It seemed to Mrs. Andinnian and to her son, Karl, that trouble like unto theirs had never yet fallen upon man. Loving Adam as they did, for his sake it was more than they knew how to bear. The disgrace and blight to themselves were terrible; to Karl especially, who was, so to say, only entering on life. There are some calamities that can never be righted in this world; scarcely softened. This was one. Calamities when we can onlybear, bear always here; when nothing is left us but to look forward to, and live on for, the next world, where no pain will be. In Karl's mind this was ever present.
The bare fact of the selling-out was to Karl Andinnian a bitter blow. He was attached to his profession: and he had been looking forward to finding, in the active discharge of its duties, a relief from the blank left by the loss of Lucy Cleeve. Now he must be thrown utterly upon himself; an idle man. Everyone was very kind to him; from the Commander-in-chief, with whom he had an interview, downwards evincing for him the truest respect and sympathy: but not one of them said, "Won't you reconsider your determination and remain with us?" His Royal Highness civilly expressed regret at the loss Her Majesty would sustain in so good a servant; but he took the withdrawal as a matter that admitted of no question. There could be none. Captain Andinnian's only brother, escaping the gallows by an accorded favour, was working in chains on Portland Island: clearly the captain, brave and unsullied man though he individually was, could but hasten to hide his head in private life.
It was a happy thing for Karl that he had plenty of business on his hands just now. It saved him in a degree from thought. Besides his own matters, there were many things to see to for his mother. The house in Northamptonshire was given up, its furniture sold, its household, except Hewitt, discharged. Karl was on the spot and saw to it all. Whilst there, he had rather a struggle with himself. His natural kindliness of feeling prompted him to call and see Miss Turner: personally he shrunk from it, for he could not forget that it was through her all the misery had happened. He did violence to his inclination, and called. The young lady seemed to be in very depressed spirits, and said but little. The event seemed to have tried her much, and she was pale and thin. During the interval that had elapsed since the trial, her uncle, to whom she was much attached, had died. She told Karl that her aunt, Mrs. Turner, intended to remove at once to her native place, a remote district of Cumberland: Rose supposed she should have to remove with her. Mr. Turner had left a very fair amount of property. His wife was to receive the interest of it for her life; at her death the whole of it would come to Rose. As Karl shook hands with her on leaving, and wished her well, something he said was taken by her as alluding to the unhappy tragedy, though he had intended nothing of the sort. It had a strange effect upon her. She rose from her seat, her hands trembling; her face became burning red, then changed to a ghastly whiteness. "Don't speak of it, Captain Andinnian," she exclaimed in a voice of horror; "don't hint at it, unless you would see me go mad. There are times when I think that madness will be my ending." Again wishing her well; he took his departure. It was rather unlikely, he thought, that their paths would cross each other again in life.
Hewitt was sent to Foxwood. It would probably be made the future home of Mrs. Andinnian and her younger son; but at present they had not gone there. For some little time, while Karl was busy in London, Northamptonshire, or elsewhere, he had lost sight of his mother. She quitted the temporary home she occupied, and, so to say, disappeared. While he was wondering what this meant, and where she could be; he received a letter from her dated Weymouth. She told him she had taken up her abode there for the present, and she charged him not to disclose this to any one, or to let her address be known. Just for a moment, Karl was puzzled to imagine what her motive could be in going to a place that she knew nothing of. All at once the truth flashed upon him--she would be as near as possible to that cruel prison that contained her ill-fated son.
It was even so. Adam Andinnian was on Portland Island; and his mother had taken up her residence at Weymouth to be near him. Karl, who knew not the place, or the rules observed, wondered whether a spectator might stroll about on the (so-called) island at will, or ever get a chance glimpse of the gangs at their labour.
In the month of October, Captain Andinnian--to call him by this title for a short while longer--went to Weymouth. He found his mother established in a small, mean, ready-furnished house in an obscure part of the town. It was necessary for him to see her on matters connected with the Foxwood estate, of which he had now the management; but she had charged him to come to her in as private a manner as he well could, and not to make himself or his name known at the station or elsewhere, unless under necessity. "She is right," thought Karl; "the name of Andinnian is notorious now." That was true; and he did not suppose she had any other motive for the injunction.
"But, my dear mother, why are youhere?" he asked within five minutes of his entrance, as he looked at the confined walls of the mean abode. "You might at least have been more comfortably and suitably lodged."
"What I choose to do, I do," she answered, in the distant tones of former days. "It is not for you to question me."
Mrs. Andinnian was altered. Mental suffering had told upon her. The once fresh hues of her complexion had given place to a fixed pallor; the large dark eyes had acquired a fierce and yet restless look. In manner alone was she unaltered, at least to Karl: and as to her pride, it seemed to be more dominant than ever.
"I was only thinking of your comfort, mother," he replied to her fierce rejoinder. "This is so different from what you have been accustomed to."
"Circumstances are different," she said curtly.
"Have you but one servant in the whole house? For everything?"
"She is enough for me: she is a faithful woman. I tell you that circumstances are not what they were."
"Someare not--unhappily," he answered. "But others, pecuniary ones, have changed the other way. You are rich now."
"And do you think I would touch a stiver of the riches that are my dear Adam's?" she retorted, her eyes blazing. "Save what may be necessary to keep up Foxwood, and to--to-- No," she resumed, after the abrupt breaking off, "I hoard them for him."
Karl wondered whether trouble had a little touched her brain. Poor Adam could have no further use for riches in this world. Unless, indeed, in years to come, he should obtain what was called a ticket of leave. But Karl fancied that in a case like Adam's--Condemnation commuted--it was never given.
Mrs. Andinnian began asking the details of the giving-up of her former home. In answering, Karl happened to mention incidentally the death of their neighbour, Mr. Turner, and his own interview with Rose. The latter's name excited Mrs. Andinnian beyond all precedent: it brought on one of those frightful fits of passion that Karl had not seen of late years.
