RAILROAD OF LIFE” IN A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE.
Lewis, bruised and wearied after his skirmish with the housebreakers,
flung himself on a sofa in his dressing-room, to try if he could obtain
a few hours’ sleep ere fresh cares and duties should devolve upon him;
but sleep demands a calm frame of mind, and in his spirit there was no
peace. One thought haunted him--in his brief and agitating interview
with Annie, had he betrayed himself? Sometimes, as he recalled the words
he had spoken, and the feelings which had as it were forced them from
him, he felt that he must have done so; and then he regretted that
Hardy’s bullet had flown wide of its mark, and wished that he were lying
there a senseless corpse rather than a living man endowed with power
to feel, and therefore to suffer. Then he bethought him how alarmed and
confused Annie had appeared, and he conceived that she might have been
too thoroughly preoccupied and self-engrossed to have marked his words,
or to have attributed to them any meaning save friendly interest. One
thing was only too clear: of whatever nature might be Annie’s feelings
towards him, his affection for her was love--deep, fervent, earnest
love--a passion that he could neither banish nor control. How then
should he act? flight had now become the idea that most readily occurred
to him: again, the possibility of leaving Walter presented itself to
his mind, and this time not as a mere remote contingency, but as a step
which he might at any moment be called upon to take, if he could not
recover his selfcontrol so entirely as to endure Annie’s presence; nay,
to receive marks of her gratitude and esteem, or even, on occasion,
to share her confidence, without betraying his feelings. Then in his
self-tormenting he caught at the expression which he had half thought,
half uttered, to “_endure_” her presence--to endure that which he
idolised, the presence of one for whom he would sacrifice friends,
family, the love of adventure, his ambitious hopes, nay, as he had but
now proved, life itself. A wild idea crossed his mind: if love were thus
all-powerful with him, a strong-minded, determined man, might it not be
equally so with her, a young, impulsive girl, whose very nature was an
embodiment of tenderness; might she not secretly pine to sacrifice rank,
station, riches, for the sake of love and him? Sacrifice--ay, rather
rejoice to cast off such trammels! Should he strive to ascertain this?
Should he tell her how he loved her with a passion that was undermining
the secret springs of his very existence, and implore her to fly with
him to some fair western land, where the false distinctions of society
were undreamed of, and the brave, true-hearted man was lord, not of his
servile fellows, but of the creation which God had destined him to rule?
The picture, seen by the false glare of his heated imagination, appeared
a bright one, the lights stood out boldly, and the shadows remained
unheeded till the first gleam of returning reason brought them
prominently forward, and he shuddered to think that he could have
entertained for a moment a project so completely at variance with every
principle of honour and of duty. Thus feverish alike in mind and body,
he tossed restlessly on his couch, till at length, thoroughly exhausted,
he fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed bright dreams of happy love, to
make the stern reality appear yet darker and more drear on waking.
On his return to Broadhirst, General Grant expressed his most
unqualified admiration at the gallant defence of his house, property,
and daughter (we quote his own “table of precedence”) by Lewis and the
man-servant. On the former he bestowed a sword (presented to him in
bygone days by some Indian potentate) to replace the weapon broken in
the struggle, together with a handsomely-bound copy of the “Wellington
Despatches”; the latter he rewarded by promotion to the post of butler,
_vice_ Simmonds (in a fair way to be) transported, together with a
douceur of twenty pounds; which piece of good fortune so elated the
youthful Robert that he publicly declared he should like to have his
head broken every night, and wished the house might be robbed regularly
twice a week till further orders. The wounded men recovered rapidly,
with the exception of Hardy, whose case assumed a very alarming
character: owing to the state of his constitution, impaired by a course
of intemperance, to which, since his escape from prison, he had given
himself over, erysipelas supervened, and in a few days his life
was despaired of. On receiving this intelligence Lewis rode over to
H----------, and calling at the hospital, requested to be allowed to see
the man whose life he had been the involuntary instrument of shortening.
The permission was readily accorded, and he was conducted along several
passages to the room, or rather cell, for it was little else, in which,
for the purpose of security as well as to separate him from the other
inmates of the establishment, the burglar had been placed. As soon
as Lewis had entered the door was closed and fastened on the outside.
