would not quite have done to quote Shelley's couplet to the General, and there was absolutely no other reason to give for his presence in the garden save that 'the spirit in his feet had led him thither.'
'I am really very sorry——,' he began.
'Understand me,' interrupted the General, mollified by his penitence, but feeling bound to express his displeasure: 'I have no objection to see you either in the garden or in the house. I have begged you again and again to come and go as you please. Lady Elton has done the same. She has a strong regard for you, and so have I. But, sir, when you go in for extraordinary athletic performances, I must beg you to find another field than mine for the display of your talent. Also'—and here his very hair seemed to bristle with indignation—'to find another name than my daughter's to hang rhapsodies to. A very pretty little story would have got about if anyone but myself had been here. And,' he added as he turned away, 'there's too much talking as it is.'
The reddest of Grace's roses was scarcely as red as Tom's face when the General turned away from him.
'Did I?' he stammered. 'I beg your pardon—hers, I mean. I must have been dreaming. I couldn't sleep last night, General, and——'
Now, a confession was the very last thing the General desired. He broke in hastily:
'All right, my dear fellow, all right. I mustn't be too down upon you. It was a tremendous piece of news that you received last night, quite enough to set a young man's wits wool-gathering. But take it quietly, if you can. In six months, if I know human nature, you will be so much accustomed to it that you will feel as if you had been rich all your life.'
'But it isn't the riches,' began poor Tom, tremulously. 'It is——'
'Yes, yes. I understand. The change—prodigious, as you say. Now don't talk any more. Go home like a sensible fellow and have a good sleep.'
'If I might have a little conversation with you first, sir——'
'Impossible, my dear boy. Quite out of the question. Look at these'—pointing to the pot-plants—roses and geraniums and fuchsias and lilacs, which Yaseen Khan and the gardener were bringing down in batches and placing beside the river—'all to be seen to before the sun rises.'
'I shall not be long. I only want to ask you a single question.'
'But how long will it take to answer? No, no; I am not going to be betrayed into an argument. It takes all one's wit, I can tell you, to deal with one's plants.'
As the General talked he worked. He had thrown off his coat and tucked up his shirt-sleeves, and lighted a small briarwood pipe, and he was moving about briskly among the plants, watering them, syringing them, washing blight off their foliage, loosening the earth about their roots, and drenching them with tobacco-smoke.
Tom meanwhile held his ground, watching him. Whenever there was a pause he would jump up, as the old man said to himself discontentedly, 'like a Jack-in-the-box.' But he never found an opening for the little conversation that he so earnestly desired, and finally the flight of time and the General's perseverance carried the day. In a few moments, if he remained where he was, a bevy of laughing girls would be down upon him, pouring out questions which he might find it difficult to answer.
So he rose regretfully. 'I will come again, when you are not so busy,' he said.
'Yes, yes; certainly,' said the General, cordially. 'Come again, by all means. You are always welcome. But if I don't look to the plants early they suffer. Good rest to you, my boy, and a pleasant awakening.'
When Tom had gone he breathed a deep sigh of relief. But his work flagged, and in a few moments he left the gardener to finish it, and went up slowly to the house, to see if 'mother' was awake.
'That's the worst of having girls,' he said to himself discontentedly. 'There is always something brewing. Now, if four of them were boys——'
Ah! but which four? That was the difficulty. It seems unreasonable, but it is the simple truth: for 'a wilderness of boys,' each of them as handsome as Tom Gregory, the General would not have given the least of his little girls.
Mr. Cherry, head partner of the firm of Cherry & Lawrence, sat in his private room, expecting the young heir. A japanned box, bearing the Bracebridge name on its lid, was at his feet; a bulky packet, sealed with many seals and addressed 'Thomas Gregory,' was on the table beside him; and the parchment wrapper, out of which, apparently, the packet had been taken, lay spread out on his desk. The wrapper bore the following inscription:—
'To William Cherry, of the City of London, solicitor,—My will and last instructions are sealed up in this packet, which I desire may be opened by you after my death, or, in case of your dying before me, by the representative you may appoint. By the love you bear me, I beseech you to see my last wishes carried out.'(Signed) 'Byrajee Pirtha Raj.'
'To William Cherry, of the City of London, solicitor,—My will and last instructions are sealed up in this packet, which I desire may be opened by you after my death, or, in case of your dying before me, by the representative you may appoint. By the love you bear me, I beseech you to see my last wishes carried out.'
(Signed) 'Byrajee Pirtha Raj.'
Four years before this mysterious packet had been conveyed to Mr. Cherry by a secure hand. He was an old man, and the rajah was in the prime of life. It had never, therefore, occurred to him that his would be the hand to open it. But the unexpected had befallen. The rajah had fallen by the knife of an assassin; and when Mr. Cherry, in the presence of two witnesses, opened the parcel left with him, he found a formal, unusually brief will, duly signed and witnessed, with the packet already mentioned, which was to be given as it was into the hands of the heir.
