BROKEN.
It was a hard thing to say to Tessie, who knew nothing of Ange’s love
for Charteris, but it was wrung from me in the extremity of my fear and
pity for the child.
Tessie naturally demanded an explanation of my words, and then and there
I made a clean breast of it, telling her what I had seen and heard, and
how I had told her father of my discovery, and the unsatisfactory result
of my communication.
We flew into each other’s arms when the recital was finished, and wept
together over the misery of it all, as it behoved us, like true friends
and sisters, to do.
‘And now, Tessie!’ I said, as I wiped my streaming eyes, ‘hide nothing
from me. Let me know how much she heard and how she heard it, that we
may be able to judge what is best to do to avert the consequences from
her.’
‘I never left her side for a minute,’ sobbed Tessie, ‘but Sophy Markham
pushed her way into the bedroom, and I could not turn her out. Ange was
lying just as you left her, quite still and quiet, with her eyes fixed
upon the ceiling. I whispered her condition to Miss Markham, and
cautioned her to speak in a low voice, and I believe she did so. She was
full of the news of Mr. Charteris turning out to be a married man, and
of the shock it was to her; and how he had spent all his evenings lately
in the billiard-room of the Hôtel d’Etoile, and everybody had remarked
upon his pronounced attentions to herself. She was talking a great deal
of nonsense about wishing she had a brother to bring him to book for his
scandalous behaviour to her, though I don’t believe a word of all that,
you know, Hilda.’
‘I should think not, my dear! Cave Charteris may be a villain, but he is
not a fool. But go on. What did Ange say to it all?’
‘She never said a word; but as Miss Markham was running on at this rate,
I thought I heard a rustle on the bed, and, turning round, I saw Ange
sitting bolt upright with her eyes fixed upon us. Oh, Hilda! her face
looked dreadful! You would never have forgotten it. It seemed as if her
cheeks and her jaws had suddenly fallen in. I rushed to her side and
laid her down again, and she never uttered a syllable, but only stared
at me with those melancholy wide-open eyes. I hurried Miss Markham out
of the room, although I knew nothing of what you have now told me, and
had no idea that Ange’s appearance was due to anything she had said. Oh!
do you really think it will hurt her?’
‘How is she now, Tessie?’
‘I think she must be asleep, but I cannot tell. She began to moan so,
that I got frightened, and ran down here to watch for your return.’
‘Let us go to her at once; and mind, not a word, even to one another, of
this wretched business. We must hope that Ange did not hear or
understand it, or that, if she did, she may forget it again. It is most
important to keep the news from her till she is stronger. I am afraid
that, at the best, it will prove a terrible blow to her.’
We hastened back to the bed-chamber, but there was no apparent change in
our patient. She still lay on her side, staring into vacancy and
occasionally moaning in a low tone to herself. I felt her head and
hands; they were burning hot, and her lips had become dry and cracked.
There was no doubt of it—Ange was in a raging fever, and every hour we
became more alarmed.
‘What a mistake it is to live such a distance from a doctor!’ I
exclaimed impatiently, as the evening drew on. ‘I wish I had gone into
Artois myself by the diligence this afternoon, or sent Charlie
Sandilands, and got Monsieur Perrin to ride over to-night. Is there no
help nearer at hand, Tessie? Cannot the _petites sœurs_ administer
medicines on an emergency?’
‘I never heard of their doing so, Hilda. Monsieur Perrin is their
hospital surgeon. If it were not for the convent, I don’t think we
should get him in St. Pucelle at all.’
‘Just listen to her moans!’ I said, in despair. ‘Do ask Madame Marmoret
to bring up another pitcher of spring water, Tessie. We must keep wet
bandages round her head continually. I know of nothing better to do.’
With dinner-time came home Cave Charteris from shooting, and hearing the
state of affairs upstairs from Madame Marmoret, he asked to speak to me.
One may fancy the blazing eyes with which I went to meet him.
‘What do you want?’ I demanded brusquely, as I entered the little
_salle_.
‘Only to hear how much of this sad account that Madame has given me is
true. Is it really the case that Mr. Lovett has gone to Rille, and Ange
is so ill she can see nobody?’
‘Certainly, she can see nobody. She is in a strong fever, and confined
to her bed. Have you anything more to say?’
‘Yes! That I am not aware what I have done that you should speak to me
in such an uncourteous manner!’
‘Are you not? Then you must have a tougher conscience than even I gave
you credit for.’
