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https://books.google.com/books?id=rSgNAAAAYAAJ
(Harvard University)
THE DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE.
THE
DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE.
A Novel.
BY
B. L. FARJEON,
AUTHOR OF
"GREAT PORTER SQUARE," "DEVLIN THE BARBER,"
"GRIF," "THE SACRED NUGGET," &c., &c.
_SECOND EDITION_.
LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & CO.,
31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1893.
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO. LIMITED, GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS,
AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
CONTENTS.
The Prologue.
Part The First.--Spring
Part The Second.--Summer
Part The Third.--Autumn
Part The Fourth.--Winter
----------
Part The First.--The Child
Part The Second.--The Woman
THE DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE,
THE
DUCHESS OF ROSEMARY LANE.
The Prologue.
"We see
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose;
And on old Hymen's chin and icy crown
An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
Is, as in mockery, set."
PART THE FIRST.
SPRING.
It is a lovely morning in April. The last drops of a radiant shower
have fallen, and Nature is smiling through her tears, as might a happy
maiden in the sparkling face of her lover, who, suddenly and
unexpectedly, has brought her joyful tidings. The titlark and the
whitethroat, and other feathered visitors of spring, are flying hither
and thither in glad delight, singing their blithest songs, and
carrying rays of sunlight on their wings to illumine the summer nests
which they are building. Joyously busy are these graceful citizens of
the woods, and proud of their work; they chirp, and twitter, and
exchange glad greetings, as they fly hither and thither, and when they
rest from their labour of love on the sprays of the common beech, they
seem to be sitting in bell-shaped thrones of emerald, while the dew
upon the flowers of the silver birch glitters like drops of molten
gold in the eye of the sun.
Surrounded by these and myriad other evidences of spring, stands a
fair and beautiful girl, herself in the spring of life. The name of
the place is appropriate to her and to the season. Springfield is an
enclosed park of forty acres, the beauties of which are jealously
hidden from vulgar gaze. It is the most picturesque portion of an
important estate, at present in the possession of Lady Josephine
Temple, who lies sick in the quaint old house yonder, built in the
Elizabethan style, the designs for which are said to have been
prepared by John of Padua. But John of Padua and all the historical
associations of the house are as dead letters to Lady Temple, who has
sufficient food for contemplation in her own immediate affairs and
condition. The blinds of the room in which she lies are drawn down for
the express purpose of shutting out the day, in accordance with the
ancient formula, which provided that the sick should be depressed and
weakened by dim light and silence, instead of cheered and strengthened
by sunlight and cheerfulness.
To beautiful Nelly Marston, as she stands by the quaint old windows in
the laughing sunlight, with diamond drops of rain glistening in her
bonny brown hair, and on her lashes,--
"The April in her eyes; it is love's spring,
And these the showers to bring it on,"--
to her comes, with a bashful air upon him, the son of the head
gardener of Springfield, a young man of twenty-five or thereabouts,
fairly handsome, fairly well-made, and, through the long services of
his father, fairly well-to-do in the world. He has in his hand some
loose flowers, and a small bouquet of lilies of the valley, arranged
in good taste, and looking, with their white petals and their
background of exquisitely green leaves, like turrets of ivory carved
out one above another, built up on emerald mountains. The young man,
with a world of admiration expressed in his manner, holds out the
lilies to Miss Nelly Marston, with a shyness that would have been
comical in one so strong had his earnestness allowed scope for any
quality less strong than itself.
"May I offer you these, miss?"
As though he were offering her his heart, which, indeed, he was ready
and eager to do, but lacked the courage.
"Thank you, John," she says, turning the flowers this way and that,
with as dainty a coquetting with man and flower--though she does not
look at _him_--as well could be. Then she selects two or three of the
lilies, and places them in her brown hair, where they rest like white
doves in an autumn forest. John's heart is full as he sees his flowers
thus disposed. Nelly, then, inhales the fresh air, demonstratively, as
though it were nectar. "What a lovely morning! And yet it was blowing
last night, almost like winter."
"Ah, you heard the wind, miss," responds the young gardener, delighted
at the opportunity of exchanging a few words with the girl who had but
lately come to Springfield, and who had taken his heart captive the
moment his eyes rested on her fair face. A thrill actually runs
through his foolish heart at the thought that he and she were awake at
the same moment listening to the wind. "It is a good sign, miss, for
harvest."
"I have heard you are weather-wise, John," says Nelly Marston, with a
little laugh sweeter to the young fellow than the sweetest chime of
bells, or the sweetest music of birds. "Harvest-time is far off. In
what way is it a good sign?"
"When April blows his horn, it's good for hay and corn. An old saying,
miss."
"As old, I dare say, as that April showers make May flowers." (Nelly
Marston is almost as pleased as the young gardener himself at the
opportunity for conversation. She finds Springfield very dull. Every
soul in it, with the exception of the mistress, is a servant, and Lady
Temple, a childless widow, is not remarkable for cheerfulness or
lively manners. There is no one at Springfield with whom the girl can
associate.) "These lilies are very, very pretty, John! What is that
flower you have in your hand, that one with the spotted leaves?"
"This, miss? It isn't very handsome, but I can't resist picking a bit
when I first catch sight of it in the spring hedges, because it
reminds me of the time when I was a little un, and when me and the
others used to play at lords-and-ladies with it. It's almost a
medicine flower, too, miss, the cuckoo-pint."
"The cuckoo-pint! Is lords-and-ladies another name for it?"
"Not a proper name, miss, but that's what we used to call it. It's
come down to us in that way."
"And the cuckoo flower, too! I have heard of the cuckoo flower, of
course, but never of the cuckoo-pint. Lords-and-ladies! Give it to me,
John, will you?"
"With pleasure, miss," answers the delighted and palpitating John.
"I'll pick you a bunch of them, if you like, miss."
"Yes, do! But--I am a very curious person, John, always wanting to
know things--_why_ is it called lords-and-ladies?"
"I don't exactly know, miss, except, perhaps, that it changes more
than any other flower."
"And lords-and-ladies do that?"
"It isn't for me to say, miss. I only repeat what I have heard.
There's other names for it. If you'll allow me, miss." John's nerves
tingle as he takes the flower from the girl's hand, and in doing so,
touches her fingers. The contact of her soft flesh with his is a
concentrated bliss to him, and sets his sensitive soul on fire. "You
see, I pull down this hood"--(he suits the action to the word, and
turns down the outer leaf)--"and here's the Parson in his Pulpit. You
might fancy 'twas something like it, miss."
"You must not make fun of parsons, John. My father was one."
John, who is a staunch church-goer, and by no means irreverently
inclined, is instantly imbued with a deeper reverence than ever for
parsons, and says apologetically,
"Tis not making fun of them, miss, to liken them to flowers. If I was
to liken them to medicine bottles, now, with the white labels tied
round their necks, 'twould be different; but I wouldn't go so far as
that."
Nelly Marston laughs, the likeness of medicine bottles to the clergy
is so clearly apparent.
"It is a long stretch either way, John. I must go in now. Don't forget
to pick me a bunch of lords-and-ladies!"
"I'll not forget, miss."
The happy young gardener touches his cap, and walks away with a blithe
heart, to search at once among the hedges for this particular species
of the arum. Be sure that none but the very finest specimens will meet
with his approval. From this day forth the cuckoo-pint holds a
curiously-tender place in his memory, and the season
"When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks, all silver-white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight,"
never comes round without bringing with it a vision of himself and a
fair and beautiful girl by the old house at Springfield, she with
white lilies and cuckoo flowers in her hands, and he standing before
her, with a heart pulsing with love and adoration.