By this time Mr. Cherry had recovered from his first shock of surprise, but to any who knew him well it would have been evident that he was still extraordinarily moved. He was a person well known in London at that time. His mellifluous voice, his gift of well-balanced and persuasive speech, and his dignified manner, with the snow-white hair that became him so well, the broad massive forehead, determined mouth, and calm blue eyes, made him the very prince of family solicitors. The world said Mr. Cherry had mistaken his vocation: lawn sleeves and a bishop's crozier would have suited him far better than a lawyer's gown. Mr. Cherry agreed with the world. But Providence—a power towards which he maintained and instilled the deepest reverence—had decreed it otherwise, and he accepted his lot with cheerfulness, bringing the gifts that would have adorned another profession to the service of that into which he had been thrown. It must be confessed that the gifts had proved useful. Mr. Cherry had a large and distinguished flock of clients, enriched by whose gratitude he could have retired years before from the arena of public life. But to retire was just the one thing that they would not let him do. It was whispered that men and women went to him as to a father-confessor; that secrets which would have staggered the brain of an ordinary man were hidden away securely behind that calm, wide brow; and that the reputations and fortunes of some of the noblest families in England were in his keeping. However that may have been, it is certain that no one ever repented having confided in him. His clients were his children, whom it was his pleasure, no less than his duty, to protect and guide.
The Bracebridges had for years belonged to the number of Mr. Cherry's flock. The rajah who had just died was their last male representative, for the English branch had long died out, and the family property, to the profound grief of the old lawyer, had passed into other hands. Mrs. Gregory, whose small patrimony he had nursed carefully, was the only one left of the family; and although he was on perfectly good terms with her, he had allowed her, when she married Captain Gregory, to pass out of the sphere of his influence. He was sorry to-day that he had not seen more of her boy.
'It is a great responsibility to fall upon young shoulders,' he said to himself, 'and I fear the instructions won't help him much—a mysterious, amostmysterious dispensation of Providence. May God help and guide the poor boy!'
This was not a mere form. Mr. Cherry did believe firmly in a Power overruling the seemingly capricious allotments of what fools call fate. That he felt it expedient from time to time to remind this august Ordainer of the consequences that might flow from His mysterious dispositions was a fault rather of the head than of the heart. He had himself in his small way more than once played the part of a human Providence, and he was conscious, even to morbidness, of the importance of the rôle.
While he sat thinking Tom was shown in. He rose and saluted him gravely. 'Mr. Gregory,' he said, 'I congratulate you. This is a great change in your fortunes.'
'So great, Mr. Cherry, that I have not been able to realise it yet.'
'I can understand that. But sit down. I will try, with your leave, to make things clear to you. Mrs. Gregory, of course——'
'One moment, Mr. Cherry,' broke in Tom. 'I must begin by telling you that my mother has told me nothing. I did not know, until yesterday, that we had any Indian relatives at all. I asked her to explain, and she referred me to you.'
'Very strange! very strange!' said the lawyer musingly. 'Mrs. Gregory was surprised?'
'She was more than surprised.'
'Shocked?'
'Yes; I believe she was really shocked,' said Tom. 'My mother told me, you know, to speak to you freely,' he added.
'Certainly. I should be pained if you did not,' said Mr. Cherry in his most impressive manner. 'Mr. Gregory, I have been the friend of your mother's family for three generations. They have all treated me with confidence. You, it seems, are chosen to carry on the traditions of the race. Why this is, I must tell you frankly, I cannot even guess. But it is so. If you permit it, I will be your friend as I have been theirs.'
'Thank you,' said Tom, grasping cordially the hand which the old lawyer extended to him. 'I accept your offer with pleasure. And I only hope I may prove worthy of your friendship.'
These preliminaries over, they proceeded to business. In a few clear words Mr. Cherry explained to Tom what the relationship had been between his mother and the rajah. The will, which should be laid before him presently, was of the simplest. There were a few legacies to servants and retainers, a bequest to Mr. Cherry, and the remainder absolutely, in the words of the will, to 'Thomas Gregory, my cousin's son.'
'Are there no conditions?' asked Tom.
'None whatever. I gather from a private letter, which I will put in your hands, that you are nominated as your cousin's successor in the raj. But, as Gumilcund has been for some years a protected state, the Company will have something to say about that. You had better put yourself in communication with the Lieutenant Governor. There is a resident, who will look after things there meanwhile. I haveheardthat Lord Dalhousie had a particular affection for Gumilcund. But this is all for the future.'
'Whatever my responsibilities may be,' said Tom, 'I assure you that I have no desire to shirk them.'
'Well said,' answered Mr. Cherry. 'But we must be patient. We must do nothing in a hurry. I may tell you, in the meantime, that your cousin had a considerable amount of property in England. He sent over his surplus revenues for us to invest. This was with the view, I believe, of carrying out some new scheme. We have large sums in our hands now waiting to be dealt with, and you can draw upon them as soon as you like. I keep a clerk on purpose to deal with what we call the Indian-Bracebridge property—an intelligent fellow, and a keen man of business. He shall wait upon you at whatever time you like to name, and give you every sort of information.'
Here he paused and cleared his throat. The dramatic moment of the interview had come, and it had to be met with proper dignity.
'You have something more to tell me,' said Tom.
'Yes,' said Mr. Cherry impressively. 'I have something more to tell you. A will, as I have often said, is public property. It is the duty of the law to see it carried out. But men may have wishes as well as intentions, although they may not think it prudent to complicate their last will and testament by inserting them. In such case they will often leave them behind in other forms, leaving it to their successors to carry them out. This, I imagine, your cousin the rajah has done.' He drew forward the sealed packet. 'Inside the wrapper which contained the rajah's will,' he went on, 'I found this.'
'How strange! How very strange!' said Tom. 'This is just what I was hoping for.'
'Take it away with you,' said Mr. Cherry, 'and open it at your leisure. But let me say one word first. There can be nothing legally binding in these papers. You will read them, of course, and no doubt you will try to act in their spirit; but I should not advise you to attempt to follow them slavishly. Your cousin, though he had an English grandfather, was an Asiatic of the Asiatics.'
'Was he a Mohammedan?'