"I loathe her," she wildly said. "But for her wicked machinations, my darling son had not fallen into this dreadful fate that is worse than death. May my worst curses light upon the head of Rose Turner!"
Karl did what he could to soothe the storm he had unwittingly evoked. He told his mother that she would never, in all probability, be grieved with the sight of the girl again, for she was removing to the out-of-the-world district of Cumberland.
The one servant, alluded to by Karl, was a silent-mannered, capable woman of some forty years. Her mistress called her "Ann," but Karl found she was a Mrs. Hopley, a married woman. That she appeared to be really attached to her mistress, to sympathise with her in her great misfortune, and to be solicitous to render her every little service that could soothe her, Captain Andinnian saw and felt grateful for.
"Where is your husband?" he one day inquired.
"Hopley's out getting his living, sir," was the answer. "We have had misfortunes, sir: and when they come to people such as us, we must do the best we can to meet them. Hopley's working on his side, and me on mine."
"He is not in Weymouth then?"
"No, he is not in Weymouth. We are not Weymouth people, sir. I don't know much about the place. I never lived at it till I came to Mrs. Andinnian."
By this, Karl presumed that his mother had brought Mrs. Hopley with her when she came herself: but he asked no further. It somewhat explained what he had rather wondered at--that his mother, usually so reticent, and more than ever so now, should have disclosed their great calamity to this woman. He thought the servant must have been already cognisant of it.
"What misfortune was it of your own that you allude to?" he gently asked.
"It was connected with our son, sir. I and my husband never had but him. He turned out wild. While he was quite a lad, so to say, he ruined us, and we had to break up the home."
"And where is he now?"
She put her check apron before her face to hide her emotion. "He is dead," was the low answer. "He died a dreadful death, sir, and I can't yet bear to talk of it. It's hardly three months ago."
Karl looked at the black ribbon in her cap, at the neatblack-and-white print gown she did her work in: and his heart went out to the woman's sorrow. He understood better now--she and her mistress had a grief in common. Later, he heard somewhat more of the particulars. Young Hopley, after bringing his parents to beggary, had plunged into crime; and then, to avoid being taken, had destroyed himself.
But, as the days went on, Karl Andinnian could not help remarking that there was an atmosphere of strangeness pervading the house: he could almost have said of mystery. Frequently were mistress and maid closeted together in close conference; the door locked upon them, the conversation carried on in whispers. Twice he saw Ann Hopley go out so be-cloaked and be-large-bonneted that it almost looked as though she were dressed for disguise. Karl thought it very strange.
One evening, when he was reading to his mother by candle-light, the front door was softly knocked at, and some one was admitted to the kitchen. In the small house, all sounds were plainly heard. A minute or two elapsed, and then Ann came in to say a visitor wished to speak to her mistress. While Karl was wondering at this--for his mother was entirely unknown in the place--Mrs. Andinnian rose without the least surprise, looked at her son, and hesitated.
"Will you step into another room, Karl' My interview must be private."
So! she had expected this visit. Captain Andinnian went into hisbedroom. He saw--for his curiosity was excited, and he did not quite close the door--a tall, big, burly man, much wrapped up, and who kept his hat on, walk up the passage to the sitting-zoom, lighted thither by Ann. It seemed to the captain as though the visitor wished his face not to be looked at. The interview lasted about twenty minutes. Ann then showed the man out again, and Karl returned to the parlour.
"Who was it, mother?"
"A person to see me on private business," replied Mrs. Andinnian, in a voice that effectually checked further inquiries.
The days passed monotonously. Mrs. Andinnian was generally buried in her own thoughts, scarcely ever speaking to him; and when she did speak, it was in a cold or snappish manner. "If she would but make a true son of me, and give me her confidence!" Karl often thought. But, to do anything of the kind was evidently not the purport of Mrs. Andinnian.
He one day went over to Portland Island. The wish to make the pilgrimage, and see what the place was like, had been in his mind from the first: but, in the midst of the wish, a dreadful distaste to it drew him back, and he had let the time elapse without going. October was in its third week, and the days were getting wintry.
It is a dreary spot--and it struck with a strange dreariness on Captain Andinnian's spirit. Storms, that seemed to fall lightly on other places, rage out their fury there. Half a gale was blowing that day, and he seemed to feel its roughness to the depth of his heart. The prospect around, with its heaving sea, romantic enough at some times, was all too wild to-day; the Race of Portland, that turbulent place which cannot be crossed by vessel, gave him a fit of the shivers. As to the few houses he saw, they were as poor as the one inhabited by his mother.
In one of the quarries, amidst its great masses of stone, Captain Andinnian halted, his eyes fixed on the foaming sea, his thoughts most bitter. Within a few yards of him, so to say, worked his unfortunate brother; chained, a felon; all his hopes in this world blighted; all his comforts in life gone out for ever. Karl himself was peculiarly susceptible to physical discomfort, as sensitive-natured men are apt to be; and he never thought without a shudder of what Adam had to undergo in this respect.
"Subjected to endless toil; to cruel deprivation; to isolation from all his kind!" groaned Karl aloud to the wild winds. "Oh, my brother, if----"
His voice died away in very astonishment. Emerging from behind one of the blocks, at right angles with him, but not very near, came two people walking side by side, evidently conversing in close whispers. In the cloaked-up woman, with the large black bonnet and black crape veil over her face, Karl was sure he saw their servant, Ann Hopley. The other must be, he thought, one of the warders: and, unless Karl was greatly mistaken, he recognised in his strong, burly frame the same man who had come a night or two before to his mother's house. They passed on without seeing him, but he saw the man's face distinctly.
A light dawned on his mind. His mother was striving to make a friend of this warder, with a view to conveying messages, perhaps also, it might be, physical comforts, to Adam: yes, that was undoubtedly the solution of the mystery. But why need she have hidden it from him, Karl?