‘What do you mean, Miss Marsh?’ he inquired. ‘You appear to resent my
taking an ordinary interest in Miss Lovett’s health. If you knew all,
you would see that——’
‘I _do_ know all!’ I interrupted him sternly, ‘and a great deal more
than you have any idea of. I know that you are a married man, and that
you had much better be at home with your wife and children than
affecting this interest in a girl who can never be anything to you
_again_.’
I put in _again_, that he might see we had already guessed something of
his philandering with poor Ange.
‘Has _she_ heard of this?’ he asked me quickly, with the colour flaming
in his face.
‘What is that to you?’ I replied angrily; ‘if you are an honest man, why
should you be ashamed to tell the world that you are a married one? I
refuse to inform you if Ange has heard the truth or not, but you may
rest assured that she will not hear it from you. Her father will be home
to-morrow, and the first thing I shall do will be to caution him to
protect the interests of his daughter!’
Something very like an oath passed Mr. Charteris’s lips at this
juncture, but he was at my mercy.
‘You are shooting very wide of the mark,’ he replied, with an attempt at
nonchalance, ‘and, forgive me for adding, talking of what you know
nothing. I am not in the habit of confiding the details of my domestic
life to everybody I meet in this world, but had the fact of my marriage
been likely to affect Mr. Lovett or his daughters, I should certainly
have announced it. Since you refuse to gratify my curiosity any further,
may I ask to see Miss Lovett?’
‘She will not consent to see you,’ I replied, ‘for she is as well aware
as I am of the way in which you have treated her sister.’
‘Under these circumstances, I presume that I had better relieve you both
of my presence until Mr. Lovett’s return.’
‘You can do as you choose about that,’ I said, as I left him standing
there and took my way upstairs again.
In another minute he had passed into the street and was on his road, as
I concluded, to the Hôtel d’Etoile, where he had been in the habit of
spending his evenings since Armand had given up playing cards; and
Madame Marmoret informed me that he did not return to the house that
night.
It was a sad and anxious vigil that we spent beside the bedside of poor
Ange, who, towards the small hours, began to toss her arms and head
about and mutter rapid incoherent words of which we could not catch the
import.
As morning dawned, she lay more quiet, but the cruel fever still raged
on, and she was very, very weak.
‘How soon can the doctor arrive, Tessie?’ I inquired, as we met over a
melancholy breakfast at a side-table in the kitchen. ‘When does the
diligence come in?’
‘At eleven o’clock, Hilda. It is the only one, you know, so they are
both sure to be with us by that time. What a comfort it will be to have
papa at home once more!’
We sat together, anxiously waiting the advent of the diligence, and
scarcely daring to make a surmise as to the probable issue of the
doctor’s verdict on our poor little sister’s case.
Eleven o’clock struck! Half-past eleven, and then there was a sound of
feet in the _salle_ below. I did not stop to let Madame Marmoret
announce any names, but flew past her on the stairs and into the room.
Neither Monsieur Perrin nor Mr. Lovett awaited me there. The new arrival
was Mr. Warrington. In my astonishment at seeing him, I forgot for a
moment the absence of the others.
‘Why! Mr. Warrington! You are the last person in the world I expected to
see.’
‘And yet I sent Miss Hilda notice of my intended visit,’ he answered,
shaking hands with me.
‘True! but not of the probable time. However, I am very glad you are
come. If I needed your advice when I wrote to you, I want it tenfold
more now. I am in a sad tangle and perplexity, Mr. Warrington.’
‘Sorry to hear that! I must have a long talk with your trustee about
your financial concerns. I have come over for no other purpose. Do you
wish your money to remain invested as it is at present?’
‘No, I think not. The fact is, Mr. Warrington, I—I—(I have not told the
Lovetts yet, as it is no concern of theirs) but—I am engaged to be
married.’
‘Hallo! That is sharp work, Miss Hilda. Not to a foreigner, I hope!’
‘Now, Mr. Warrington, I thought you would be above such vulgar
prejudice. He _is_ a foreigner—Baron Armand de Nesselrode—but he is
better than all the Englishmen put together.’
‘Oh! that of course. And do you intend to settle your income upon this
gentlemen, then?’
‘I have not decided that yet; but I do want to have it transferred to my
own keeping. And oh! Mr. Warrington, you will have to pay a few debts of
Mr. Lovett’s out of it too, because I promised the poor people I would
be responsible for their money.’
At this announcement the solicitor looked grave.
‘We must speak further on that subject, Miss Hilda. I can do nothing in
a hurry. Where is Mr. Lovett, and how soon shall I be able to see him?’