'No; nor, I believe, a Hindu; but he was not a Christian. I am afraid he had no settled religion unless at the last; there is just the hope. The truth was put before him faithfully, though in weakness,' said Mr. Cherry, his voice faltering. 'What I mean by his being an Asiatic is that his sympathies were rather with the East than with the West. He was one of the greatest Sanskrit and Persian scholars of our generation. I am told he knew the Vedas and the Zend Avesta, not to speak of all the great Hindu poems and the mass of Buddhistic literature, as we know our Bibles. It was marvellous that one mind could have carried so much learning. Yes, and he was a delightful man to meet—courteous, gracious. He had the most wonderful way of setting his friends at their ease and overcoming their prejudices. I think sometimes now that, but for this charm of manner, I might have been more faithful with him. But'—very sadly—'the opportunity has gone.'
As he spoke he rose from his seat. He saw by the strained look in Tom's face that he was listening to him with an effort. 'Excuse me,' he said, 'I am an old man, and, I suppose, garrulous. You are anxious to be alone with your papers.'
'I shall open them at home,' said Tom quietly. 'I am much obliged to you, Mr. Cherry. I will come again when I have read them, and perhaps you will tell me more about my cousin then. I assure you'—smiling—'I cannot hear too much.'
'The boy hastheirmanner—their look too,' said the old lawyer to himself when he was left alone. 'I wonder where he got it? Harking back, I suppose. A very strange thing this heredity is—a very strange thing indeed!'
It was afternoon when Tom returned to the cottage. Finding, no little to his relief, that his mother was out, he hurried up to his room, shut and locked the door, and drew out his mysterious packet. As he sat with it before him his heart beat more quickly than usual, for he felt like one called upon to converse with spirits and to enter into the secret counsels of the dead.
Then, his excitement increasing as he proceeded, he began to break one by one the seals with which it was closed. At the last seal he paused, and cast a rapid glance round the room, whispering half aloud: 'Is anyone there?'
There was no answer, and his glance, which had been merely mechanical, for heknewno one had come into the room with him, strayed to the window. 'I am dreaming as I did last night,' he said to himself bitterly. 'If this sort of thing goes on I shall be a perfect visionary soon, fit for nothing but a lunatic asylum. Ah!' he interrupted himself, 'what is that?'
At the word he leapt up, crossed the room in one bound, threw the Venetian shutters open, and looked out. There was no one—absolutely no one—not a human being within sight or sound. The Sleeping Beauty's palace could scarcely have been more still than this green garden world, as it lay basking in the light of the golden afternoon.
Calling himself by a variety of contemptuous names, Tom strode back to his seat. There should be no more of this foolish nonsense, he said, and he broke the last seal. The wrapper at once fell open, revealing a little pile of papers, which appeared to be covered with minute handwriting. Tom's heart was by this time beating like a sledge-hammer. What was he going to hear? What was he going to see? He took up the first paper and examined it closely; but how great was his disappointment when he found that he could not make out a word of it! He passed rapidly to the next. It was as unintelligible. Two—three—four he unfolded; the result was the same. To his eye, unpractised in Oriental writings, one was exactly like the other. This, he said to himself bitterly, was like offering a man bread and giving him a stone. At last, when he had gone through nearly the whole of the pile of papers, he came to one different in appearance from any of the others. It was smaller in size, but thicker, and the leaves were gummed together at the edges. He was about to open it when he saw that there was an inscription on the outside, written in characters exceedingly minute, but not Oriental. He held it up to the light and read as follows: 'Unless you are capable of forming a firm resolution, go no further!'
While he was wondering what this might mean he turned the roll over, and saw that words were written on the other side also. These were still stranger: 'If you are brave and resolute, open without fear.'
He paused to think. It was so silent in the room that he could hear the beating of his own heart. He was asking himself if he had the qualities required by his mysterious benefactor, and wondering what could be the nature of the secret which must be approached in so resolute a spirit. Weird stories of dim antiquity—of beautiful things grasped at by eager hands and won, but won through strife, and blood, and tears—floated through his brain as he sat hesitating, the unopened roll before him. Suddenly he found himself speaking, uttering the thought that was passing through his mind. 'I think I could act with resolution if the necessity arose. I am not all I should be; of that I am well aware; but——'
And here he broke short, for the impression he had combated a few moments before had come to him again, and this time with a force that there was no denying. For an instant he sprang up wildly. Then, feeling dazed and helpless, he sank back, covering his face with his hands.
In the next moment a clear, low voice was sounding through the room. 'You mistake. It is not a question of worthiness, or even of ability. The qualities we want are four: humility and honesty—and these you have proved that you possess; courage, which you do not deny yourself; and an obedient mind, which you may possibly have to learn. Open the paper and learn its secrets!'
'Who are you that presume to command me?' said Tom tremulously.
'That I may not tell you. I have been near you all your life, but never so near as now, when the Holy Ones have permitted me to be the bearer of their message. The good that is given, they say, must be expended in good.'
'Do you doubt that I feel it?' cried Tom.
'It is because I do not that I encourage you to open the paper.'
'But why——'
'I can tell you nothing. The past has gone from me. You must learn, moreover, as it is given to you to learn, not altogether, but little by little, and learning first an obedient mind.'
'To whom is my obedience to be given?'
'That will be shown to you. First steps must ever be taken with faith. Have courage!'
'It is not cowardice that makes me hesitate.'
'You are right. It is honesty. Then take time. To-night you will decide.'