Noiselessly approaching the truckle bed on which Hardy lay, the young
tutor paused as his glance fell upon the prostrate figure of his
former antagonist. Stretched at full length upon the couch, his arm and
shoulder swathed in bandages, and his muscular throat and broad, hairy
chest partially uncovered, he looked even more gigantic than when in
an erect posture: his face was pale as death, and an unnatural darkness
beneath the skin betokened to any one accustomed to such appearances the
speedy approach of the destroyer; while a small hectic spot of colour
on the centre of each cheek gave evidence of the inward fever which was
consuming him. When Lewis approached the bed his eyes were closed, and
his deep breathing at first led to the belief that he was asleep; that
this was not the case, however, soon became apparent. Opening his
eyes, he accidentally encountered those of Lewis fixed upon him with an
expression of mingled pity and remorse: as their glances met Hardy gave
a start of surprise, and gazed at him with a scowl which proved that his
feelings of animosity against Lewis were still unabated; while a puzzled
look evinced that his mental powers were so much weakened that he
doubted whether the figure he beheld were real or a creation of his
morbid fancy. Advancing to the bedside, Lewis broke the silence by
inquiring whether he suffered much pain. As he began to speak, the
confused look disappeared from the sick man’s countenance, and glaring
at him with an expression of impotent rage, he exclaimed in a low,
hoarse voice--
“So you’re come to look upon your handiwork, are you? I hope you like
it!”
“I am come to tell you that I am sorry the blows I struck you in
self-defence should have produced such disastrous consequences, and to
ask your forgiveness, in case the means employed for your restoration to
health should prove ineffectual,” replied Lewis.
“Restore my health!” repeated Hardy bitterly. “Do you mean that you
expect these doctors can cure me? Do you think these wounds, that burn
like hell-fire, can be healed by their plasters and bandages? I tell you
no! You have done your work effectually this time, and I am a dying man.
You want me to forgive you, do you? If my curse could wither you where
you stand, I would and _do_ curse you! If priests’ tales be true, and
there be a heaven and a hell, and by forgiving you I could reach heaven,
I still would curse you, in the hope that by so doing I might drag you
down to hell with me.”
The vehemence with which he uttered this malediction completely
exhausted him, and falling back on the pillow he lay with closed eyes,
his laboured breathing affording the only proof that he was still alive.
Throwing himself upon a chair by the bedside, Lewis sat wrapped in
painful thought. The reflection that hatred to him for acts which
circumstances had forced him to commit might cause the unhappy being
before him to die impenitent, and that he might thus be instrumental to
the destruction both ot his body and soul, was distressing to him in the
extreme; and yet how to bring him to a better frame of mind was not easy
to decide. At length, following out his own train of thought, he asked
abruptly--
“Hardy, why do you hate me so bitterly?”
Thus accosted, the poacher unclosed his eyes, and fixed them with a
piercing glance upon the face of his questioner, as though he would read
his very soul. Apparently disappointed in his object, for Lewis met his
gaze with the calm self-possession of conscious rectitude, he answered
surlily--
“Why do you come here to torment me with foolish questions? It is enough
that I hate you with just cause--and you know that it is so.
I hate you now, I shall hate you dying, and I shall hate you after
death, if there is a hereafter. Now go. If by staying here you think
to persuade or entrap me into saying I forgive you, you only waste your
time.”
“Listen to me, Hardy,” returned Lewis, speaking calmly and impressively.
“You are, as you truly say, a dying man. In this life we shall probably
never meet again. The reality of a future life you appear to doubt: I
believe in it; and I believe that your condition there may be affected
by your dying with such feelings in your heart as you have now
expressed. It is therefore worth while to discuss this matter, and see
whether you have such just cause to hate me as you imagine.”
As Hardy made no reply, Lewis continued: “It is true that on a former
occasion I secured your capture when perhaps I was stepping beyond my
regular path of duty to do so; but in this last affair I merely acted
in self-defence, as I overheard from my open window your scheme for my
destruction. You discharged a pistol at me ere I attacked you: had the
ball gone half an inch more to the right I should have been a dead
man. Whatever may be your faults, you are brave; and that quality alone
should prevent your bearing malice against one who met you in fair, open
fight. It was a game for life and death, and it is unjust to hate me for
winning it.”
“Boy, you will madden me,” exclaimed Hardy passionately, raising himself
on his elbow as he spoke, though the pain the action caused him forced
a groan from his compressed lips. “Do you suppose I care for your paltry
blows? If they had not finished me, brandy or my own hand would soon
have done so; for life has long been a curse to me, and had become
unbearable since--may the torments I shall soon endure, if there be a
hell, fall upon you for it!--since you and the titled scoundrel, your
accomplice, stole my daughter from me.”