Nelly Marston would have stopped a longer time conversing with him,
had she not seen a maid approaching her from the house to summon her
to Lady Temple's room.
"I have been waiting for you, Miss Marston," says the sick lady, in a
peevish tone, as the girl enters, "and wondering where you were. What
have you in your hand? Flowers! Send them away. You know I am
expressly forbidden to have flowers about me. Stay. What are they?
Don't bring them too close."
"Only a few lilies of the valley, Lady Temple, that the gardener's son
gave me."
"And you have some in your hair, too--that the gardener's son gave
you! And those other flowers, the yellow ones?"
"This is the cuckoo flower--the cuckoo pint, rather. Lords-and-ladies,
he called it."
"And that's why you choose it, I suppose. So you have been gossiping
with the gardener's son! You are like your mother, I am afraid."
"My mother, Lady Temple," says the girl proudly, straightening her
slight figure, "during her lifetime, always spoke of you with respect
and affection. I shall be glad if you will explain the meaning of your
words--if they have a meaning."
"There, there, don't worry me, Miss Marston. I am not strong enough
for scenes. It seems to be a bright morning."
"It is very fresh and lovely out of doors. Spring is come in real
earnest. The apple-blossoms look beautiful----"
"And I lie here," interrupts Lady Temple querulously, "shut out from
it all, shut out from it all! I have never had any happiness in my
life, never! Shall I never rise from this horrible bed?" She gazes at
Nelly Marston, envious of the girl's youth and brightness. "I suppose,
Miss Marston, if you were mistress of this house and grounds, you
think you could be very happy?"
"I think so, Lady Temple. I should not require much else."
"You would!" cried Lady Temple, fiercely. "One thing. Love! That is
what your mother sacrificed herself for, the fool!"
"Why speak of her in that way," asks the girl, in a quiet tone, but
with a bright colour in her face which shows how deeply she resents
the words of her mistress, "before her daughter? She was your friend,
remember. You say you have never had happiness in your life. I am
sorry for you, and I am glad to think that my mother had much."
"There, there! Be still. Your mother was a good creature, and no one's
enemy but her own. What are those shadows on the blind?"
"Swallows, Lady Temple. I lay awake for a long time this morning,
watching them. They are building nests just outside my window."
"Never mind them," says Lady Temple, fretfully. "Listen to me, Miss
Marston. I am not quite alone in the world. I have relatives who love
me very much just now--oh, yes, very much just now, when they think I
have not long to live! But only one shall darken my doors. My nephew,
Mr. Temple, will be here in a few days; you must see that his rooms
are ready for him when he arrives. Give me his letter. There it is, on
my dressing-table. What have you dropped? What are you looking at?"
"A portrait, Lady Temple. It slipped from the envelope. Is it Mr.
Temple's picture?"
"Yes, yes; give it to me. It is a handsome face, is it not, Miss
Marston? Now sit down, and do not annoy me any longer. When I am
asleep, go softly, and see to Mr. Temple's rooms. _He_ will have this
house when I am gone, if he does not thwart me. But I will take
care--I will take care----"
The sentence is not finished, and there is silence in the sick room.
Lady Temple dozes, and Nelly Marston sits quietly by the window,
stealthily raising a corner of the blind now and then, to catch a
glimpse of the sun and the beautiful grounds upon which it shines.
PART THE SECOND.
SUMMER.
The moon shines on a rippling brook in Springfield, and the summer
flowers are sleeping. But even in sleep the foxglove lights up the
underwood, and the clover retains the sunset's crimson fire. It is a
beautiful and peaceful night; an odorous stillness is in the air, and
"the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold."
The shadows of gently-undulating branches and the delicate traceries
of the feather-grass--so subtly sensitive that in the stillest night
its bells are tremulous; mayhap in response to fairy whisperings--are
reflected in the stream which reflects also the shadow of Nelly
Marston, who is bending low to look at her fair face in the depths
made luminous by stars. As with sparkling eyes she stoops lower and
lower in half-sportive, half-earnest admiration of herself, her face
rises in the water to greet her, until the smiling lips of flesh
almost kiss their shadow.
As she gazes, another shadow bends over hers, blotting the fairer
vision, and a strong arm is thrown around her waist.
"Why, Nelly--Miss Marston! Are you about to play Ophelia in my aunt's
pretty brook?"
The girl starts to her feet, and swiftly releases herself from his
embrace. Not far from them, but unseen by either, stands the
gardener's son, watching them. _Their_ breasts are stirred by emotions
which bring an agitated pleasure to them; _his_ is stirred by darker
passions.
"I was simply," replies Nelly, with burning blushes in her face,
"bending over the water to--to----"
And pauses for lack of words.
Mr. Temple assists her.
"To look at your pretty face, or perhaps to kiss yourself, as a spirit
might. Labour thrown away, Miss Marston, and most certainly
unprofitable, if what the poet says is true:
"Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss."
Nelly Marston regains her composure.
"We did not expect you to-night, Mr. Temple."
"Then I should be all the more welcome," he answers gaily. "I am
starving, Nelly----"
She checks him by a look.
"I beg your pardon. Miss Nelly Marston, I am starving with hunger. I
have not had a morsel of food in my mouth since the morning."
"There will be no difficulty in reviving your fainting soul, Mr.
Temple," she says, with a desperate attempt to imitate his light
manner; "but Lady Temple must not know you are here. 'Miss Marston,'
she said to me this afternoon, my nephew will be absent for some time.
He will write to me regularly. Directly his letters arrive, let me
have them. If I am asleep place them at once by my side.'"
Mr. Temple, a handsome, graceful man, not less than thirty-five years
of age, interposes with a merry laugh.
"I posted one to her ladyship three hours ago, twenty miles from this
spot."
"All the more reason," says Nelly Marston seriously, "why she should
not know you are in Springfield."
He tries to stop her remonstrance by, "Now, my dear Mother Hubbard!"
but she will not listen to him.
"Lady Temple unfortunately magnifies the smallest trifles into serious
vexations. She is very, very fretful"--this with a little weary
sigh--"and the doctor says it is most important she should not be
annoyed in any way. Mr. Temple, if she suspects you are in the house
to-night, she will never forgive you."
"And houses, lands, and money," he rejoins, with a careless shrug of
his shoulders, "would melt away into such airy distances that, though
my limbs were quickened with mercury, I should never be able to
overtake them. But what are all these when weighed against love----"
Flushed and palpitating, Nelly finds strength to interrupt him.
"Mr. Temple, I must not listen to you. I am not ignorant of the reason
why your aunt sent you away--for you _were_ sent, you know!" she adds,
somewhat saucily.
"Oh, yes, I know I was sent away. I am sure I did not want to go."
"Twice to-day Lady Temple has spoken seriously to me--I leave you to
guess upon what subject. Mr. Temple, you know what my position is. I
am a dependent, without parents, without friends, without money.
Sometimes when I look into the future, and think of what would become
of me if I were thrown upon the world, I tremble with fear."
"And yet you have a strong will of your own," he mutters, not in the
most amiable tone; but in another instant he relapses into his lighter
mood.
There is a moment's hesitation on her part, as though her strong will
were about to desert her; but she, also, succeeds in controlling
herself.
"No, I am weak, very, very weak; but for my own sake I must strive to
be strong. And now I will leave you, please. No; do not walk with me
to the house. We shall be seen, and the servants will talk."
"Let them talk!" he cries impetuously.
She looks him steadily in the face.