When he got home that night--for he stayed out until he was tired and weary--Ann Hopley, in her usual home attire, was putting the tea-tray on the table.
"I fancied I saw Ann out to-day," he observed to his mother, when they were alone.
"She went out on an errand for me," replied Mrs. Andinnian.
"I have been over to the Island," continued Karl. "It was there I thought I saw her."
Mrs. Andinnian was pouring some cream into the tea-cups when he spoke. She put down the small frail glass jug with a force that smashed it, and the cream ran over the tea-board.
"You have been to the Island!" she cried in a voice that betrayed some dreadful terror. "To theIsland?"
Karl was rising to see what he could do towards repairing the mishap. The words arrested him. He had again been so unlucky as to raise one of her storms of passion: but this time he could see no reason in her anger: neither did he quite understand what excited it.
"To-day is the first time I have been to the Island, mother. I could not summon up the heart before."
"Howdaredyou go?"
"I am thinking of going again," he answered, believing her question to relate to physical bravery. "And of getting--if it be possible to obtain--permission to seehim."
The livid colour spreading itself over Mrs. Andinnian's face grew more livid. "I forbid it, Karl. I forbid it, do you hear? You would ruin everything, I forbid you to go again on the Island, or to attempt to see Adam. Good heavens! you might be recognised for his brother."
"And if I were?" cried Karl, feeling completely at sea.
Mrs. Andinnian sat with her two hands on the edge of the tea-tray, staring at him, in what looked like dire consternation.
"Karl, you must go away to-morrow. To think that you could be such a fool as to gothere!This is worse than all: it is most unfortunate. To-morrow you leave."
"Mother, why will you not place trust in me?" he asked, unable to fathom her. "Do you think you could have a truer confidant? or Adam a warmer friend? I guess the object of Ann's visits to the Island. I saw her talking with one of the warders to-day--the same man, or I fancied it, that came here the other night. That moment solved me the riddle, and----"
"Hush--sh--sh--sh!" breathed Mrs. Andinnian, in a terrified voice, ringing the bell, and looking round the walls of the room as if in dread that they had ears. "Not another word, Karl; I will not, dare not, hear it."
"As you please, mother," he rejoined, feeling bitterly hurt at her lack of trust.
"Have you more cream in the house, Ann?" said Mrs. Andinnian, calmly, when the woman appeared. "And you had better change the tray."
The meal was concluded in silence. Karl took up a newspaper he had brought in; Mrs. Andinnian at moodily gazing into the fire. And so the time went on.
Suddenly there arose the distant sound of guns, booming along on the still night air. To Captain Andinnian it suggested no ulterior thought; brought no cause for agitation: but his mother started up in wild commotion.
"The guns, Karl! the guns!"
"What guns are they?" he exclaimed, in surprise. "What are they firing for?"
She did not answer; she only stood still as a statue, her mouth slightly open with the intensity of listening, her finger lifted up. In the midst of this, Ann Hopley opened the door without sound, and looked in with a terror-stricken face.
"It's nothim, ma'am; don't you be afeared. It's some other convicts that are off; but it can't be him. The plan's not yet organized."
And Karl learnt that these were the guns from Portland Island, announcing the escape, or attempted escape, of some of its miserable prisoners.
Well for him if he had learned nothing else! The true and full meaning of what had been so mysterious flashed upon him now, like a sheet of lightning that lights up and reveals the secrets of the darkness. It was not Adam's comforts they were surreptitiously seeking to ameliorate; they were plotting for his escape.
His escape! As the truth took possession of Captain Andinnian, his face grew white with a sickening terror; his brow damp as with a death sweat.
For he knew that nearly all these attempted escapes result in utter failure. The unhappy, deluded victims are recaptured, or drowned, or shot. Sitting there in his shock of agony, his dazed eyes gazing out to the fire, a prevision that death in one shape or other would be his brother's fate, if he did make the rash venture, seated itself firmly within him, as surely and vividly as though he had seen it in some fortuneteller's magic crystal.
"Mother," he said, in a low tone, as he took her hand, and the door closed on Ann Hopley, "I understand it all now. I thought, simple that I was, that I had understood it before: and that you were but striving to find a way of conveying trifles in the shape of comforts to Adam. This is dreadful."
"What is the matter with you?" cried Mrs. Andinnian. "You look ready to die."
"The matter is, that this has shocked me. I pray Heaven that Adam will not be so foolhardy as to attempt to escape!"
"Andwhyshould he not?" blazed forth Mrs. Andinnian.
Karl shook his head. "In nine cases out of ten, the result is nothing but death."
"And the tenth case results in life, in liberty!" she rejoined, exultantly. "My brave son does well to try for it."
Karl hid his eyes. The first thought, in the midst of the many tumultuously crowding his brain, was the strangely different estimation different people set on things. Here was his mother glorying in that to-be-attempted escape as if it were some great deed dared by a great general:hesaw only its results. They could not be good; they must be evil. Allowing that Adam did escape and regain his liberty: what would the "liberty" be? A life of miserable concealment; of playing at hide-and-seek with the law; a world-wide apprehension, lying on him always, of being retaken. In short, a hunted man, who must not dare to approach the haunts of his fellows, and of whom every other man must be the enemy. To Karl the present life of degrading labour would be preferable to that.
"Do you wish to keep him there for life--that you may enjoy the benefit of his place at Foxwood and his money?" resumed Mrs. Andinnian, in a tone that she well knew how to make contemptuously bitter. The words stung Karl. His answer was full of pain: the pain of despair.
"I wish life had never been for him, mother. Or for me, either. If I could restore Adam to what he has forfeited by giving my own life, I would do it willingly. I have not much left to live for."