At this moment, when all Tom's nerves were tingling, there broke upon his ears sounds so familiar that in an instant they put to flight the weird impressions under which he had been labouring. 'Tom; I say, Tom! The dear boy is asleep or he would answer. I will go and see.' It was his mother's cheerful voice that rang up the stairway. In another moment her hand was on the door. 'Why, it is locked!' she cried. 'Are you asleep, dear? Let me in!' And she gave a series of impatient taps.
'In one moment,' said Tom.
He gathered up the heap of papers, threw them into his writing-drawer, looked searchingly round the room, and then, whispering under his breath, 'Until to-night!' opened the door to admit his mother.
'Were you asleep, dear?' said Mrs. Gregory gently.
As she spoke she cast her eye timidly round the room. It fell on the writing-drawer, which Tom had not been able to shut on account of the quantity of papers. 'You have been busy?' she said with a vague smile.
'My business will keep,' he answered. 'Only some papers, mother—about the property, I suppose. Mr. Cherry gave them to me this morning. They were with the will—addressed to me.'
'How strange! And you have read them?'
'Not yet. They seem rather elaborate. I expect they will take time.'
Mrs. Gregory brightened. 'Then they must keep,' she said cheerfully, 'for I want you. Lady Winter and her son are in the drawing-room. They have come on purpose to congratulate you, and I should like you to see them.'
'Very well, mother. Just let me make myself tidy first.'
'All right, dear, and I will entertain them. You know,' she lingered, looking at him wistfully, 'Lady Winter has always been so nice to me; and Sir Reginald knows everyone. He could help you on in society. You will make yourself pleasant to them—for my sake?'
'My dear mother,' said the boy, turning his strained-looking eyes upon her, 'I will do my best. No one can do any more.'
With a little sigh she left him and returned to her visitors.
Society has some curious arrangements. It reverses, as a general rule, the Scriptural order. Those who honour themselves it delights to set on high in its banquets, while the humble are allowed to fill perpetually the low seats that they have chosen. Lady Winter honoured herself, and her honour was accepted as the true estimate of her worth. She seldom paid calls. She received them. Her parties were general, for if anyone who could by any possibility be said to belong to society had been shut out there would have been painful heart-burnings, and her neighbours, many of whom were far richer than herself, were flattered when she accepted little services, such as the use of their carriages, and presents of flowers and fruit, game and vegetables. Besides preserving this comfortable worship she could do three things well. She could dress so as to hide the ravages of time; she could manage a small income with grace and success; and she could say pretty things with anabandonthat marvellously enhanced their charm. She had in consequence many friends. Amongst these Mrs. Gregory, as she was telling her to-day, had always taken a high place. Some people might have thought that the change in their fortunes had quickened the flame of friendship. Mrs. Gregory did not. She was a simple woman, and Lady Winter, as she had told her son, had always been very nice to her.
But her face flushed a little at the kind words.
'And to think that you are rich!' said Lady Winter.
'It isn't me,' said Mrs. Gregory. 'It is my boy.'
'But it is the same thing, of course. An only boy—and one so devoted. Ah! you may smile. We all know. I only wish my Reginald were half as nice to me! Well, as you know, I don't think much of riches myself. I had them once. Sir Thomas was a millionaire when we married—supposed to be one at least. Poor man! he thought nothing good enough for me—nothing! I tried to protest. It was of no use. If I didn't accept the lovely things he gave me it made him miserable. The riches took flight, and, curiously enough, I am as happy. A few years and it will not make much difference whether we have been rich or poor. We all stand on the same ground at last. But,' as the door opened, 'here is your son. My dear boy,' holding out an exquisitely gloved hand, 'allow your mother's old friend to congratulate you on your good fortune. I knowsomeone,' with a flattering smile, 'who will be enchanted to hear it. But I think I shall keepherout of the way a little while.'
'Good fortune, indeed!' The voice came from the depths of a low lounging-chair, in which a long-limbed, handsome youth was reclining. This was Sir Reginald Winter. He rose languidly, and went forward to meet Tom. 'When my mother has done,' he said with his sleepy smile, 'perhaps I may be allowed to shake hands with you. Many happy returns of the day! Isn't that the proper form? By Jove, though,' laughing, 'if you had more than one, there wouldn't be room for anyone else. I hear you are a millionaire.'
'I think he scarcely knows how he stands,' said Mrs. Gregory nervously.
'Of course not,' said Lady Winter. 'I believe you only heard of it yourselves last night. Some of the Eltons toldus. Charming people the Eltons! I am positively in love with those dear girls. But such gossips. Ah!' lifting up her grey-gloved hands, 'how they can talk! If I had secrets I had rather confide them to the town-crier than to that amiable family.'
'But this is no secret,' said Mrs. Gregory, the colour mounting to her face.
'Tom's good fortune! Oh dear no; why should it be? I only wished to explain how it was that we knew so early. You know,' in a low voice, 'I couldn't help being a little excited. We are both mothers—both left alone early. I have so often sympathised with you in your anxieties——'
'I know—I know,' answered Mrs. Gregory affectionately. 'And I can't tell you how pleasant your sympathy is to me. We have so many kind friends here. Their interest and affection have touched me deeply.' She cast an appealing glance at Tom, who looked painfully wooden and irresponsive. 'I am sure my son feels with me,' she added.
This seemed to arouse Tom, for he murmured something indefinite about being much obliged.
'Never mind,' whispered Lady Winter to Mrs. Gregory. 'Young men are all alike. They don't care for congratulations. Reginald was just the same. When my poor old aunt died the other day, you know, and left him that little bit of money, and people told me how glad they were, he behaved quite naughtily. "Really," he said at last, "I wish she hadn't; I'm sick of hearing of it."'