"If they do, Mr. Temple, who will suffer--you or I?"
"You don't understand me, Nelly--nay, I _will_ call you Nelly when no
one is by to hear!--I will answer for their discretion; but indeed and
indeed, we shall not be seen!"
While he speaks, she is walking towards the house, and he is by her
side. After them, through the path where the shadows lie, steals the
gardener's son, quivering with excitement. If he could but hear what
these two were saying to each other! He loves Nelly Marston with all
the strength of his nature. He not only loves her; he respects her.
The very ground she walks upon is sacred in his eyes. Until lately he
had fed hopefully upon small crumbs of comfort which the girl,
wittingly or unwittingly, had given him. Nelly had spoken pleasantly
to him; Nelly had smiled upon him as she tripped past him; Nelly wore
a flower he gave her. But he had never found the courage to open his
heart to her, she being in his estimation so far above him, and now he
fears that a rival has stepped in, and that what he yearns for with
all his soul is slipping from him.
"Mr. Temple," says Nelly, when they are near the house, "you said just
now that you were starving of hunger. You had best bribe one of the
servants, and get something to eat. Then I should advise you to quit
Springfield, and not return till you are sent for."
"Should you!" he replies, defiantly and yet beseechingly. "Advice is a
cheap gift. _You_ would not send for me, I warrant."
"By what right should I?"
"Hungry for food I am," he says, "but I have another kind of hunger
upon me which makes me regardless of that."
"Indeed!" she exclaims, with a pretty gesture of surprise.
"Nelly, you are merciless. You see that I am starving of love for you,
and you systematically----"
She stays to hear no more, and gliding from him, passes into the
house. But he, stung by her avoidance of him, steps swiftly after her,
and before she is aware of his presence, stands with her in the sick
chamber, where Lady Temple lies sleeping.
Within this man is working the instinct of our common nature. The more
difficult to win becomes the prize--without question of its worth: the
measure of difficulty gauges that--the more ardent is he in its
pursuit, and the greater value it assumes. And being piqued in this
instance, all the forces of his intellect come to his aid.
And Nelly? Well, loving him already, she loves him the more because of
his persistence, and because of the value he by his recklessness
appears to place upon her.
"O Mr. Temple," she whispers, deeply agitated, "how can you so
compromise me? Go, for Heaven's sake, before she wakes!'
"On one condition," he answers, lowering his voice to the pitch of
hers; "that you meet me by the brook in an hour from this."
"Anything--anything!--but go!"
"You promise, then?"
"Yes, yes--I promise."
He is about to seal the promise, she being at his mercy, when Lady
Temple moves restlessly, and opens her eyes. He has barely time to
slip behind the curtains at the head of the bed before the sick lady
speaks.
"Is that you, Miss Marston?"
"Yes, Lady Temple."
"I thought I heard voices!"
"I have this moment come in."
"I went to sleep without taking my medicine, Miss Marston. Why did you
let me go to sleep without it?"
"You fell asleep suddenly, Lady Temple, and I thought it best not to
wake you."
"Give it to me now."
Nelly takes a bottle from a table at the head of the bed, pours out
the medicine, and gives it to the sick lady. As she replaces the
bottle, Mr. Temple, with unthinking and cruel audacity, seizes her
hand, and kisses it. Lady Temple, with the medicine at her lips does
not drink, but gazes suspiciously at Nelly, who cannot keep the colour
from her cheeks.
"What sound is that?" asks Lady Temple. "What makes your face so red,
Miss Marston?"
Nelly busies herself--her hand being released--about the pillows, and
replies:
"You should not gaze at me so strangely. You are full of fancies
to-night, Lady Temple."
"Maybe, maybe. Hold up the candle, so that I may see the room--higher,
higher!"
Her inquisitive eyes peer before her, but she sees nothing to verify
her suspicions, Mr. Temple being safely concealed behind the curtains.
"That will do, Miss Marston. Put down the candle--the glare hurts my
eyes. Full of fancies!" she murmurs. "It is true I see shadows; I hear
voices: I am not certain at times whether I am awake or asleep. But
what I said to you to-day," she exclaims in a louder tone, "is no
fancy, Miss Marston."
"There is no occasion for you to repeat it, Lady Temple."
"I am the best judge of that, Miss Marston, and I do not intend to be
misunderstood. I tell you now, plainly, that I sent my nephew away
because I saw what was going on between you."
"Lady Temple!" cries Nelly indignantly.
"You must not agitate me, Miss Marston. Oblige me by holding this
glass while I speak. If you wish to leave the house, you may do so."
"It is so generous and good of you to threaten me!" says the girl
scornfully; "knowing my position. If I had any shelter but this, I
would not stop with you another day."
"You are only showing your ingratitude, Miss Marston, I do not
threaten you, and I will not be contradicted. I promised your mother
before she died that you should have a home here while I live, and I
will not turn you away. If you go, you go of your own accord. I tell
you again I know perfectly well what is stirring within that busy head
of yours. You are like your mother, no better, and no worse, and I
knew her well enough; never content, never content unless every man
she saw was at her feet."
"And yet," says Nelly more quietly, "you have spoken slightingly of
her more than once because she sacrificed herself, as you term it, for
love."
"Yes, she was caught at last, and was punished."
"It was a happy punishment, then. She would not have changed her lot
with yours, Lady Temple."
"She was punished, I tell you. As you will be, if you do not take
care. You will live to prove it, if you are not mindful of yourself.
You have a pretty face--psha! we are women and no one but ourselves
hears what I say. I had a pretty face once, and I knew its power, and
used it as you wish to do. But not with my nephew, Miss Marston, mark
that! You have all the world to choose from, with the exception of my
nephew. And you fancy you know him, I have no doubt--simpleton! You
know as much as a baby of the world and of men of the world. Take an
old woman's counsel--marry in your own station----"
"My mother was a lady," interrupts Nelly, with a curl of her lip, "and
I am one."
"Pooh! Nonsense! You have no money. You are a poor girl, and no
lady--as ladies go," she adds unconsciously uttering a truism in her
attempt to soften the effect of her words. "There's the gardener's
son. You can't do better than marry him. His father has been all his
life at Springfield, and has saved money I hear. He is continually
making you presents of flowers, and the housekeeper tells me----"
With a burning consciousness that these words are reaching other ears
than her own, Nelly again interrupts her mistress:
"When you have finished insulting me, Lady Temple, I shall be glad to
leave the room."
"You shall not leave the room till I am asleep. Marry whom you like
except my nephew. If he marries you he is a beggar by it. I am tired
of talking. I will take my medicine."
She empties the glass, and sinks back on her pillow. The medicine is
an opiate, but even while she yields to its influence, she continues
to murmur, in a tone so low that only Nelly now can hear her.
"Marriage, indeed! As if he means it, and as if, meaning it even, he
dared to thwart me! A pair of fools! They will rue the day!"
Thus she mutters until sleep overpowers her, and she takes her theme
with her into the land of dreams.
Mr. Temple steals from his hiding-place.
"She is in a sweet temper," he says in a whisper, placing his hands on
Nelly's shoulders, and drawing her to him. "I was very nearly coming
forward and spoiling everything; but I couldn't afford to do it.
Nelly, I want to know about that gardener's son."
She yields to his embrace for a moment, then draws away.
"I can tell you nothing now. Go, for my sake, lest she should awake."
"For your sake, then. Do not forget. In an hour, by the brook."
"I ought not to come."
"You have promised," he says, in a louder tone.
"Hush--hush!" she entreats. "Yes, I will come."