Then I remembered that my guardian ought to have arrived with the doctor
from Rille by the same conveyance as Mr. Warrington had travelled in.
‘Why, he was at Rille, and didn’t he come with you in the diligence?’ I
exclaimed hastily. ‘An old man with white hair and very blue eyes, and
accompanied by a foreign doctor?’
‘No; there were no gentry at all in the diligence. Only a few peasants
and a sister of mercy.’
‘What can have delayed them?’ I said, in distress. ‘We are in great
trouble here to-day, Mr. Warrington. The youngest Miss Lovett was taken
ill yesterday, and we have no medical assistance nearer than Rille. I
wrote to her father by last night’s post, begging him to return this
morning and bring a doctor with him, and I cannot imagine what should
have prevented their arrival. What shall we do?’
‘Is the case serious, then?’
‘I fear it is—very serious!’
‘Can I do nothing to help you, Miss Hilda?’
‘Nothing, thank you, Mr. Warrington! We can but watch her and wait. Are
you staying at the Etoile?’
‘No, at the Cloche. The other looked too noisy for me. I will say
good-bye now, then, as you are busy, and you must let me know as soon as
Mr. Lovett returns.’
‘I will—good-bye!’
I was so glad to see the last of the dear little man who looked as
dapper as if he had travelled up from London in a sealed envelope, for
my mind was too much occupied to attend to him. As soon as ever his back
was turned, I flew to Tessie to speculate on what unforeseen accident
could possibly have occurred to prevent her father joining us.
But speculation was of no use. We were utterly helpless. Wringing our
hands would not abate one breath of the dreadful fever that was burning
in Ange’s veins. All we could do was to pray to God.
Madame Marmoret had spread the news through St. Pucelle, and many a poor
peasant woman came up that afternoon and pleaded for admission, only
just to look upon the face of _petite_ Ange. But I would let no one pass
the threshold of her door, for her delirium was now at its height, and
she talked continually.
Tessie, who had no stamina, looked worn out with one night’s watching;
and I persuaded her to go to my room and sleep, whilst I sat with her
sister. It was a melancholy task to listen to the poor child’s ravings,
and I had to call up all my dearest thoughts of Armand, and to try and
look steadily forward to the future that was opening for me, in order to
keep my courage up to the sticking-point.
‘I do not believe it,’ Ange muttered rapidly—‘I do not believe it. I
cannot believe it! He is _not_ married. Well, then, I will ask him
myself. Where is he? At the Hôtel d’Etoile. I will go at once and ask
him. It is but a step. What do my bare feet signify! I do not feel the
stones. I only want to ask Cave if he is married. Yes, yes, I will go at
once!’ and in a moment she was half out of bed, with her fevered feet
upon the floor.
‘Dear, _dear_ Ange!’ I expostulated with her. ‘Get into bed again! Where
would you go to, my darling? You are not dressed. You cannot leave the
room. You must lie down like a good child and go to sleep.’
She stared at me as if I had been a stranger.
‘Who is it? Why would you keep me? I do not mind the cold. I must go to
the Hôtel d’Etoile. Sophy says he is there every evening, and perhaps he
is waiting for me. He used to be angry sometimes because I did not go to
meet him; but I was afraid papa would hear of it. And papa is so good!
Oh, he is so good! so good! He is like a bright saint from heaven. Do
you believe he would do anybody a wrong? If people tell lies, that is
not his fault. He has a glory round his head. Now it is a rainbow
bridge, stretching right into heaven! Let me climb up it—up—up—up—till
we go through the shining gates together! But there is such a pain in my
head! It dazzles me to look at them.’
‘Lie down, my darling Ange! and let me bathe your poor head with this
cold water.’
‘Oh, sister Celeste, is it you? I have not finished the priest’s
vestment yet, _ma sœur_. There are so many stitches in it, and the gold
thread sparkles so, it makes my head ache. But I shall finish it soon!
very, very soon! and then dear papa shall pay Cave the hundred and
twenty-five francs he owes him. They will give me all that, will they
not, _ma sœur_—and perhaps more? Yes, yes; I know—you said so; and then
Cave shall have one hundred and twenty-five francs—one hundred and
twenty-five francs—one hundred and twenty-five francs! Oh, don’t ask me
to count them over any more! They shine so, they make my head ache!’
So this was the secret of the little maid’s daily visits to the convent.
She had been assisting the nuns in the embroidery orders they executed
for the church, with the intention of paying back to Cave Charteris the
money her father had borrowed from him.