'Then I think he was very ungrateful,' said Mrs. Gregory severely. 'A pretty sort of place the world would be if we had no one to rejoice and grieve with us!'
'That is the woman's view, my dear friend. But men, you know——'
'Men!' echoed Mrs. Gregory scornfully. 'Boys!'
'Oh come! my friend Tom is not quite a boy,' said Lady Winter, with a smile of exquisite graciousness towards that irresponsive person.
'Well done, mother. I shall treasure that up,' laughed Sir Reginald. 'I am called a boy often enough, Mrs. Gregory, and I am ages older than Tom. I say, Gregory, what do you say to a stroll and a weed? A fellow is taking my new outrigger up and down. I should like you to see it.'
'Take Sir Reginald to the summer-house. Tom,' said Mrs. Gregory; 'it has such a cheerful look-out. And bring him back to tea. Yes, Lady Winter, you must stay, both of you. The boys will like to have their chat out quietly, and Lady Elton and two of the dear girls are coming in presently.'
'But we shall be too many for you.'
'Not at all. I must tell you,' whispered Mrs. Gregory as Tom went off with Sir Reginald, 'that I had in additional help to-day. Such a smart little servant; a capital cook, and knows how to wait at table. She was five years in her last place, and hassucha character! It seemed almost a Providence, if it isn't irreverent to say so. It was my dear boy'—she looked out with dewy eyes to where she could see her son's tall slender figure on the sunlit lawn. 'He says I have slaved for him long enough, and now I shall have everything done for me. No one would believe what a heart that boy has. Positively, I am afraid of what he may think of doing now he is rich.'
'It is very nice to see young people like that,' said Lady Winter pleasantly. 'Reginald is wonderfully soft-hearted too. But I have tried to bring him up reasonably, and I do believe he has no crazes. Seriously, I don't think your boy could have a more suitable friend just now. You see Reggy has sown his wild oats. I am bound to confess that the crop was innocent enough, but it cost me something. Now he is as steady as old Time.'
'I am very glad that the two boys should be together,' said Mrs. Gregory simply.
Here, to the annoyance of Lady Winter, who had more to say about Tom, Lady Elton and two of her girls, Maud and Trixy, were shown in.
Lady Elton had been feeling a little nervous all the morning, wondering what she should say; but the moment she saw Mrs. Gregory all her nervousness fled. Her sweet face flushed a rosy red, as she went forward impulsively, holding out her two hands. 'Dear friend!' she said, 'we are so glad—so very glad—to hear of your good fortune.'
'I knew you would be,' said Mrs. Gregory, and, forgetting the dignity of their respective positions—a General's wife and a millionaire's mother—they kissed each other again and again, like two schoolgirls.
Maud meanwhile stood aside, and waited her turn. She was a handsome girl of the aggressive type. No one would pass her over in a crowd. She had flashing brown eyes, a profusion of silky brown hair, which she wore, after the fashion of the time, in a sparkling beaded net, regular features, and a determined mouth and chin.
Maud was never nervous. She considered herself equal to every conceivable emergency. When Mrs. Gregory turned to address her she had her little speech ready. 'We were delighted with father's good news last night,' she said, smiling prettily, 'and we hope you and Tom will be very happy.'
'"We" includes me,' said Trixy. 'Maud speaks so well, you know. We always let her speak for us. But I really am tremendously glad.'
'Thank you, dears,' said Mrs. Gregory. 'I love to feel that you are glad. We are so like one family that I feel as if it ought to be good news to you all. And now,' looking towards Lady Winter, 'what do you all say? Shall we sit out on the lawn until tea? It is just pleasant now.'
'If you ask me, I should like nothing better,' said Lady Winter, rising gracefully.
'But where is he—Tom, I mean?' said Lady Elton, as they went out. 'I heard he had come back from town.'
'Reginald has carried him off for a smoke and a chat,' said Lady Winter. 'I expect they will join us presently. But young men will have their quiet hour in the evening.'
'I see them!' cried Trixy. 'They are just outside the summer-house. I'll run and tell Tom you are here, mother.'
'No, no!' and 'Wouldn't it be rather a pity?' came simultaneously from Lady Elton and Lady Winter. But Trixy did not hear them. She knew instinctively that her friend Tom wanted deliverance, and she was off across the garden with the speed of a lapwing.
So far the conversation had been rather a one-sided business. Sir Reginald had talked. He was giving information. Tom had listened. He had heard of magnificent chambers in town going for a song; of shootings and fishings to be had for very little more than the asking; of horses perfect in wind and limb, concerning whose purchase Sir Reginald would be glad to interest himself; of cellars of priceless wines waiting for a buyer; of furniture, china, pictures, bric-à-brac to be had at phenomenally low prices—of a world, in fact, that was offering itself for purchase. The curious thing was that none of these interesting pieces of intelligence seemed to move him. He sat, as Sir Reginald said afterwards, like a wooden image, gazing at nothing. He would not even take the excellent cigar he was offered. Then, just as his companion hoped he was becoming a little interested, the wild little Elton girl rushed down upon them, and his opportunity was at an end.
Tom showed plenty of animation to Trixy; and when he heard that Lady Elton had come over to the cottage with her, he said he would go back to the upper lawn and see her. 'What will you do, Winter?' he said.
'Oh, thanks. Don't mind me. I'll finish my cigar out here, and join the rest of you later,' said Sir Reginald.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly by. Tea, which was a composite meal such as women love, proved a complete success. Nothing could have been prettier, Lady Winter said graciously.