The tone struck Mrs. Andinnian. She thought that even the reflected disgrace, the stain on his name, scarcely justified it. Karl saida few words to her then of the blight that had fallen on his ownlife--the severance from Lucy Cleeve. She told him she was sorry: but it was quite evident that she was too much preoccupied with other things to care about it. And the sad evening passed on.
With the morning, Weymouth learnt the fate of the poor convict--it was only one--who had attempted to escape, after whom the guns were let loose like so many blood-hounds. He was retaken. It was a man who had attempted escape once before, and unsuccessfully.
"The plans were badly laid," calmly remarked Mrs. Andinnian.
She did not now insist upon Karl's quitting her: he knew all; and, though he could not approve, she knew he would not do anything to frustrate. The subject was not again brought up: Mrs. Andinnian avoided it: and some more days wore on. Karl fancied, but could not be sure, that the other attempt at escape caused the action of this to be delayed: perhaps entirely abandoned. His mother and Ann Hopley seemed to be always in secret conference, and twice again there came stealthily to the house at night the same warder, or the man whom Karl had taken for one.
On All Saints' Day, the first of November--and it was as bright a day for the festival as the saints, whether in that world or this, could wish--Captain Andinnian took leave of his mother, and went to London. His chief business there was to transact some business with the family lawyers, Plunkett and Plunkett. Their chambers were within the precincts of the Temple, and for convenience' sake he took up his quarters at the Charing Cross Hotel.
In the course of the afternoon, as he was turning out of Essex Street, having come through the little court from Plunkett and Plunkett's, he ran against a gentleman passing down the Strand. "I beg your pardon," Karl was beginning, and then became suddenly silent. It was Colonel Cleeve.
But, instead of passing on, as Karl might have expected him to do, the Colonel stopped and shook him cordially by the hand. To pass him would have jarred on every kindly instinct of Colonel Cleeve's nature. As to the affair with his daughter, he attached no importance to it now, believing it had made no permanent impression on Lucy, and had himself three-parts forgotten it.
"You have sold out, Captain Andinnian. I--I have been so very sorry for the sad causes that induced the step. Believe me, you have had all along my very best sympathy."
Karl hardly knew what he answered. A few words of murmured thanks; nothing more.
"You are not well," returned the Colonel, regarding the slender form that looked thinner than of yore, very thin in its black attire. "This has told upon you."
"It has; very much. There are some trials that can never be made light in this life," Karl continued, speaking the thoughts that were ever uppermost in his mind. "This is one of them. I thank you for your sympathy, Colonel Cleeve."
"And that's true, unfortunately," cried the Colonel, warmly, in answer. "You don't know how you are regretted at Winchester by your brother officers."
With another warm handshake, the Colonel passed on. Karl walked back to his hotel. In traversing one of its upper passages, a young lady came out of a sitting-room to cross to an opposite chamber. Captain Andinnian took a step back to let her pass in front of him; she turned her head, and they met face to face.
"Lucy!"
"Karl!"
The salutation broke from each before they well knew where they were or what had happened, amidst a rush of bewildering excitement, of wild joy. They had, no doubt, as in duty bound, been trying to forget each other; this moment of unexpected meeting proved to each how foolish was the fallacy. A dim idea made itself heard within either breast that they ought, in that duty alluded to, to pass on and linger not: but we all know how vain and weak is the human heart. It was not possible: and they stood, hand locked within hand.
Only for an instant. Lucy, looking very weak and ill, withdrew her hand, and leaned back against the doorpost for support. Karl stood before her.
"I have just met Colonel Cleeve," he said: "but I had no idea thatyouwere in London. Are you staying here?"
"Until to-morrow," she answered, her breath seeming to be a little short. "We came up yesterday. Papa chose this hotel, as it is convenient for the Folkestone trains. Mamma is here."
"Lucy, how very ill you look!"
"Yes. I had fever and ague in the summer, and do not get strong again. We are going to Paris for change. You do not look well either," added Lucy.
"I have not had fever: but I have had other things to try me," was his reply.
"Oh, Karl! I have been so grieved!" she earnestly said. "I did not know your brother, but I--I seemed to feel all the dreadful trouble as much as you must have felt it. When we are not strong, I think we do feel things."
"You call it by its right name, Lucy--adreadfultrouble. No one but myself can know what it has been to me."
They were gazing at each other yearningly: Lucy with her sweet brown eyes so full of tender compassion; Karl's grey-blue ones had a world of sorrowful regret in their depths. As she had done in their interview when they were parting, so she now did again--put out her hand to him, with a whisper meant to soothe.
"You will live it down, Karl."
He slightly shook his head: and took her hand to hold it between his.
"It is only since this happened that I have become at all reconciled to--to what had to be done at Winchester, Lucy. It would have been so greatly worse, had you been tied to me by--by any engagement."
"Not worse for you, Karl, but better. I should have helped you so much to bear it."
"My darling!"
The moment the words had crossed his lips, he remembered what honour and his long-ago-passed word to Colonel Cleeve demanded of him--that he should absolutely abstain from showing any tokens of affection for Lucy. Nay, to observe it strictly, he ought not to have stayed to talk with her.
"I beg your pardon, Lucy," he said, dropping her hand.
She understood quite well: a faint colour mantled in her pale face. She had been as forgetful as he.
"God bless you, Lucy," he whispered. "Farewell."
"O Karl--a moment," she implored with agitation, hardly knowing, in the pain of parting, what she said. "Just to tell you that I have not forgotten. I never shall forget. My regret, for what had to be, lies on me still."
"God bless you," he repeated, in deep emotion. "God bless and restore you, Lucy!"
Once more their fingers met in a brief handshake. And then they parted; he going one way, she the other; and the world had grown dim again.
Later in the day Karl heard it incidentally mentioned by some people in the coffee-room, that Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve with their daughter and two servants were going to make a prolonged stay on the Continent for the benefit of the young lady's health, who had been suffering from fever. Little did they think that the quiet, distinguished looking man in mourning, who had but come in to ask for some information, and was waiting while the waiter brought it, had more to do with the young lady's failing health than any fever.