Sweet, tender, self-denying little heart! Had it broken in the effort to
sacrifice itself?
‘Oh, Cave!’ she screamed suddenly, as the fever made a fiercer grasp
upon her brain, ‘tell me you are _not_ married! You cannot be! It is
impossible, because you love me so! And you are going to tell papa! You
have promised me that you will tell papa directly you receive that
letter from England. Why can’t you tell him now? Is he busy? Who are
those people in the yard? How fierce and strange their faces look! Do
they want to kill him? Oh, Cave, save my father! save my poor father!
Look at all the wolves round him! Save him from the wolves!’
She was becoming so terribly excited, that I was obliged to hold her
down in her bed by main force.
‘Down, down!’ I heard her mutter. ‘Look at the gold pressing me
down—till I sink into the earth! Napoleons—bright yellow Napoleons! How
nice and cool they feel! but they are very heavy—much too heavy for me!
I am not very old, you see. I was eighteen on the day I had those silver
earrings you like so much—and you are thirty! How can you love me when I
am so much younger than yourself? Yet you do, don’t you? You have sworn
it so many times! Oh yes, yes; I understand. You needn’t be afraid. I
shan’t tell Hilda!’
The fever was running so high, and the dear child was becoming so
violent, that I felt desperate. What could I do to quiet her? I had a
bottle of laudanum in my room that I kept in the event of toothache, and
I poured twenty or thirty drops of it in a little water, and gave it her
to drink.
Rightly or wrongly done, it had the effect of making her doze off for an
hour, during which time I sat with bated breath and folded hands, lest I
should disturb the charm.
At seven o’clock Tessie crawled into the room again, looking like a
washed-out rag. She seemed as if she wanted almost as much care as her
sister, although I do not believe she at all realised the danger Ange
was in.
‘Oh, I am so weary!’ were the first words she said to me.
‘I see you are. Well, look here, Tessie: I am going downstairs now to
make you a good strong cup of coffee, and then I shall lie down till
twelve o’clock, when you must come and call me again.’
‘Oh, that won’t be fair, Hilda! You sat up all last night.’
‘Never mind! I am stronger than you are, and a few hours’ rest will make
me quite fresh. Ange is sleeping quietly now, and I hope she may
continue to do so. But, at any rate, you are to wake me at twelve.’
Notwithstanding my boasted strength, however, I was very glad to close
my eyes in sleep; for to hold a night’s vigil is very trying when one is
unaccustomed to it. But I have always possessed the ability to wake
myself at any given hour. I lay down that evening, expecting to be
roused at midnight: and at midnight I roused myself, without giving any
one the trouble to call me. I waked in the darkness, struck a match, and
perceived the hands of my little clock stood at fifteen minutes past the
hour.
‘Just like Tessie!’ I thought. ‘She thinks to cheat me into snoring till
six o’clock in the morning. But I am one too many for her!’
I lit my candle, slipped on the shoes, which were the only articles of
dress I had disencumbered myself of, and stole noiselessly across the
corridor into the sisters’ room.
How quietly Ange must be sleeping! There was not a sound but her
breathing to be heard. Surely she must be better! The room was wrapt in
gloom; it was foolish of Tessie not to have procured a lamp. I threw the
light of my taper across the bed. The first thing I perceived was the
form of Tessie, seated on the ground, with her head against the
counterpane, and fast asleep. The words of Scripture flashed across my
mind, ‘Could ye not watch one hour?’ But I excused her.
‘Poor girl,’ I thought, ‘she is really weak! It is a physical
impossibility for her to keep awake.’
The next moment I had thrown my light _upon_ the bed to see how Ange
fared.
Merciful heavens! _Where was she?_ I rushed up to the couch and pulled
down the clothes impetuously. It was empty—void!
I glanced round the room: it was in the same condition. _Ange was gone!_
‘Tessie, Tessie!’ I exclaimed loudly, as I shook that young lady into
consciousness again. ‘Where is your sister? Where is Ange?’
She waked with a start of bewilderment, and became as horrified as
myself.
‘But she was _here_—she was _here_!’ she kept on repeating. ‘I only went
to sleep for a minute, indeed, Hilda! I left her sleeping safely here.’
‘I believe it; but while you slept she has escaped. We must search every
corner of the house at once. Come with me! there is not a moment to
lose!’