Before the hour has passed, he has appeased his hunger, and is
standing by the brook, waiting for Nelly. The night is most peaceful
and lovely, and Mr. Temple, as he smokes his cigar, pays homage to it
in an idle way, and derives a patronising pleasure from the shadows in
the starlit waters. His thoughts are not upon the graceful shapes,
although his eyes behold them. What, then, does he see in their place?
Do the floating reflections bear a deeper meaning to his senses than
they would convey under ordinary conditions? Does he see any
foreshadowing of the future there? No. His thoughts are all upon the
present, and what he beholds is merely tinged with such poetry as
springs from animal sentiment. He may trick himself into a finer
belief, but he cannot alter its complexion. He is in an ineffably
pleasant mood, and his pulses are stirred by just that feeling of
pleasurable excitement which sheds a brighter gloss on all surrounding
things. At the sound of a step behind him he smiles and his heart
beats faster. "It is Nelly," he whispers. But when he turns, and
confronts the gardener's son, the smile leaves his face.
"I ask your pardon, sir," says the young man, "can I have a word with
you?"
"Ah!" says Mr. Temple, with a look of curiosity at the young fellow,
"you are the gardener's son."
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Temple regards the intruder attentively, and says, rather
haughtily:
"You have selected a singular time for a conference."
"I must speak to you now, sir."
"Must?"
"If you please, sir."
"By-and-by will not do?"
"By-and-by may be too late, sir."
Mr. Temple looks at the gardener's son still more earnestly.
"Attend to what I am about to say, young man. You have lived all your
life at Springfield, I believe?"
"I was born here, sir."
"Have you an idea as to who will be the next master of this estate?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you wish to continue on it?"
"That's as it may be, sir."
These questions have been asked with a perfect consciousness of the
subject which the gardener's son wishes to approach, and have been so
worded as to have an indirect bearing upon it. The answer to the last,
spoken with manly independence, conveys to Mr. Temple the knowledge
that the gardener's son is not ignorant of their bearing, and the tone
in which it is given, although perfectly respectful, does not please
him.
"I must request you," he says, with a masterful wave of his hand, "to
choose some other time for your confidence."
"You expect some one, perhaps, sir."
Mr. Temple smiles complacently. In the few words that have passed, the
battle has been fairly opened. He determines that it shall be short.
"As you seem resolved," he says, taking out his watch and consulting
it, "to force yourself upon me, I will give you just five minutes.
Now, what have you to say?"
He is aware that he is taking the young fellow at a disadvantage by
his abrupt method; but, being a lawyer, he is not nice as to the means
of gaining an advantage.
"It is about Miss Marston," says the gardener's son, after a slight
pause.
"What of that young lady?"
"I don't know whether I have a right to speak----"
"That is candid of you."
The arrow misses its mark.
"But it may be," proceeds the young fellow, "that I have, for the
reason that I love her."
His voice trembles, but his earnestness imparts power to it.
"I am obliged to you for your confidence," observes Mr. Temple,
watching for Nelly Marston as he speaks, "unsolicited as it is. A
pretty young lady generally inspires that passion in many breasts."
"But not in all alike," quickly retorts the gardener's son.
"That is fair philosophy. Proceed."
"You speak lightly, sir, while I am serous. It stands in this way,
sir. People are beginning to talk----"
"People _will_ talk," interrupts Mr. Temple, with malicious relish;
"as in the present instance."
"And Miss Marston's name and yours have got mixed up together in a
manner it would grieve her to know."
"You forget, in the first place," says Mr. Temple haughtily, with an
ominous frown on his face, "that Miss Marston is a lady; and in the
second, you forget to whom you are speaking."
"Truly I am not thinking of you, sir," replies the gardener's son
quietly and simply, "I am thinking of her. A young lady's good name is
not a thing to be lightly played with."
"Therefore," says Mr. Temple impatiently, "I would advise you to take
that very lesson to heart, and to tell those persons who are, as you
say, making light of her good name--you are evidently acquainted with
them--that it will be wise for them to choose other topics of gossip.
I cannot acknowledge your right to address me on this matter, and this
conversation must come to an end. Young ladies nowadays are perfectly
well able to take care of themselves, and as a rule choose for
themselves. We rougher creatures are often more sensitive than they,
and more particular on certain points. And now let me tell you, my
man, it is a dangerous thing for you to seek me out at night and
address me on such a subject in the tone and manner you have assumed.
You are speaking to a gentleman, remember. You----"
"Are not one," interposes the gardener's son, with sad significance;
"I know it, sir."
"I will waive that, however, and say this much to you. If Miss Marston
had constituted you her champion and had authorised you to speak, I
should be willing to listen to you. But that is not the case, I
presume, and I wish you goodnight."
The gardener's son twines his fingers convulsively. Were Mr. Temple
his equal in station, it would have fared ill with him, smarting as
the man is with passionate jealousy and the sting of unrequited love.
He controls himself sufficiently to say,
"I must ask you one question, sir. Do you remain at Springfield?"
"No; I leave to-night, and I shall probably be absent for weeks. Ah, I
perceive that answer is satisfactory to you. I see a lady approaching.
Shall you or I retire?"
The gardener's son, casting one glance at the advancing form, walks
slowly away, and his shadow is soon swallowed up by other shadows,
among which he walks in pain and grief.
Nelly Marston is in no holiday humour; she is trembling with shame at
the thought of what passed in the sick-chamber of her peevish
mistress, and she approaches Mr. Temple with downcast head. Love and
humiliation are fighting a desperate battle within her breast, and she
does not respond sympathetically to her lover's glad greeting. He uses
his best arts to soothe and comfort her; he addresses her by every
endearing title, saying she is dearer to him than all the world, and
beseeching her to throw all the rest aside. She listens in silence at
the first, as he pours this sweet balm of Gilead upon her troubled
soul. He is in his brightest mood, and his speech which tells the
oft-told tale flows sweetly and tenderly. They stand beneath the
stars, and he calls upon them to witness his love, his truth, his
honour. Every word that falls from his lips sinks into her soul, and
her heart is like a garden filled with unfading flowers. Humiliation
and unrest melt into oblivion, never more to rise and agonise her. He
loves her; he tells her so a hundred times and in a hundred ways. He
will be true to her; he swears it by all the beautiful signs around
them. Fairer and more lovely grows the night as he kisses away her
tears. The moon rises higher in the heavens and bathes them in light.
Softly, more tenderly he speaks, and she, like a child listens,
listens--listens and believes, and hides her blushing face from him.
Ah, if truth lives, it lives in him--in him, the symbol of all that is
good and manly, and noble! She is so weak, he so strong! She knows so
little, he so much! The sweet and enthralling words he whispers into
her ears as her head lies upon his breast, form the first page of the
brightest book that life can open to her; and the sighing of the
breeze, the sleeping flowers, the hushed melody of the waving grass,
the laughing, flashing lights of heaven playing about the dreamy
shadows in the waters of the brook, are one and all delicious
evidences of his truth, his honour, and his love.
"I love you--I love you--I love you!" he vows and vows again. "Put
your arms about my neck--so! and whispers to me what I am dying to
hear."
"You are my life!" she sighs, and their lips meet; and then they sit
and talk, and, as she gazes into the immeasurable distances of the
stars, she sees, with the eyes of her soul, a happy future, filled
with fond and sweet imaginings,
PART THE THIRD.
AUTUMN.
The season of England's loveliest sunsets is here. The golden
corn, ripe and ready for the sickle, bows gracefully beneath the
lavender-perfumed breeze, and whispers to bountiful earth, "My time
has come. Farewell!"