After tea Tom devoted himself to Lady Elton, Sir Reginald made Maud happy by talking down to her sleepily, Lady Winter chatted amiably to Mrs. Gregory, and Trixy teased everyone in turn.
Presently came some music—the drawing-room music of that period, which was before the days of amateur artists. Maud, thinking of handsome, languid Sir Reginald, warbled a sentimental love ditty; Mrs. Gregory was induced to play an old-fashioned fantasia; and Trixy rattled her last piano piece, making her mother hot and cold by turns as she stumbled over the difficult passages.
The Winters left early. She was enjoying herself so much, Lady Winter said, that shecouldstay all night; but she was bound not to keep late hours. She was going to have some visitors—one in particular, whom she believed they would like to meet, and she mentioned an early day for tea at their house, begging Lady Elton to come too, and to bring Maud and dear little Trixy with her.
To her son she said as they walked home: 'A little of that kind of thing goes a long way. I wonder if those dear good people will ever learn to be rich?'
'Tom won't. He is a regular muff,' said Sir Reginald. 'I shall take no more trouble about him.'
'Oh! but you will, dear,' said his mother sweetly. 'For Mrs. Gregory's sake. She is such a dear good soul! Not quite—well, you know what I mean; but very nice—' and she added after a pause, for her son had not thought it necessary to answer this appeal, 'I have written to Vivien. I rather think she will be with us to-morrow.'
'I must say, mother,' said Sir Reginald, 'that you don't allow the grass to grow under your feet. I shall be surprised if even Vivien, clever as she is, gets anything out of that moonstruck youth.'
'Well, we shall see,' said Lady Winter.
In the cottage the departure of the Winters brought a certain sense of relief, more especially to two of the party, Tom and Lady Elton.
There was a strong sympathy between these two. Sometimes, indeed, it made Tom's mother jealous to see her son hang about her old friend as he was doing to-night. After she had watched them for some time wistfully, she said, her voice quivering:
'Haven't you appropriated Lady Elton long enough, Tom? Come over here and entertain Maud and Trixy, and let me have her for a few moments.'
'I am afraid I am not in an amusing mood,' said Tom, rising with reluctance.
'When you are next in an amusing mood perhaps you will let us know,' said Trixy saucily.
'Those are things people ought to find out for themselves,' he said, taking a seat beside her.
'How can they,' said the child, 'if there are no indications——?'
'Which means that you have always found me dull.'
'No, no, no. But I can't say you are ever very funny.'
'You see, Trixy, you give no one a chance.'
'Bravo, Tom! not bad for a beginner,' cried Trixy, clapping her hands. 'Maud'—to her elder sister—'howridiculouslygrave you look!'
'I see nothing to laugh at,' said Maud, whereupon the incorrigible child folded her hands and looked down her nose demurely. The copy of Maud's expression and attitude was so good that Tom could not help laughing.
'Stop a little longer; the young people are just beginning to enjoy themselves,' said Mrs. Gregory to Lady Elton.
'Thank you very much, but I am afraid we must really go,' she answered. 'The General will surely be at home by this. He took Grace up the river this afternoon.'
'And he wouldn't take anyone else,' said Trixy, who was still smarting under her grievance. 'I amsurethey were going to talk secrets. Good-bye, Tom.'
'I mean to take you home as usual, Trixy.'
'Pray don't,' said Maud icily. 'It's only a step.'
A peal of laughter from Trixy greeted her speech.
'Maud,' she cried, 'you are too funny for anything. You will freeze us up to nothing. I feel the process beginning. Don't you, Tom?'
'Trixy, you wild little creature, do you mean to stay all night?' said Lady Elton, who was waiting hooded and cloaked in the verandah.
'No, mother, here I am,' said Trixy, 'and Maud is following me. Maud can't walk very quickly, you know. Good-night, dearest, sweetest Mrs. Gregory. Tom——'
'Tom will go with you, of course,' said Mrs. Gregory. 'Good-night, dears. Come and see me again soon. Yes, the night air is a little chilly, so I will shut the door. You may say good-night to me too, Tom. I am tired, and I think I shall go to my room at once.'
The door of the cottage shut, and all but Mrs. Gregory went out into the throbbing silence of the summer night. Its enchantment made even wild little Trixy quiet for a few moments. As she looked up and saw the little moon, half entangled in a web of rainbow-tinted clouds, floating like a spirit in the dark spaces of the starlit sky, she said in a stifled whisper that she didn't in the least wonder that looking at the moon made people feel sentimental. In the next instant, however, sentiment was put to flight.
A cheerful, sonorous voice, which they all knew, came ringing across the lawn, while from under the shadows of the witch-elms a little band of figures appeared. The General, and Grace, and Lucy, and Mildred had come out in search of them.
'Good evening, Tom; good evening, everybody,' said the General. 'We began to think you meant to keep my lady altogether, so we came out in a body to fetch her back.'
'It was unnecessary. I was taking the greatest care of her,' said Tom; 'but I am glad to see you all the same, General.'
'Thank you, my boy, thank you,' said the General cheerfully. 'Well, good-night to you!' And then he tucked his wife's hand under his arm—he was her true lover still, as he would be to the end of his days—whistled up the girls as if, stately Maud was saying to herself discontentedly, they were a pack of harriers, and started off at a quick pace for their own gate.