Captain Andinnian took his breakfast next morning in private: as he sat down to it, the waiter brought him a newspaper. While listlessly unfolding it, he took the opportunity to ask a question.
"Have Colonel Cleeve and his family left the hotel?"
"Yes, sir. Just gone off for Folkestone. Broiled ham, sir; eggs; steak with mushrooms," continued the man, removing sundry covers.
"Thank you. You need not wait."
But--ere the man had well closed the door, a startled sound like a groan of agony burst from Karl's lips. He sprung from his seat at a bound, his eyes riveted on the newspaper in one stare of disbelieving horror. The paragraph had a heading in the largest letters--
"ATTEMPTED ESCAPE FROM PORTLAND ISLAND. DEATH OF THE PRISONER, SIR ADAM ANDINNIAN."
Karl let the newspaper fall, and buried his face on the table-cloth to shut out the light. He had not courage to read more at once. He lay there praying that it might not be true.
Alas! it was too true. Two prisoners had attempted to escape in concert; Sir Adam Andinnian and a man named Cole. They succeeded in reaching the water, and got off in a small boat lying ready in wait. Some warders pursued them in another boat; and, after an exciting chase in the dark night, came up with them as they reached the Weymouth side. Sir Adam was shot dead by a pistol; the small boat was upset, and one of the warders drowned. Cole was supposed to have made his escape.
Such was the statement given in the newspapers. And, however uncertain the minor details might be at this early stage, one part appeared to admit of no doubt--Adam Andinnian was dead.
"I seemed to foresee it," moaned Karl. "From the very first, the persuasion has lain upon me that this would be the ending."
Ere many minutes elapsed, ere he had attempted to touch a morsel of breakfast, a gentleman was shown in. It was Mr. Plunkett: a stout man in spectacles, with a large red nose. He had theTimesin his hand. Captain Andinnian's paper lay open on the breakfast table; Captain Andinnian's face, as he rose to receive his visitor, betrayed its own story.
"I see; you have read the tidings," began Mr. Plunkett, sitting down. "It is a dreadful thing."
"Do--do you think there's any chance that it may not be true?" he rejoined in an imploring tone.
"There's not the slightest as to the main fact--that Sir Adam is dead," replied the lawyer decisively. "Whatcouldhe have been thinking of, to hazard it?"
Karl sat shading his face.
"I'll tell you what it is, sir--there was a spice of madness in your brother's composition, I said so when he shot Scott. There must have been. And who, but a madman, would try to get away from Portland Island?"
"Nay. A rash act, Mr. Plunkett; but not one that implies madness."
There ensued a silence. These interviews are usually attended by embarrassment.
"I have intruded on you this morning to express my best sympathy, and to ask whether I can be of any service to you, Captain Andinnian," resumed the lawyer. "I beg your pardon: Sir Karl, I ought to say."
Karl had raised his head in resentment--in defiance. It caused the lawyer's break.
"Nay, but you are Sir Karl, sir. You succeed to your brother."
"The reminder grated on me, Mr. Plunkett."
"The title's yours and the estates are yours. Every earthly thing is yours."
"Yes, yes; I suppose so."
"Well, if we can do anything for you, Sir Karl, downthere"--indicating with a nod of his head the direction in which Portland Island might be supposed to lie--"or at Foxwood, you have only to send to us. I hope you understand that I am not speaking now with a view to business, but as a friend," concluded Mr. Plunkett. "I'll say no more now, for I see you are not yourself."
"Indeed I am not," replied Karl. "I thank you all the same. As soon as I can I must get down to my mother."
The lawyer said good morning, and left him to his breakfast. But Karl had no appetite: then, or for many a day to come. Calling for his bill, he took his departure.
Never had Karl imagined distress and anguish so great as that which he witnessed on his arrival at Weymouth. For once all his mother's pride of power had deserted her. She flung herself at the feet of Karl, demandingwhyhe did not persist in his objection to the contemplated attempt, and interfere openly, even by declaring all to the governor of Portland prison, and so save his brother. It was altogether too distressing for Karl to bear.
The first account was in the main correct. Adam Andinnian and the warder were both dead: the one shot, the other drowned.
It was understood that the body might be given up to them for burial. Though whether this was a special favour, accorded to the entreaties of Mrs. Andinnian, or a not-unusual one, Karl knew not. He was glad of this, so far: but he would have thought it better that the place of interment should be Weymouth, and the ceremony made one of the utmost privacy. Mrs. Andinnian, however, ruled otherwise. She would have her unfortunate son taken to Foxwood, and she at once despatched Karl thither to make arrangements.
On the day but one after Karl reached Foxwood, all that remained of poor Sir Adam arrived. Mrs. Andinnian came in company. She could not bear to part even with the dead.
"I wish I could have been him," remarked Karl sadly, as he stood with his hand on the coffin.
"I have seen him, Karl," she answered amid her blinding tears. "They suffered me to look at him. His face was peaceful."
They, and they only, saving Hewitt, attended the funeral. He was buried in the family vault, in Foxwood churchyard, side by side with Sir Joseph and Lady Andinnian.
What an ending, for a young man who, but a few short months before, had been full of health and hope and life!
But the world, in its cold charity; said it was better so.
New Year's Day. Or, as the French more emphatically term it, the Jour de l'An. Gay groups went strolling along the Boulevards in the glowing sunshine, gazing at the costly étrennes displayed in the tempting shops: women glancing at the perfect attire of other women that passed; men doffing their hats so perpetually that it almost seemed they might as well have kept them off altogether; children in their fantastic costumes chattering to their mothers, and turning their little heads on all sides: all, men, women, and children, apparently free from every care, save that of pleasure, which constitutes so observable a feature in Parisian life.