In a garden attached to a cottage situated twenty miles from
Springfield stands Nelly Marston, by the side of an old apple-tree
loaded with fair fruit, and looking, with the white moss gathered
about its limbs, like an ancient knight clothed in silver armour. The
cottage has many rooms of delightfully odd shapes, is tastefully
furnished, and is built in the centre of an acre of land so prettily
laid out and so bright with colour that few strangers see it without
pausing a while to admire.
Nelly Marston is more beautiful than when we saw her last at
Springfield, and to the poetical mind presents a fine contrast to the
gnarled and ancient tree, which, could it speak, might honestly say,
"Old I am, but am yet fair to the eye and can produce good things.
Come, my girl, gather sweetness from me, and wisdom too, if you need
it."
She gathers sweetness and that is enough for her. From where she
stands, she has a broken view of the winding lane which, from distant
wider spaces, leads to the front of the cottage. Often and again her
eyes are directed towards this lane, with a look which denotes that
her heart is in them. She is like fair Rosamond waiting for her
prince. He comes! A horseman turns into the winding path and waves his
hand to her. She replies with the gladdest of smiles and with a waving
of her own pretty hand, and her heart beats joyfully to the music of
the horse's hoof. Her prince draws rein at the cottage-door, and she
is there to meet him. A lad with face deeply pock-marked takes the
horse to the stable, casting as many admiring glances towards Nelly as
time will permit of.
"Now, Nelly," says the prince gaily, as he throws his arms about her
and kisses her again and again, "was ever lover more punctual than I?"
"How can I tell?" she answers, "I never had but one."
"Ah, Nelly, Nelly!" he exclaims, with uplifted finger and an arch
smile; "do you forget the gardener's son?"
"No, I do not forget him; he was very good to me. But I do not mean in
that way."
"In what way, then, puss?"
"You'll tease me till I tell you. I don't know how to say it."
"Say it you must, though, my queen."
"Of course I must. You have got what you call a strong will. Isn't
that it?"
"That is it," he assents, with a nod which is both careless and
determined.
"And are never to be turned from your purpose?"
"Never. That is the only way to get on in life, and I mean to get on."
"Nothing can prevent that. You are so clever that I am half inclined
to be frightened of you. And I should be, if I were not sure you loved
me."
He kisses her as he observes, "Put the strongest will into the
crucible of love, and it melts like lead in a furnace. In such a test
steel would become as pliant as running water. Love is the most
intoxicating poison, my darling."
"I don't like the word," she says.
"The word 'darling'?" he inquires.
"No, the word 'poison.' Love is not a poison; it is an elixir." She
winds her arms round his neck, and murmurs, "It has given me a new
life. The world is more beautiful than it used to be I am sure."
He smiles at her sentiment. "I remember telling you once that _you_
had a strong will of your own, Nelly."
"I haven't that much," she says, placing the nail of her thumb to the
tip of her little finger. "Not that much!"
"But you are a cunning puss, for all that," he says, as he draws her
face to his. They are in the cottage now, and she is sitting on his
knee. "You want to fly away from the subject we were speaking of, so
my strong will must bring you back to it. Well, I'll be content with a
compromise. Who is this lover that so limits your knowledge?"
"I shall not tell you that, sir. You must guess it--if you can! As
_if_ you could! No, I'll not say! I can keep a secret. Oh, you may
laugh, but I can!"
"Well, then, where is he?"
"Where? Why, thousands of miles away of course!"
"Let me not catch him!" he cries gaily. "Well, now, pet, to spite that
person, who I hope will not suffer _very_ much in consequence, I
intend to stop with you a whole fortnight."
Her face lights up with joy.
"I have important business in London," he continues, with a sly laugh;
"oh, most important! My presence is imperatively required in the great
city. The interests of an influential client depend personally upon
me, so Lady Temple has given me leave of absence. Confiding old soul!"
"Lady Temple is the same as ever?"
"The same as ever. No change. Fretful and peevish, throwing out all
sorts of dark innuendoes one minute, and smiling upon me the next. Now
a lamb, now a tigress. I have the temper of an angel, Nell, or I could
never stand it. But I humour her--for your sake, pet, as well as my
own. Our future depends upon her.
"Does she speak of me?"
"She mentioned your name once last week, and not amiably. But enough
of her. Goodbye, my worthy aunt, for a happy fortnight. If she
guessed how matters stood, Nell, between me and you, I should
be----well, best not think of that. The prospect is not a pleasant
one. Now tell me how you have passed the time, how many new laid-eggs
you get a day, and how the chickens are, whether the new little pig
has any idea of its ultimate fate, how the fruit is getting on, and
how you like the new boy I sent to look after the stable. You did not
want him you wrote to me; but thereby hangs a tale, which you shall
hear presently. Upon my word, Nell, I suspect he is in love with you,
like everybody else who sees you. I have a kind of belief that you are
a love-witch. He never took his eyes off you, all the time he was
waiting for my nag. Now for the reason of his being here. Nelly,
to-morrow morning, before you are up, there will arrive at this little
cottage the prettiest basket-carriage and the prettiest pair of ponies
in England. A present for you, pet, from your lover thousands of miles
away. Ah, you kiss me for that, do you! Then I take it, you are
pleased with this mysterious lover of yours!"
"I believe no woman in the world was ever half so happy as I. When you
are with me, there is not a cloud on my life."
"That's a good hearing," he says, heartily. "Why, Nelly, you are a
living wonder! A satisfied woman! I shall scarcely be surprised to
hear you say you have not a wish ungratified."
"Not quite that. I have one wish."
"To wit," he prompts.
She whispers it to him.
"That the next fortnight would last for ever, so that you would never
have to leave me!"
"A woman's wish all over," he says. "But the old man with the scythe
will not be denied, my pet. While lovers dream, time flies the faster,
I can't imagine you with white hair, Nell; yet you would look lovely
anyway."
"_Your_ hair will be white, too, remember," she says, in a tone of
tender jesting. "It will be strange to look back so many years, and
think and talk of the past. But we shall be to each other then what we
are now. Say that we shall."
"Say it! I swear it, my pet! Let Time do his worst, then. You shall
not pluck another white hair out of my head. Nelly, I love you more
and more every day of my life."
"And nothing shall ever part us!"
"Nothing, my darling!"
She is, indeed, supremely happy. The springtime of youth and love is
hers, and no deeper heresy could have been whispered to her than the
warning such a springtime resembles
"The uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
And by-and-by a cloud takes all away."
The minutes fly all too quickly, and Love, with magic brush, paints
the present and the time to come.
PART THE FOURTH.
WINTER.
Fifteen months have passed. It is winter, and the snow is falling;
weather-wise men say that it will continue to fall for days. Peaceful
and solemn are the fields, with Nature's carpet of virgin snow
covering and protecting the seedlings in the soil beneath. White and
graceful devices beautify the woods, the traceries of which are so
wonderfully delicate and exquisite that none but spirit fingers could
have shaped them, and every little branch stands out bright and clear
in the life-giving air.
The scene is the same as the last, but the pretty cottage shows signs
of neglect. Our Nelly is there, and there is also a change in her. She
is no longer the bright and winsome girl we looked upon a short time
since. Her face is thin and haggard, and the expression on her
features is one of despair and agony. In the clear light of the
healthy winter's day she walks up and down, and round and round the
little room where love once dwelt, and where she called up fair
visions. Her fingers are tightly interlaced, her lips are white and
trembling, her eyes dilate with fear and helpless bewilderment. She
does not speak, and for an hour at least she walks about the room with
tumultuous agony at her breast.