“I!” exclaimed Lewis in astonishment. “Do you imagine me to have had any
share in that wickedness? Why, man, I never saw your daughter save on
two occasions; and on the second of these I warned her--unfortunately
without effect--against the designs of the villain who betrayed her.”
As he spoke Hardy gazed eagerly at him, and when he ceased, exclaimed--
“Tell me when and where was it that you did this?”
“It was on the morning after the electioneering ball at Broadhurst. I
was shooting with the gamekeeper--met your daughter by accident in the
grass field by the larch plantation--and witnessing her parting with
Lord Bellefield, I took the opportunity of telling her his true name and
character, and warning her against his probable designs. But, unluckily,
she had observed a disagreement between us on the previous evening,
and supposing me to be actuated by malicious motives, discredited my
assertion.”
“You are not deceiving me?” questioned Hardy eagerly. “You could not,
dare not, do so now!”
“You do not know me, or you would not doubt my word. I have spoken the
simple truth,” returned Lewis coldly.
“Here!” continued Hardy, producing from beneath the pillow a small Bible
which the chaplain had left with him: “you tell me you believe in this
book. Will you swear upon it that you are not trying to deceive me?”
Lewis raised the book reverently to his lips, and kissing it, took the
required oath. Hardy watched him with a scrutinising gaze, and when he
had concluded, held out his hand, saying--
“I have wronged you deeply, Mr. Arundel, and must ask--what! never
thought again to ask at the hand of man--your forgiveness. I have sought
your life, sir, as the wild beast seeks his prey; and chance, on
one occasion, and your own courage and address on others, have alone
preserved it.”
He then went on to relate how, his suspicions having been excited by
hints from the neighbours, he had learned that his daughter was in the
habit of meeting some gentleman by stealth. How he watched for this
person constantly, without success, till the day after the great party
at Broadhurst, when, lying concealed in the larch plantation, he
had been attracted by the sound of voices, and creeping beneath the
underwood, had witnessed, though not near enough to overhear what
passed, the interview between Lewis and his daughter, when he naturally
concluded the young tutor to be the individual against whom he had been
cautioned. He then went on to relate that the opportune arrival of the
gamekeeper had alone prevented him from shooting the supposed libertine,
but that he had determined on his destruction, and that his subsequent
capture by Lewis and the General had alone hindered him from executing
his design. It was not till after his escape from H--------
gaol that he first heard Lord Bellefield’s name coupled with that of his
daughter, which information complicated the affair; but still feeling
convinced that Lewis was guilty, either as principal or accessory, he
joined in the scheme for robbing Broadhurst, in order to be revenged on
the young tutor, as well as on General Grant, against whom he had
long nourished feelings of animosity, on account of his poaching
persecutions.
His penitence for the wrong he had done him by his unjust suspicions
were so sincere and spontaneous, that Lewis imagined he recognised, amid
the ruin of a naturally generous disposition, that “seed of the soul”
which remains in almost every nature, however the rank growth of evil
passions uncontrolled may have checked its development. Taking advantage
of an expression which Hardy used, that “he thanked God he had not
added to his other sins the murder of one who had sought to befriend his
child,” his companion observed--
“You say you thank God for preserving you from an additional crime:
now, does not the fact of your involuntarily making use of that form of
speech tend to convince you that the belief in a God and a future state
is natural to the mind of man?”
Hardy seemed struck by the force of this remark, and Lewis, pursuing
the subject, had the satisfaction of perceiving that he had excited the
wounded man’s interest, and ere he quitted him he obtained his promise
to listen to the exhortations of the chaplain, whose advances he had
hitherto angrily repulsed. Pleased with the result of his visit, Lewis
on his way home called upon the clergyman who fulfilled the duties of
chaplain to the hospital, and mentioning to him Hardy’s improved frame
of mind, begged him to see him again as soon as possible, to which
request the chaplain willingly acceded.
Three days after this interview Lewis received a note from this
gentleman thanking him for his hint, and informing him that its results
had been as satisfactory as in such a case was possible. Hardy appeared
sincerely penitent, willing to embrace and anxious to profit by the
truths of religion, as far as his weakened faculties enabled him to
apprehend them. He added that he was sinking fast, and had expressed
the greatest desire to see Lewis again before he died, as he had
some request to make to him. On the receipt of this information Lewis
immediately set out for H--------.