Amidst the crowd, passing onwards with a listless step, as if pleasure had no part in his heart and he had no use for étrennes, was a solitary individual: a distinguished looking man of pleasing features and altogether refined face, whom few of the traversers could have mistaken for aught but an Englishman. His mourning apparel and a certain air of sadness that pervaded his face seemed to be in unison. Several women--ingrained coquettes from their birth, as French women nearly always are born to be--threw glances of admiration at the handsome man, in spite of the fact that their husbands--for that one day--were at their side; and wondered what near relative he had lost. But the gentleman passed on his listless way, seeing them not, and utterly unconscious that any answering glances from his own eyes were coveted. It was Sir Karl Andinnian.
Close upon the burial of his ill-fated brother Adam, Mrs. Andinnian, prostrate with grief and trouble, took to confine herself to her own apartment at Foxwood Court: for it was at that residence she thenceforth took up her abode. Karl found himself nearly altogether excluded from her presence. Even at meals she declined to join him, and caused them to be served for herself apart. "Do you wish me away from Foxwood?" Karl one day asked her. "I do; I would be entirely alone," was her reply. "I am aware that Foxwood is yours now, Karl, and you may think I have no right even to express a hint that you might for a time leave it; but I feel that the chance of my regaining strength and spirits would be greater if left entirely to myself: your presence here is a strain upon me."
The answer was to Karl welcome as sunshine in harvest. He had been longing to travel; to try and find some relief from his thoughts in hitherto untrodden scenes: consideration for his mother--the consciousness that it would be wrong both in duty and affectionto leave her--had alone prevented his proposing it. Withinfour-and-twenty hours after this he had quitted Foxwood.
But Karl was not so soon to quit England. Various matters had to be settled in regard to the estate; and when he reached London his lawyers, Plunkett and Plunkett, said they should want him for a little while. The crime committed by Sir Adam so immediately upon the death of Sir Joseph, had caused a vast deal of necessary business to remain in abeyance. Certain indispensable law proceedings to be gone through, had to be gone through now. So Karl Andinnian perforce took up his temporary abode in London; and at the end of a week or two, when he found himself at liberty, he crossed over the water, Vienna being his first halting place. The sojourn there of a former brother officer, Captain Lamprey, who had been Karl's chiefest friend and stuck to him in his misfortunes, induced it. Captain Lamprey was staying in Vienna with his newly married wife, and he wrote to ask Karl to join them. Karl did so. Captain Lamprey's term of leave expired the end of December. He and his wife were going home to spend the Christmas, and Karl accompanied them as far as Paris. Mrs. Andinnian, in answer to a question from Karl, whether she would like him to return to her for Christmas, had written back to him a resolute and ungracious No.
So here he was, in Paris. It was all the same to him; thisresting-place or that resting-place. His life had been blighted in more ways than one. Of Lucy Cleeve he thought still a great deal too much for his peace. She was far enough removed from him in all senses of the word. In a letter received by Captain Lamprey from some friends at Winchester, it was stated that the Cleeves were wintering in Egypt. Where Karl's own place of sojourn was next to be, he had not decided, but his thoughts rather turned towards every chief continental city that was famed for its gallery of paintings. He thought he would make a pilgrimage to all of them. Karl had the eye of a true artist: to gaze at good paintings was now the only pleasure of his life. He had not yet anything like done with those in Paris and Versailles.
On, upon his course along the Boulevards, passed he. Now and again his eyes turned towards the lovely étrennes with a longing: once in a way, when the throngs allowed him, he halted to look and admire: a longing to buy étrennes himself, and that he had some one to give them to when bought. It was not well possible for any body to feel more completely isolated from the happy world than did Karl Andinnian.
"How d'ye do, Sir Karl? Charming day for the holiday, is it not!"
Sir Karl made some answering assent, raised his hat, bowed, and passed on. The remark had come from an Englishman with whom he had a slight acquaintance, who had come out shop-gazing with his flock of daughters.
He went straight home then to his hotel--Hotel Montaigne, Rue Montaigne. As he crossed the courtyard, the landlord--a ponderous gentleman with a ponderous watch-chain--came out and gave him some letters. From some cause the English delivery had been late that morning.
One of the letters was from Captain Lamprey, the other from Plunkett and Plunkett. Neither contained any interest; neither thought to wish him happiness for the New Year. It was all the same to Karl Andinnian: the New Year could not have much happiness in store for him.
He strolled out again, turning his steps towards the Champs Elysées. It was but one o'clock yet, and the brightest part of the day. At one of the windows of the palace he fancied he caught a transient glimpse of the Empress. Shortly afterwards, the peculiar clatter of the Prince Imperial's escort was heard advancing, surrounding the little prince in his carriage.
The Champs Elysées were bright to-day. Children attired in silks and satins were playing in the sun, their bonnes sitting by in their holiday costume. New Year's Day and All Saints' Day are the two most dressy epochs in the year in France--as everybody knows. Invalids sat in the warmth: ladies flitted hither and thither like gay butterflies. By a mere chance, Karl always thought it so, his eyes fell on two ladies seated alone on a distant bench. Involuntarily his steps halted; his heart leaped up with a joyous bound. They were Mrs. and Miss Cleeve.
But, ah how ill she looked--Lucy. The bounding heart fell again as though some dead weight were pressing it. Thin, worn, white; with dark circles round the eyes, and lips that seemed to have no life in them. For a moment Karl wondered whether he might not approach and question her: but he remembered his bargain with Colonel Cleeve.
They did not see him: they were looking at some children in front of them; playing at "Marlborough s'en va-t-en guerre." Karl pursued the path he was on, which would carry him away from their bench at right angles. He resolved that if they saw him he would go up and speak: if they did not, he must continue his way.
And he had to continue it. Mrs. Cleeve, Who did not look to be in strong health either, seemed absorbed by the play and the childish voices chanting the chanson; Lucy had now bent her forehead upon her hand, as though some ache were there. Karl went on, out of sight, his brow aching too.