Watching her from without, with sympathising eyes, and with an air
which denotes that he bears magnetically a share in her pain, is the
stable-lad who was hired to look after the prettiest pair of ponies in
the world, a present to her from her lover, who vowed that nothing
should ever part them--from her lover, who had stolen "her soul with
many vows of love, and ne'er a true one." And ne'er a true one! Ah,
kind Heaven, can it be possible? Can such treachery exist in a world
where goodness is? No, she will not believe it. She strives to shake
the doubt from her, feebly she wrestles with it, but it clings to her
with the tenacity of truth, and inflicts unspeakable torture upon her.
"If she'd only set down!" muttered the stable-boy. "If she'd only be
still a bit! If she'd only drop off asleep!"
But her whole soul is quivering; as her flesh might under the
influence of a keen, palpable torture. Pale as she is, a fire is
burning within her which almost maddens her, and a thousand feverish
pulses in her being are beating in cruel sympathy. Is love left in the
world? Is faithfulness? Is manliness? No. The world is filled with
shame, and dishonour, and treachery, and she stands there, their
living, suffering symbol.
Why the stable-lad is near her no one but himself could explain, and
he perhaps would have been puzzled to do so. He was dismissed from his
service months ago, when the ponies and basket-carriage were sold; but
he refused to leave. He lingers about the house, picks up his food
anyhow, sleeps anywhere, and during the daylight hours is always ready
to Nelly's call. She has sometimes, from the despair born of
loneliness, made a companion of him. She has no other now.
He experiences a feeling of relief when, after more than an hour has
passed, he observes a change in her movements. She throws on her hat
hurriedly, and passes out of the house. The lad follows her at a
distance. She does not know that she has forgotten her cloak, and she
heeds not the snow. The fire burning within her warms her with a
terrible, dangerous warmth. To all external impressions she seems to
be absolutely dead. She walks for a mile into the village, and enters
a stationer's shop, where the post-office is kept.
"Have you any letters for me?" she asks.
She is evidently known to the woman behind the counter, who replies
with small courtesy, "There is nothing for you."
Nelly holds out her hand with eager imploring. She has not heard the
answer.
"I told you there are no letters," says the woman.
"I beg your pardon," sighs Nelly, humbly; and looking round the shop,
as though to find some other excuse for having entered, picks up a
paper, pays for it, and retraces her steps home. Home! Alas!
The stable-lad follows her and is presently aware that somebody is
following _him_. It is a man, and the lad turns and confronts him. The
stranger takes no notice of the lad, and strives to pass.
"Where are you pushing to?" cries the lad, being himself the
obstructive party.
"Out of my way, my lad," says the man, adding under his breath, "I
must not lose her now."
"What are you following that lady for?" demands the lad.
The question is answered by another.
"You have something to do with her, then?"
"I should think I have."
"I want to know where she lives. I am a friend of hers."
"She wants 'em, I should say--badly."
This remark is made after a keen observance of the stranger's face. It
is a well-looking, honest, ruddy face, and the examination appears to
satisfy the lad.
"Wants what?" asks the stranger.
"Friends."
"I thought she had--rich ones."
"If she had," answers the lad, "and mind, I don't say she hadn't--if
she had, she hasn't got 'em now."
"Ah," says the stranger, drawing a deep breath, "he has left her,
then. Poor Nelly!"
The last two words, uttered with feeling, and in a low tone not
intended to be heard, reach the lad's sharp ears, and dispose him
still more favourably towards the stranger.
"Look here," he blurts out, "are you a gentleman?"
"Does that mean, am I rich?"
The lad looks dubious, not being quite sure.
"Am I a gentleman?" continues the stranger. "That's as it may be.
Every true man is a gentleman; every gentleman is not a true man." The
lad grins. Some understanding of the aphorism penetrates his
uneducated mind. "Best ask me if I'm a true man, my lad."
"Well, then, are you?"
"I think so. So far as regards that lady, I am sure so."
"A true man, and a friend," says the lad. "That's just what she wants.
No more gentlemen; she's had enough of them, I should say. I ain't a
bit of use to her--was turned off when the ponies was sold, but
couldn't go. Thought she might make use of me in some way, you see.
She never give me a hard word--never. Not like him; he was as hard as
nails--not to her; oh, no; he was always soft to her with his tongue,
as far as I could see, and I kept my eyes open, and my ears too!"
By this time they have reached the cottage, and Nelly enters, without
turning her head.
"There," says the lad, "that's where she lives, and if she ain't
caught her death of cold, coming out without her shawl, I'll stand on
my head for a week. But _I_ can't do anything for her. She wants a man
to stand by her, not a poor beggar like me."
The stranger looks kindly at the lad.
"My boy," he says, "if you have sisters, look sharp after them, and
never let them play the game of lords and ladies. Now come with me,
and tell me what I want to know."
It is a few hours later, and the snow is still falling. A candle is
alight in the little room in which Nelly restlessly sits or walks. The
paper she bought at the post-office lies unfolded on the table.
Suddenly a moan escapes her lips; an inward pain has forced it from
her. She grasps the table convulsively, and her fingers mechanically
clutch the paper. The pain dies away, and she sits exhausted on her
chair. Listlessly and without purpose she looks at the paper, seeing
at first but a dim confusion of words; but presently something in the
column she is gazing at presents itself to her mind in a coherent
form. She passes her hands across her eyes, to clear the mist from
them, bends eagerly down to the paper, and reads the words that have
attracted her attention. Starting to her feet, with the paper in her
hand, she is hurrying to the door, when it opens from without, and the
stranger who had followed her home appears.
"John!" she cries, with her hand to her heart. "Ah, he has sent you,
then! Thank God! He has sent you!"
"No one has sent me," says the gardener's son, who played his part in
the Spring and Summer of our Prologue. "I am here of my own accord."
"What for?" she asks, shrinkingly, imploringly. It is remarkable in
her that every word she speaks, every movement she makes, implies
fear. She bears the appearance of a hunted animal, in dread of an
unknown, unseen torture. "Why are you here?"
"I come to ask if I can serve you."
"You! You!"
"I--in truth and sincerity. I will not insult you by telling you that
my feelings are unchanged--Good heavens! you are in pain!"
"Don't touch me! Don't come near me!" Two or three minutes pass in
silence. Then the lines about her lips relax, and she speaks again,
with a strange mingling of timidity and recklessness. "Do you know
anything?"
"Much. Enough. Believe me, I wish to know nothing from you."
"And you come to ask me if you can serve me? Meaning it, in truth and
sincerity?"
"Meaning it, in truth and sincerity."
She gazes at him, striving to discover whether his face bears truthful
witness to the evidence of his lips, and, failing, makes a despairing
motion with her hands.
"God help me!" she cries. "I cannot see. I do not know. But I believe
you. I must, or I shall go mad. If you do not mean me to take you
simply at your word, leave me at once without a sign."
"I will stop and serve you."
Her lips quiver at this exhibition of fidelity. Silently she hands him
the paper, and points to the passage which appears to have aroused her
to life. His eyes glitter as he reads the paragraph, which announces
that on this evening Mr. Temple will take the chair at a lecture on
"Man's Duty," to be delivered at a certain institution in a small town
twenty miles away.
"I must go to that place," she says.
"To-night?"
"To-night. I must see him. I must speak to him to-night."
"You are not well; you are not fit to travel. To-morrow----"
"To-morrow I may not be able to travel. To-morrow will be too late.