Tom fell behind with Grace. He did not know exactly how he had managed it, or whether any management at all had been required; but so it was that when they came out into the moonlit road, he and Grace were together. He looked down upon her with a beating heart. Words came thronging to his lips, but he could not speak them. She seemed to have moved further away from him than ever. This white light of moon and stars in which she walked was, to his excited fancy, like the mystic world that was her home, and she in her light garments, her pale gold hair all ruffled by the breeze, making an aureole like a saint's halo round her beautiful face, was as lovely, and alas! as unapproachable as a vision. Silently they go along the interval of road that separated Mrs. Gregory's grounds from those of General Elton. And now they are in the little dark shrubbery behind the lawn and rose garden.
Here Tom, who has been sighing like a furnace, pulls up in desperation, for he feels that his opportunity is slipping away from him.
'Are you tired?' he says in a shaken voice.
'Oh, no!' answers Grace, only a little more firmly. 'I am not at all tired.'
'Then won't you come down to the river for a few moments?' he says pleadingly. 'It looks so pretty in this light.'
His heart is thumping against his ribs, and there is a singing in his ears which nearly deafens him. He hears indeed so imperfectly that he is on the point of apologising humbly for having made a preposterous suggestion when he realises that Grace has fallen in with it, that she is, in fact, leading him to a little tangled path through the shrubbery that leads straight to the lower lawn. 'Mind how you go!' says the sweet voice. 'It is dark here, and the branches are low. To the right; now to the left. Trixy calls this the maze.'
In a few moments they emerge from the shrubbery, cross an interval of lawn, and stand on the bank above the river, at the very spot where Tom saw his vision of the night before.
'Isn't it lovely?' says Grace, in a low voice. 'Come here, under the willows, where the shadows are deep, and look down!'
'How dark and silent it is!' says Tom.
'Silent, but never still. I don't know how it is,' says Grace, with a little sigh, 'but flowing water always makes me feel tired.'
'It is the constant movement. I have felt that too. But sit down, darling. Don't look at it——'
She interrupts him a little impatiently. 'No; you don't understand. It is notthatweariness; it is of the mind. I think of life; how it is going on, always, always. No rest, not for a single moment; dying, being born, loving, hating, thinking, fighting, suffering, sinning. It is terrible.'
'But it is beautiful too, Grace.'
'It may be, or perhaps indifferent. To one here and there; one like the river that receives but cannot give.'
'What do you mean, Grace?'
'I don't know that I quite know myself,' she says, wearily. 'But look at the river. It is very old, isn't it? I imagine how, when it began to flow, the big primeval world, with its forests and monsters, was about it—ages upon ages—and then came men and their inventions—huts and houses, and castles, and palaces, and cities, rising and falling as the river flows on, the old, old river. And sometimes I think of the dead it has hidden, of the tragedies it has seen, of the miseries it has stilled. Anditis always the same; smiling in the sunlight, sleeping in the shadow, making pictures of the trees and flowers on its banks. Could one hope to like that?'
'But we do not see what the river does, Grace.'
'Some of us do. We carry in our hearts the passion and pain of the past. I had rather not, much rather. Sometimes I feel as if it would kill me, and then I long to be as this water is, smiling and insensible. But when they have touched you once,' says the girl, her voice vibrating strangely, 'you know that you can never be as you have been; never, never!' She turns her back to the river. 'Come back to the house,' she says abruptly. 'I hear my sisters laughing.'
'Must you go? Will you not give me two or three moments? I have so much to say to you. So much' (smiling a little piteously) 'that I scarcely know where to begin. Grace, dearest, my life is flowing on like the water in the river, and this little hand of yours can turn it whatever way it pleases.'
'Hush, hush!' says Grace. 'You must not say such things.'
'I must, for it is true. Grace! Grace! I love you.' He pauses. The light of the moon is veiled by clouds, so that he cannot see her face; but she is silent, and silence sometimes means more than speech. 'I am not worthy of you'—his words leap out fervently—'so unworthy that it is little short of madness to imagine you might care for me. But I love you. I know'—with a catching back of the breath—'there is nothing strange in that. Everyone who has seen you must love you. But I think—I think—no one will ever love you as I do. My heart, my soul, my life; everything I have and am are yours, if you will only take them.'
And here suddenly he stops, the eloquent words frozen on his lips. Grace has covered her face with her hands. 'What is it?' he whispers very low. He would draw one of those little hands down and cover it with kisses; but he dares not. In the next instant he is trembling. She has lifted her sad eyes; she is looking at him, looking at him—oh, God!—with the very eyes of his vision.
'I wish you had told me this before,' she says, brokenly. 'Is it only now you know that you love me?'
'No, no. I have known it always, the first moment I saw you. But why, in the name of heaven, do you ask me such a question?'
'It was a foolish question'—she is trying hard to speak calmly. 'Forget it.'
'I cannot, Grace; for pity's sake tell me!'
'Because, dear Tom—I will call you so this once—thenit might have been;nowit cannot.'
'You might have accepted my love, oh, Grace!'—he tries to seize her hands, but she will not give them.
'Not now, not now,' she says. 'It is too late.'
'But how can it be?' cries the poor fellow wildly. 'Grace, you are torturing me. Two days ago—such a short time—we seemed to understand one another quite well. I would have spoken then, but I had nothing to offer you. It was for your sake, darling, because I could not—dared not—run the risk of dragging you into poverty. My circumstances have changed, nothing else. And, dear, if you object to being rich, there is no need for us to spend our wealth as rich people generally do. For all I know I may be only steward of my inheritance. To-night when I leave you I am to read the papers which I believe will give me the real wish of him who left it to me. Grace, I shall go to them with such hope, such heart, such courage, if I take your promise with me. Answer me, my darling, may I believe, may I hope, that whatever I may be called upon to do may be done, not by me alone, but by you and me together?'