"Bon jour, monsieur."
The salutation, which had a touch of surprised pleasure in its tone, came from a natty-looking little Frenchwoman, with a thin red face and shrewd grey eyes. She might have been given five-and-thirty years: but in the register of her nativeMairieshe would have been found hard upon forty. Sir Karl stopped. She was Lucy's maid: formerly Lucy's nurse.
"C'est vous, Aglaé!"
"Mais oui, monsieur."
"I thought I saw Mrs. and Miss Cleeve sitting on a bench just now," continued Karl; changing his language. "Are you staying in Paris?"
"Oh, very long since," replied Aglaé, to whom both languages were nearly alike. "Our apartment is close by, sir--a small house in the Avenue d'Antin. The delight to find myself in my proper land again, where I can go about without one of those vilain bonnets and hear no street gamins hoot at me for it, is untellable."
"I understood that Colonel Cleeve and his family had gone to Egypt for the winter," observed Karl.
"To Egypt, or to some other place of barbarisme: so it was projected, sir. But my young lady, Miss Lucy, is not strong enough to be taken."
"What is the matter with her?" asked Karl, with assumed quietness.
"The matter? Oh! The matter is, that she has got no happiness left in her heart, sir," cried Aglaé, explosively, as if in deep resentment against things in general. "It's dried up. And if they don't mind, she will just go unwarningly out of life. That's my opinion: and, mind, sir, I do not go to say it without reason."
A slight blush mantled in Karl's face. He seemed to be watching a red paper kite, that was sailing beneath the blue sky.
"They see it now, both of them; the Colonel and Madame; they see that she's just slipping away from them, andtheyare ill. Ah but! the senseless--what you call it--distinctions--that the English set up!"
"But what is the cause?" asked Karl. Though it seemed to him that he could discern quite well without being answered.
Aglaé threw her shrewd eyes into his.
"I think, sir, you might tell it for yourself, that. She has not been well since that fever. She was not well before the fever, since--since about the month of May."
He drew in his lips. Aglaé, with native independence, continued to stare at him.
"Why don't you call and see her, sir?"
"Because--well, I suppose you know, Aglaé. I should not be welcome to Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve."
"And the poor young lady, who never did harm to living soul, is to be let shrink down into her grave for the sake of English prejudice!Ican see. I've got my wits about me, and have seen it all along. My service to you, sir. Bon jour."
The maid went on in a rage, her dainty cap nodding, her smart boots going down rather more noisily than was needful. Sir Karl passed on his way, thinking deeply. He walked about until the daylight was fading, and then strode back rapidly to his hotel, with the air of a man who is about to carry out some resolution that will not wait.Hewas. A resolution that had been floating in his mind before he' saw Lucy or encountered her maid.
Colonel Cleeve was seated alone that evening in his dining-room in the Avenue d'Antin, when a letter was delivered to him. For a few minutes he let it lie unheeded. The thoughts he was buried in were verysad ones--they ran on the decaying strength of his only daughter. It seemed to him and Mrs. Cleeve that unless some wonderful change--say a miracle, for instance--interposed, Lucy's life was not worth many weeks' purchase. They knew now--he and his wife--that the parting with Karl Andinnian had been too cruel for her.
Arousing himself from his gloomy visions, the Colonel opened thenote--which had been left by hand. Why here was a strange thing!--he started in surprise. Started when he saw the contents of the letter and the signature appended. Had the miracle come?
It was one of the plain, candid, straightforward letters, so characteristic of Karl Andinnian. He said that he had chanced to see Miss Cleeve that day, that he had been shocked by her appearance; that he had happened to hear from Aglaé subsequently how very alarmingly she was failing. He went on to add with shrinking deprecation, every word of which told of the most sensitive refinement, that he feared the trouble of last May might have had something to do with it, and be still telling upon her. He then put a statement of his affairs, as to possessions and income, before Colonel Cleeve, and asked whether he might presume again to address Lucy now that he could offer a good settlement and make her Lady Andinnian.
Three times over Colonel Cleeve read the note, pausing well to reflect between each time. Then he sent for his wife.
"He is of no family--and there's that dreadful slur upon it besides," remarked the Colonel, talking it over. "But it may be the saving of Lucy's life."
"It is a good letter," said Mrs. Cleeve, reading it through hereye-glass.
"It's as good and proper a letter as any young man could write. All his instincts are honourable. Some men might have written to Lucy herself. Putting aside his lack of family and the other disrepute, we could not wish a better son-in-law than Sir Karl Andinnian."
"Yes," deliberated Mrs. Cleeve, after a pause. "True. The disadvantages are great: but they seem little when balanced against the chance of restoring Lucy's life. She will be a baronet's wife; she will be sufficiently rich; and--I think--she will be intensely happy."
"Then I'll send for him," said Colonel Cleeve.
The interview took place on the following morning. It was a peculiar one. Just as plainly open as Karl had been in his letter, so was the Colonel now.
"I think it may be the one chance for saving my child's life," he said; "for there is no denying that she was very much attached to you, Sir Karl. Sitting alone after dinner last evening, I was telling myself that nothing short of a miracle could help her: the doctors say they can do nothing, the malady is on her mind--though for my part I think the chief ill is the weakness left by that ague-fever. Your letter came to interrupt my thoughts; and when I read it I wondered whether that was the miracle."
"If you will only give me Lucy, my whole life shall be devoted to her best comfort, sir," he said in a low tone. "My happiness was wrecked equally with hers: but I am a man and therefore stronger to bear."
"Nothing would have induced me to give her to you had your brother lived," resumed the Colonel. "If I am too plain in what I say I must beg you to excuse it: but it is well that we should understand each other thoroughly. Yourself I like; I always have liked you; but the disgrace reflected upon you was so great while your brother was living, a convict, that to see Lucy your wife then would I think have killed both me and Mrs. Cleeve. Take it at the best, it would have embittered our lives for ever."