What I have said, I must do. You don't know what hangs upon it." Her
lips contract with pain again. "If you leave me alone, and I do not
see him to-night, I--I----"
Her eyes wander as her tongue refuses to shape the thought which holds
her enthralled with fear and horror.
"A word first," says the gardener's son. "How long is it since you
have seen him?"
"Three months."
"You have written to him?"
"Yes--yes. Ask me nothing more, for God's sake!"
"The place is twenty miles away. It is now six o'clock. In four hours
the lecture will be over. It is snowing hard."
She comes close to his side; she looks straight into his eyes.
"John, your mother is dead."
"Yes."
"I heard of her at Springfield"--she shudders at the name--"and of
your devotion to her. You loved her."
"I loved her."
"You stood at her deathbed."
"I held her in my arms when she died."
"Did she speak to you then?"
"A few words."
"They are sacred to you."
"Ay."
She pauses but for a moment; he looks at her wonderingly.
"John, you loved _me!_" He clenches his hands, and digs his nails into
his palms. "This that I am about to say will live in your mind till
the last hour of your life, with the last words your mother spoke to
you. If you do not take me at once to the place I wish to go to, I
will not live till midnight!"
He sees the deadly resolution in her white face, and he determines to
obey her.
"Remain here till I return," he says. "I will not be gone a quarter of
an hour. Wrap yourself up well, for the wind is enough to freeze one.
Put on a thick veil to keep the snow from your face. I will do as you
wish."
"Ah, you are good! You are good!" she sighs, and for the first time
during the day, for the first time for many days, the tears gush
forth. "God reward you--and pity me!"
He goes, and returns within the time he named. A light American buggy
is at the door, and the stable-lad is at the horse's head. Nelly is so
weak that the young gardener has to support her as she walks from
the house; he lifts her with ease in his strong arms into the
conveyance--marvelling at her lightness, and loving and pitying her
the more because of it--and mounts by her side. The stable-lad looks
on wistfully.
"There is no room for you, my lad," says the gardener's son. "Stop
here till we return. He can sleep in the house?" He asks this question
of Nelly.
"Oh, yes," she answers, listlessly.
The next moment they are off.
The boy runs after them, keeps them in sight for a little while, but
is compelled at length to stop for rest.
"Never mind," he mutters, when he has recovered his breath. "I know
where they've gone to. I'll follow them the best way I can." And off
he starts, at a more reasonable pace for a human being.
The snow comes down faster and faster, and the gardener's son, with
his head bent to his breast, plies whip and rein. Their road lies
through many winding lanes, lined and dotted with hedges and cottages.
Not a soul is out but themselves, and the home-light gleams from the
cottage windows. Echoes of voices are heard from within some laughing,
some singing, some quarrelling. The gardener's son notices all the
signs as they rattle past; Nelly is indifferent to them. They stop at
a wayside inn, to give the horse breathing time. The gardener's son
urges Nelly to take some refreshment; she refuses, with sad and
fretful impatience, and begrudges the horse its needful rest. They
start again, he striving to keep up her spirits with tender and
cheerful words.
"Another milepost," he says, shaking up the reins, and in a few
minutes proclaims blithely, "and another milepost! That's quick work,
that last mile. What's the matter with the nag?" he cries, as the
beast shies in sudden fright, "It's not a milepost. It's a woman."
The woman, who has been crouching by the roadside, rises, and walks
silently into the gloom. They can see that she is in rags--a sad,
poverty-stricken mortal, too numbed with cold and misery to make an
appeal for charity. This thought is expressed by the young gardener,
who concludes his remarks with, "Poor creature!" Nelly shudders at the
words and the pitying tone in which they are uttered. White are the
roads they traverse, leaving a clear-cut black gash behind them, into
which the soft snow falls gently, as though to heal the wounds
inflicted. White is the night, but Nelly's face bids fair to rival it.
A sigh escapes her bosom, and she sinks back, insensible.
The gardener's son calls to her in alarm, but she does not reply. He
sees a light in a cottage window a short distance off, and he draws up
at the door. Yet even as he lifts Nelly down with gentle care, she
recovers, and asks him with a frightened air why he has stopped.
"You fainted," he explains.
"I am well now," she cries, with feverish eagerness. "Go on--go on!"
He answers, with a determination, that he will not proceed until she
has taken something to sustain her strength--a cup of tea, a little
brandy, anything--and she is compelled to yield. He knocks at the
cottage door. A labourer opens it. The young gardener explains the
nature of his errand, and produces money.
"You are in luck's way," says the labourer. "The missus has just made
herself a cup of tea."
His wife turns her head, with a reproachful look, towards the door,
the opening of which has brought a blast of cold air into the room.
She is kneeling by a cradle at the fireside, and with common, homely
words of love is singing her baby to sleep. Nelly catches her breath
as the song and its meaning fall upon her ears and understanding, and
in an agony of agitation she begs the young gardener to take her away.
The tears stream down her cheeks, and her face is convulsed as she
thus implores him. The soft sweet song of the mother has cut into her
heart with the sharp keenness of cruelly-edged steel.
"Let me go," she cries wildly, "let me go! O my heart, my heart!"
The labourer's wife comes hurriedly forward, still with the mother's
love-light in her eyes. But instead of speaking soothing words to the
girl, she exclaims,
"Lord save us! What brings you out on such a night as this, and where
do you belong to? You ought to be ashamed of yourself"--(this to the
young gardener)--"carrying the poor child about in such a condition!"
"Ay, ay, dame," replies the young gardener, gently, with an observant
glance at Nelly, a glance which brings a troubled look into his own
face; "it _is_ a bitter night----"
Nelly stops his further speech, and putting her arm about the woman's
neck, whispers to her. The young gardener turns his back upon the
women, and the labourer sits on a chair, with his eyes to the ground.
For a minute or so the men do not stir from the positions they have
assumed; then, as though moved by a common thought, they step softly
from the cottage, and stand in silence outside for many minutes, until
the wife comes to the door, and beckons them in. Nelly is on her knees
by the cradle.
"Get along as quick as you can," whispers the labourer's wife to the
young gardener; "there's little time to lose."
There are tears on her face, and on Nelly's also, as she rises from
her knees.
"God bless you, my dear!" says the woman to the unhappy girl; and when
Nelly and her protector have departed, she turns to her husband, and
kisses his weather-worn face, with a grateful feeling in her breast,
to which she could not have given expression in speech. But words are
not needed at this moment.
In the meanwhile the travellers are speeding onwards.
"Only four miles to go now," says the young gardener, cheerfully;
"keep up your strength."
Nelly nods, and hides her face from her companion. It might make _his_
heart faint to see the suffering depicted there.
It is difficult travelling, for the snow lies nearly a foot thick on
the road, but John works with such good will, and the horse is so
willing a creature, that they make fair progress. On they go, through
wide and narrow spaces, clothed in purest white, and John now begins
to wonder how this night's work will end. The reflection disturbs him,
and he shakes the reins briskly, as though, by doing so, he can shake
off distressing thoughts. Another mile is done, and another, and
another. The young gardener's tongue keeps wagging all the way.
"I see the lights in the town," he says, in a tone of satisfaction,
pointing with his whip.
The words have no sooner passed his lips than the horse twists its
hoof in a hole hidden by the snow, and falls to the ground. John jumps
out hastily, and lifts Nelly from the conveyance. The willing animal,
in obedience to the gardener's urging, strives to rise, and partially
succeeds, but slips down immediately with a groan.
"The horse is lamed," says John; "what shall we do now?"