That question has never been answered. Grace had turned away from him. Suddenly she cries out and grasps his arm convulsively. 'Look! look! What is that?'
For an instant horror holds him spellbound. In the next he is rushing headlong across the garden, crying out 'Fire! Fire!
The Gregorys' cottage was on fire. While Grace ran back to the house calling her father, Tom leapt over the fence, ran along the road, and tore into their garden, where, to his great relief, he at once saw his mother and the two servants. The girls were weeping and wringing their hands. Mrs. Gregory looked dazed. 'Thank God that you are all right!' cried Tom, as he swept past her towards the burning house.
'Come back!' cried his mother. 'I beg you, I command you!' But Tom had already gone.
The General joined her. 'All right so far!' he said. 'The fire is all on one side. We may save the cottage yet. How did it happen?' turning to the shrinking maids.
'I was going to bed,' sobbed one.
'But if I hadn't been up,' said the other, 'goodness knows what mightn't have happened! It was like this here, sir——'
'Go to the General's, both of you,' interrupted Mrs. Gregory impatiently. 'General, I am to blame, and only I. I put down a lighted candle on the window-sill in the hall and forgot it. The curtains caught.'
'Just so. Those new-fangled decorations are like tinder. I've said so again and again,' said the General, grimly triumphant. 'It's a good thing you got out safely. Here are Grace and my wife. Now take my advice and go quickly to our house with them. I'll look after Tom.'
'Come with us, dear Mrs. Gregory,' said Grace.
'The General will do all he can,' said Lady Elton.
By this time the garden was alive. People were hurrying up from every direction: water was being poured over the roof of the cottage, and all sorts of things—from tables and chairs to millinery—were being flung out of the windows. 'I can't go in till I know that Tom is safe,' cried Mrs. Gregory.
'Why, here he is!' said the General, 'and by Jove! he looks as if he had seen a ghost!'
Tom carried a lantern, the light of which, streaming upwards, showed his face as white as death. He strode up to the little group, and, taking no notice of the ladies, seized the General by the shoulder. 'Robbery has been done,' he said hoarsely.
'What? money! jewels! Lady Elton, for God's sake take Mrs. Gregory away!' said the General. 'Now,' as the three ladies moved away slowly, 'don't rave; but tell me plainly what has happened!'
'My desk has been ransacked and papers of incalculable value to me have been taken out.'
'Taken out? You are sure of that?'
'I am positive. I put them away in my escritoire. It has been forced open.'
'Anything besides papers gone?'
'Nothing. I put a twenty-pound note there—the price of my last design. It is there still.'
'And these papers—what are they?'
'I don't know. That is the cruel part of it. They were given to me by Mr. Cherry as explaining my inheritance, and I was to have looked over them to-night. But we are wasting time. Come back with me to the house and watch the people there. I have a suspicion that the papers were seized and the house fired by the same hand.'
'Impossible, Tom! I know how the fire arose.'
They had been hurrying back to the house; but, on hearing this, Tom pulled up. 'You know!' he ejaculated. 'How can that be?'
'My dear boy, for heaven's sake don't be so melodramatic,' said the General tartly. 'You will be accusingmeof stealing your papers next. The fire broke out in the simplest way. Your mother put down her candle on the window-sill in the hall, and those muslin curtains of yours, against which I have preached till I am tired, caught fire. Now don't, like a good fellow, stare at me so! I am repeating your mother's own words.'
'Where is my mother?' asked Tom.
'She is with Lady Elton, and there she shall remain for the present. I refuse to permit you to ask her a single question to-night.'
They were, by this time, in the midst of the little crowd that surrounded the house. Water was still playing over it; but the flames were dead. 'Pretty safe now?' said the General, addressing one of the policemen.
'Yes, sir; and we saved a goodish lot of things.'
'So I see. Any strangers about?'
'No, General; not a single soul. I was up here from the first. Do Mr. Gregory think——?'
'Mr. Gregory has missed some valuable papers.'
'If they were on this side, General, 'taint wonderful like.'
'They were on the other——'
'We must see after it to-morrow,' interrupted Tom hastily; and then, raising his voice: 'I am much obliged to you all for helping me to-night, and to-morrow, if you come to me, I will reward you for your trouble. I believe there is nothing more to be done now.'
'Two of the police had better stay on the premises. There are all sorts of things lying about,' said the General. 'You, Tom, will come back with me.'
'I am much obliged to you, General; but I think I had rather not. My own room is perfectly safe, I believe.'
'But the furniture is out, isn't it?'
'No; there was nothing of value but the papers; and, for reasons of my own, I had it left as it was. Good-night, General.'
So at last Tom was alone. He had given up his lantern to the policeman; but he would not strike a light. He sat on the side of his bed, listening while the sounds of the many footsteps died away, and gazing out into the darkness, which was strangely empty to him. At last, being utterly worn out, he flung himself down on the bed and slept. He awoke early. Of course his first thought was the papers, to the loss of which he could not reconcile himself tamely. Thinking it just possible that he might have been mistaken in supposing he had left them in his writing-drawer, he turned the room upside down in search of them. It was all to no purpose. After a few wild moments of alternating hope and despair, he made up his mind that they would not be found in the house.
He dressed and went down into the garden, which was choked up withdébrisfrom the gutted rooms. His mother's servants, under whose directions some of the furniture was being carried in, were there already. He questioned them closely about the night before, wishing particularly to know if any stranger had been hanging about during the afternoon or evening. But they could give him no satisfaction.