We rushed from room to room without success. Ange was apparently nowhere
on the premises. I clasped my hands upon my forehead to try and decide
what to do next. Escaped! and in the middle of the night! Where could
she have gone to? Where could she _wish_ to go? I had it! Like an
inspiration the answer came to me: ‘To the Hôtel d’Etoile!’
‘Tessie!’ I cried, ‘you must stay here, in case Ange returns. Go and
wake Madame Marmoret to keep you company. And I will go and search for
her in the town.’
‘_In the town!_ Oh, Hilda, how could she be in the town? It is
impossible!’
‘Find her in the house then!’ I exclaimed, as I ran out of the front
door, which was never fastened, night nor day, and flew down the steep
stony street, in the direction of the Hôtel d’Etoile, as fast as my feet
could carry me.
It was the principal hotel in the place, and boasted of a billiard-room,
which was on the ground-floor and fronted the street. The young men in
St. Pucelle made this billiard-room their nightly rendezvous: and it was
here that Sophy Markham had averred that Charteris spent all his
evenings.
Long before I reached it I could see the stream of light which its lamps
threw across the road, and hear the sound of men’s voices, laughing and
talking together, and the click of the billiard-balls cannoning each
other on the table. I felt sure it was here that Ange’s delirious fancy
would lead her, and I was right. As I arrived opposite the open window
of the billiard-room, I caught sight of a dark figure half hidden in the
shadow of the wall, and springing towards it, I clasped her in my
arms—Ange, with only her black dress covering her nightgown, her
bronze-coloured hair floating over her shoulders, and her poor naked
feet upon the ground.
‘Ange! Ange! my darling!’ I exclaimed, as I folded her to my heart.
‘Come back! Come home with me! You will be so ill if you remain here!’
‘_Hush! Hark!_’ she said, with such wide-open, fixed and solemn eyes,
and in such a tone of awe, that I felt constrained to obey her.
There were perhaps a dozen men or more, knocking the billiard-balls
about and filling the atmosphere with smoke, but Cave Charteris’s voice
was to be distinguished above them all.
‘Reckless old dog, that _Papa_ Lovett,’ I heard him say. ‘He’s a regular
out-and-out swindler! I’ve lent him more cash myself since I’ve been
here than his whole carcase would pay for, but I knew I should never see
the colour of it again when I parted with it.’
‘Took the change out in other ways, I suppose, _mon cher_?’ suggested a
foreigner. ‘The _bon papa_ has two pretty daughters, _n’est ce pas_? and
it is said you have evinced a decided predilection for the little one.’
‘_Ah! fi donc_, monsieur!’ cried Charteris, jestingly; ‘don’t make
profane remarks! I am a married man! and other men’s pretty daughters
are of no further use to me.’
‘_Vraiment!_ I shouldn’t have thought it!’ rejoined the other,
incredulously.
I had felt the slight form in my clasp shiver under these words, as if
it had been struck, and I could bear it no longer.
‘Ange!’ I exclaimed vehemently, ‘you _must_ come home! this is no place
for you! and you will catch your death of cold if you remain here any
longer. I _insist_ upon your returning with me!’
But there was no answer to my appeal, only the form I held seemed to
sink lower and lower, until I could support it no longer.
‘Ange! Ange!’ I went on in terror, ‘try and hold yourself up, or I must
call for assistance. I cannot carry you. Oh, darling! make one effort
and let me get you home!’
Still she sunk down—down—heavier each moment in my arms.
‘Mr. Charteris!’ I screamed in my alarm; ‘Mr. Charteris! Come here! Come
at once—Ange is dying!’
There was a sudden commotion in the billiard-room as my voice reached
its occupants—a few exclamations of surprise—a cessation of sound—and
then Cave Charteris came flying through the open window to my aid.
‘Hold her up!’ I panted; ‘I have no strength left! She escaped from us
in her delirium, and I must have her carried home at once.’
He seized the little figure from me and laid the head against his arm.
The light from the billiard-room streamed over her pallid face: her
violet eyes were closed and sunken: there was a grey shade about the
mouth that was not to be mistaken.
‘Ange! Ange! speak to me!’ I cried, in my anguish and dismay.
‘Ange! _petite_ Ange! say you forgive me,’ chimed in the deeper tones of
Cave Charteris’s voice.
At that sound she opened her eyes, very, very slowly, as if the action
gave her pain, and fixed them upon his. I saw the words, ‘I _forgive_,’
tremble upon the quivering lips, which closed again and then fell open
as her spirit passed away upon the wings of Night!