He looks around for assistance. Not a house nor a human being is near
them, and the town is nearly a mile distant. The lights which they
could see from their elevation in the conveyance are no longer visible
to them. Nelly's hands are tightly clasped as she looks imploringly
into the face of her companion. "Can you walk?" asks John.
The reply comes from lips contracted with pain. "I must."
"I will carry you. I can!"
She shrinks from him, and moans that he must not touch her, and that
she will try to walk. Slowly they plod along through the heavy snow,
he encouraging her by every means in his power. Half an hour passes,
and a church clock strikes ten. The church is quite close to them--a
pretty, old-time place of worship, with many gables and an ancient
porch; and a quaint churchyard adjoining, where hearts are at rest,
and where human passions no longer bring woe and suffering.
Nelly clings to the gate of the church.
"John," she whispers.
"Yes," he answers, bending down to her.
"You have been a good friend to me. Will you continue to do what I
wish?"
She speaks very slowly, with a pause between each word. She feels that
consciousness is departing from her, that her strength has utterly
left her, that she cannot walk another dozen yards. But she has
something to say, and by a supreme effort of will--only to be summoned
in such a bitter crisis as this in her young life--she retains her
senses until it is said.
"I will do as you wish," says John, supporting her fainting form, and
knowing instinctively, as he places his arms about her, that it is
almost death to her that _he_ shall touch her.
"I cannot walk another step. My strength is gone."
"What must I do?"
"Take me to that porch. Lay me there--and leave me."
"Leave you!"
"If you raise me in your arms, I shall die! If you attempt to carry me
into the town, I shall die! If you do not obey me, I shall die, and
think of you as my enemy!"
He listens in awe. He has never heard language like this--he has never
heard a voice like this.
"Lay me in that porch. Then seek a woman with a kind heart, and send
her to me. Then--then----"
She struggles with nature. With the strength of a death's agony she
fights for another minute of consciousness.
"And then?" he prompts, with his ear close to her lips, for the snow
falls scarcely less lightly than the word; she breathes forth.
"Then," she whispers, "seek _him_, and bring him to my side."
She has finished, and sinks into his arms, where she lies insensible
and motionless, with her white face turned upwards to the sky, and the
soft snow floating down upon it.
Implicitly he obeys her. Swiftly, and with the gentleness of a good
woman, he bears her to the porch, and stripping off his outer coat,
wraps her in it, and lays her within the holy hood of the house of
prayer. Once or twice he speaks to her, but receives no answer; and
once, with a sudden fear upon him, he places his ear to her heart, and
hears with thankfulness its faint beating. He wipes the snow from her
face, and, his task being thus far accomplished, he leaves her to seek
for help.
The churchyard, with its silent dead, is not outwardly more still than
is the form of this hapless girl; and but for the mystery within her,
hidden mercifully from the knowledge of men, she might have been as
dead as any buried in that ancient place. The soft snow falls and
falls, and vagrant flakes float into the porch, and rest lightly upon
her, like white-winged heralds of love and pity. In the churchyard are
tombs of many designs--some lying low in humility, some rearing their
heads with an arrogance befitting, mayhap, the clay they cover when it
was animated with life. Lies there beneath these records the dust of
any woman's heart, which, when it beat, suffered as Nelly suffers now?
Lie there, in this solemn place, the ashes of any who was wronged as
she is wronged, deserted as she is deserted, wrecked as she is
wrecked? If such there be, mayhap the spirits of the dead look down
pityingly upon this suffering child, and hover about her in sympathy
and love.
Where, when haply she is once more conscious of the terror of her
position, shall she look for succour, for practical pity and love? If
man deserts her, can the angels help her?
Comes the answer so soon? A gentleman approaches the church with
blithe steps. His face is flushed with pleasure, his eyes are bright,
his heart beats high. He has had a triumph to-night. A thousand
persons have listened to his praises, and have indorsed them--proud to
see him, proud to know him, proud to have him among them, proud to add
their tribute to his worth and goodness. He is elate and joyful. The
moon, emerging from a cloud, shines upon his face. It is Mr. Temple.
The light shines also upon the white tombs of the dead, and upon
Nelly's face.
He is not aware of her presence until he is close upon her, and then
he only sees a woman's form lying within the porch.
Animated by an impulse of humanity, he hastens to her; he bends over
her; his hand touches her cheek as he puts aside a curl of brown hair
which the light breeze has blown across her face.
"Good God!" he cries. "It is Nelly!"
Is it pity, or fear, or annoyance, that is expressed in him? No man,
seeking to know, could answer the question at this moment, for a cloud
Obscures the moon, and throws darkness on his face.
He hears voices in the near distance. The speakers are almost upon
him. He starts from his stooping posture with a look of alarm, and
retreats to a safe shelter, where he can see and not be seen.
The voices proceed from two women and two men. One of the men is the
young gardener; the other is a doctor, whom John has brought to the
assistance of the girl he loves.
The doctor kneels by the side of the insensible girl, and raises her
in his arms.
"She lives," he says, almost immediately.
"Thank God!" exclaims John.
Stronger evidence of life is given by Nelly herself. She moans and
writhes in the doctor's arms.
The young gardener has two warm rugs with him. The doctor looks at him
inquiringly.
"You are her husband?"
"No."
The doctor frowns.
"You had best retire, then. Place those wraps here. Stay--you must do
something. Go to my house as quickly as you can, and bring---- No,
there might be some difficulty. I will write what I want."
With Nelly's head still lying on his knee, he takes from his pocket a
book, writes instructions upon a leaf, tears it out and gives it to
the gardener.
"Do not delay," he says. "You and my man must bring the couch and the
blankets at once. There's not a moment to lose."
John darts away, and the doctor beckons the women to him, and whispers
gravely to them.
Mr. Temple, in his retreat, clasps his hands, and listens. For what?
He cannot hear a word that passes between the women and the doctor,
and their forms shut Nelly from his sight. But presently a sound
reaches his ears that makes him tremble. It is a baby's cry. Another
soul is added to the world's many. In the stillness of the beautiful
night, while the snow is falling upon the ancient church and on the
tombs of the dead who worshipped there, a child is born, and the
mother's sharpest physical agony is over.
THE END OF THE PROLOGUE.
Part the First.
THE CHILD.
CHAPTER I.
As in a theatre, after the overture is played, the first thing shown
to the audience is the scene in which the action of the drama
commences, so let our first words be devoted to the locality in which
the story opens.
I doubt whether the pretty shrub from which Rosemary Lane derived its
name was ever seen in the locality, or whether, being seen, it would
have been recognised as a familiar sign. Rosemary has a peculiarly
sweet odour; Rosemary Lane had not. In one sense there was fitness in
the name; for as the flower of rosemary has frequently been used as an
emblem of constancy and fidelity, so in Rosemary Lane, poor and humble
as it was, might be found living proofs of the existence of those
qualities.
It was in this locality that our heroine was reared.
Where she came from, whether she had a relative in the world, and what
was her real name, were sealed mysteries to the inhabitants of
Rosemary Lane.
As to where she came from, the hazard of a kind gossip, who said that
the child dropped as it might be from heaven among them, was accepted,
in lieu of a hazard more reasonable.
She must have had at some time, a mother, but whether that mother was
alive or dead, was not known, and there were no means of ascertaining.
Her father, we will, for the present, leave out of the question--as
fathers are frequently willing, and occasionally grateful, to be left.
As to her real name, it mattered little. One was found for her in
Rosemary Lane.
What little else was known concerning her shall be briefly told.