"Had my unfortunate brother lived, I should never have attempted to ask for her, Colonel Cleeve."
"Right. I have observed that on most subjects your ideas coincide with my own. Rather than that--the disgrace to her and to us; and grievous though the affliction it would have brought to me and her mother--we would rather have laid our child to rest."
The deep emotion with which Colonel Cleeve spoke--the generallyself-contained man whose calmness almost bordered upon apathy--proved how true the words were, and how terribly the sense of disgrace would have told upon him.
"But your unhappy brother has paid the forfeit of his crimes by death," he continued, "and it is to be hoped and expected that in time the remembrance of him and of what he did will die out of people's minds. Therefore we have resolved to trust to this hope, and give you Lucy. It will be better than to let her die." Sir Karl Andinnian drew in his slender lips. But that he had passed through a course of most bitter humiliation--andthat, wherever it falls, seems for the time to wash out pride--he might have shown resentment at the last words. The Colonel saw he felt the sting: and he wished it had not been his province to inflict it.
"It was best to explain this, Sir Karl. Pardon me for its sound of harshness. And now that it is over and done with, let me say that never for a moment have I or Mrs. Cleeve blamed you. It was not your fault that your brother lost himself; neither could you have helped it: and we have both felt almost as sorry for you as though you had been a relative of our own. I beg that henceforth his name may never be mentioned between you and us: the past, so far as regards him, must be as though it had never been. You will observe this reticence?"
"Unquestionably."
"The affair is settled then, Andinnian. Will you see Lucy?"
"If I may," replied Karl, a bright smile succeeding to the sadness on his face. "Does she know I am here?"
"She knows nothing. Her mother thought it might be better that I should speak to you first. You can tell her all yourself. But mind you do it quietly, for she is very weak."
Lucy happened to be alone in, the salon. She sat in a red velvetarm-chair as big as a canopy, looking at the pretty étrenne her mother had given her the previous day--a bracelet of links studded with turquoise and a drooping turquoise heart. A smile of gratitude parted her lips; though tears stood in her eyes, for she believed she should not live to wear it long.
"Lucy," said her father, looking in as he opened the door. "I-have brought you a visitor who has called--Sir Karl Andinnian."
Lucy rose in trembling astonishment; the morocco case, which had been on her lap, falling to the ground. She wore a dress of violet silk, and Aglaé had folded about her a white shawl--for chillness was present with her still. Karl advanced, and the Colonel shut them in together.
He took both her hands in his, slipping the bracelet on to her attenuated wrist,--and quietly held them. The poor wan face and the hectic colour his presence had called up, had all his attention just then.
"I saw you in the Champs Elysées yesterday, Lucy. It pained me very much to see you so much changed."
"Did you see me? I was there with mamma. It is the fever I had in the summer that hangs about me and does not let me yet get strong."
"Is itnothingelse, Lucy?"
The hectic deepened to crimson. The soft brown eyes drooped beneath the gaze of his.
"I fancied there might be another cause for it, Lucy, and I have ventured to say so to Colonel Cleeve. He agrees with me."
"You--you were not afraid to call here!" she exclaimed, as if the fact were a subject of wonder.
"What I had to say to Colonel Cleeve I wrote by letter. After that, he invited me to call."
Karl sat down on the red sofa opposite the chair, and put Lucy by him, his arm entwining her waist. "I want you," he said, "to tell me exactly what it is that keeps you from getting strong, Lucy."
"But I cannot tell you, for I don't know," she answered with a little sob. "I wish I could get well, Karl--for poor papa and mamma's sake."
"Do you think I could do anything towards the restoration, Lucy?" he continued, drawing her closer to his side.
"What could you do?"
"Watch you, and tend you, and love you. And--and make you my wife."
"Don't jest, Karl," she said, whispering and trembling. "You know it may not be."
"But if Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve say that it may be?"
The tone of his voice was redolent of anything but jesting: it was one of deep truthful emotion. Lucy looked questioningly up at him.
"Oh Karl, don't play with me! What do you mean?"
He caught the sweet face, and held it to his. His own hands were trembling, his race was pale as hers. But she could not mistake his grave earnestness.
"It means, my darling, that you are to be mine for ever. My wife. They are going to give you to me: your father brought me here that I might myself break it to you."
A minute's doubting look; a slight shiver as if the joy were too great; and then with a sigh she let her head fall on his breast--its future resting-place.
"And what's this that you were looking at, Lucy?" he asked after a while, turning the pretty bracelet round and round her wrist.
"Mamma bought it me yesterday for my New Year's étrenne. I was thinking--before you came--that I might not live to wear it."
"I was thinking yesterday, Lucy, as I walked along the Boulevards, that I would give a great deal to have some one to buy étrennes for. It is not too late, is it? Meanwhile----"
Breaking off his sentence, he took a very rare ring from his finger, one of the most brilliant of opals encompassed by diamonds. She had never seen him wear it before.
"Oh, how very beautiful!" she exclaimed, as it flashed in a gleam of reflected sunlight.
"I do not give it you, Lucy," he said, putting it upon her finger. "I lend it you until I can find another fit to replace it. That may be in a day, or so. This ring was my father's: made a present of to him by an Eastern Sultan, to whom he was able to render an essential service. At my father's death it came to my brother: and--later--to me."
Karl's voice dropped as he was concluding. Lucy Cleeve felt for him; she knew whathemust feel at the allusion. She glided her hand into his, unsought.
"So until then this ring shall be the earnest of our betrothal, Lucy. You will take care of it: and of my love."
The ring was the same that had been seen on Sir Adam's finger at the trial. On that same day, after his condemnation, he had taken it off, and caused it to be conveyed to Karl--his, from henceforth. But Karl had never put it on his own finger until after his brother's death.