* * * * *
I feel that no description I can append to this simple recital can
increase its pathos. Ange died—just as I have told you—and I never
looked upon the face of Cave Charteris after that night. I never wish to
look upon it. He ranks in my memory as one of the worst men I ever met.
Mr. Lovett arrived home on the next day, with the doctor in his train,
when _petite_ Ange was lying stretched and still upon her bed, with her
waxen hands filled with the autumn flowers the poor of St. Pucelle had
placed in them. Her father’s grief was naturally very violent—such
saintly mourners usually mourn noisily. Yet he had not considered his
child’s illness of sufficient importance to oblige him to give up a
dinner at Rille, which he had been pledged to attend on the previous
day.
I almost wondered, as I watched him bury her in the little strip of
ground appropriated to those of her faith, in the Abbé Morteville’s
cemetery, that he did not fall headlong on the coffin and denounce
himself as Ange’s murderer. But no such idea ever entered his venerable
head. He lived for several years afterwards, to talk of virtue and
practice vice, and when he died, his creditors howled like hungry wolves
above his grave, and had to recoup themselves by abusing him for the
rest of their lives. Some few got their money—those to whom I had
promised it in the courtyard—but their demands were but as a drop in the
ocean. Mr. Warrington’s advent in St. Pucelle was a terrible blow to Mr.
Lovett, especially when his legal research on my behalf resulted in the
discovery that a large portion of my little patrimony had been wasted or
spent. But I would not let him prosecute my guardian, for Tessie’s sake.
I felt that she had sorrows enough to bear, poor girl, without this open
disgrace being added to them. By the time that Mr. Lovett died, my
Armand’s term of probation in Algiers was ended, and he had got his own
again, so I made Tessie come and live with us.
That was a happy period. It was so delightful to watch the roses return
to her cheeks, and the roundness to her form, and to feel that the
saddest part of her life was over, and she was free to choose her future
destiny. But we did not keep her with us long. In Paris that was hardly
to be expected! Every one prophesied she would marry a foreigner, yet
she married——
Stay! Armand and I are going over next week to England, to spend a whole
month in Norwood, with my dear old friend Mrs. Sandilands, to whom I am
very anxious to introduce my husband and my son, Godefroi de
Nesselrode—who is already seven years old.
And Charlie, dear old boy! is anticipating our arrival as if he were
still my mother’s ‘blue-eyed baby’ of twenty-two, instead of a sober
citizen of thirty, because he wants me, not to be introduced to, but to
renew my acquaintance with, _his wife_—Mrs. Sandilands Number Two—my
dear friend Tessie!
It all came about as naturally as possible, although it sounds so
romantic, for Charlie came to stay with us in Paris, and popped the
question to her there, without even asking my advice upon the subject,
and took her home with him to be his mother’s eldest daughter!
* * * * *
So they all lived happy ever afterwards. Yes, that is true—strictly and
literally true—because they were not such fools as to expect, or wish
for, unalloyed happiness in this world of shadow. They had been hungry,
and they were filled—they had been naked, and they were clothed—they had
suffered, sometimes very acutely—and they were loved and looked after,
and guarded by good and true men, and would have been ingrates as well
as fools, not to recognise how much more fortunate they were than many
of their fellows.
But there is one dark passage in Tessie’s life and mine which we shall
never forget—the night that Ange’s spirit spread its wings and flew away
from us. Sometimes I wonder, when Armand is more than usually tender to
me, or little Godefroi more than usually good, if _she_ is hovering
round us who are so happy, and rejoices because we rejoice. Or does she
stand by Cave Charteris’s side, for the sake of the love she bore him,
to urge him on to better thoughts and a higher career? Or is she
wandering through the Elysian fields with the old father whom she
believed in so faithfully, until his blazoned disgrace snapped her
tender heartstrings!
Who can tell me? No parson, no priest, no book! Nothing but the great
mystery that bore her from us—the solver of all our doubts, the cure for
all our sorrows: Death!
Let us thank God that amidst the troubles He ordained for this earthly
pilgrimage, He left us a sure and certain remedy that cannot fail to
come to every one at last!
Ange and Tessie and I shall walk together once more, through flowery
paths, more beautiful than those in St. Pucelle, and talk of everything
that may have befallen us since we last parted! And my mother—my
unforgotten, lamented mother, shall smile on us there, and bid us
welcome. Reader! do you not believe it?
Then, I pity you! Farewell!
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY.
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page Changed from Changed to
227 leaned against the courtyard leaned against the courtyard
wall, fencing off wall, fending off
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● Enclosed blackletter font in =equals=.