A great alteration had taken place in Hardy’s appearance in those three
days. His cheeks had become still more hollow, the unnatural brightness
of his eyes was replaced by a dull, leaden look, and the hectic colour
had faded to the pale, ashy hue of approaching dissolution, whilst the
hoarse, deep tones of his voice were reduced almost to a whisper through
weakness. But the most remarkable change was in the expression of his
features; the sullen scowl, which betokened a spirit at war alike with
itself and others, had given place to a look of calm resignation; there
were indeed traces of bodily pain and mental anguish about the mouth,
but the upper part of the face was in complete repose. Lewis gazed upon
him with deep interest, and the idea suggested itself that thus might
have appeared the demoniac when the words of power had gone forth, “Hold
thy peace, and come out of him.” Nor was the comparison inapt, for if
ever the mind of man was possessed by an evil spirit, that of Hardy had
been so by the demon of revenge. As the dying man perceived his approach
his features lighted up.
“I knew you would come, Mr. Arundel,” he said. “I felt that! should not
die without seeing you again.”
“Do you suffer much pain now, Hardy?” inquired Lewis kindly.
“Scarcely any since six o’clock this morning, sir,” was the reply; “but
I know what that means--that’s mortification coming on. I’ve seen men
die from sabre wounds before now. I was a soldier once--at least I was
farrier to a troop of cavalry, which is much the same thing; but this
was not what I wanted to say to you.” He paused from exhaustion, and
pointed to a glass containing some strengthening cordial. Lewis held
it to his parched lips; having drunk a portion of it, he appeared
considerably revived.
“I am going fast,” he resumed, “and must not waste the minutes that
remain. You have treated me with kindness, sir--one of the few who have
ever done so; you are a bold foe and a warm-hearted friend, and that is
a character I understand and can trust. Moreover, you tell me you showed
poor Jane” (as he mentioned his daughter’s name tears stood in his eyes
and his breath came short and fast) “her danger, and strove to warn her
against the villain who has wronged her, and this shows you are a good
man; therefore I am going to ask you to do me a favour. When I am dead,
I want you to find out Jane and tell her whatever you may think best to
induce her to leave this man. And when she hears that I’m dead, if she
seems to feel it very deep and take on about it--which likely enough she
will, for she did care for me once--you may tell her that I forgave her
before I died. I never thought to do so, for she has finished what her
mother began; between them they’ve first made me the devil I have been,
and then--broken my heart.” He paused, and when he had sufficiently
recovered breath, continued, “When I married her mother, five-and-twenty
years ago, I was a different man from whatever you’ve known me. I’d been
brought up to my father’s trade of a blacksmith, and worked steadily at
it till I was able to lay by a fair sum of money, besides keeping the
old man as long as he was alive. However, in the village where we lived
was a farmer, well-to-do in the world, and his daughter was far the
prettiest girl in those parts; she’d had a good education, and gave
herself airs like a lady, and looked down upon a rough young fellow like
me; but I bore it patiently, for I loved her, and determined I’d never
marry anybody but her. For a long time she would not look at me, but I
persevered; any man that come a-courting her I picked a quarrel with and
thrashed. I found many ways of making myself handy to the old man, her
father, and somehow she got used to me like, and grew less scornful; and
just then a sister of my father’s, who had been housekeeper at
Broadhurst, died and left me £300, and I’d saved about £200 more, and
the old man wanted help to manage his farm. And the long and short of
the matter was I married Harriet Wylde, took a farm next her father’s,
and gave up blacksmithing.
“For four years I was as happy as man could be; everything seemed to
prosper with me. My wife had one child, a girl; a proud man was I when
she was first placed in my arms, but had I known what was to be her fate
I would have smothered her in her cradle! There was a young gentleman
lived near us--his father was a rich baronet--I had been accustomed to
break in horses for the son, and when I took the farm we used to shoot
together. He was a frank, generous-hearted man, and treated me like a
friend and equal. On our shooting expeditions he would often come and
lunch at my house; on one occasion he brought his younger brother with
him. This young fellow had just returned from Italy, and brought foreign
manners and foreign vices with him. My wife was still very good-looking,
like poor Jane, but handsomer; and this heartless villain coveted her
beauty. I know not what arts he used; I suspected nothing, saw nothing,
but one evening on my return my home was desolate. I obtained traces
of the fugitives--he had taken her to a seaport town in the south of
England, meaning to embark for France--I followed them, and in the open
street I met him; the bystanders interfered between us, or I should have
slain him where he stood. He was taken to an inn, where he kept his bed
for some weeks from the effect of the punishment I had administered to
him. I was dragged off to prison; the law which suffered him to rob me
of her whom I prized more dearly than house and goods punished me for
chastising the scoundrel with six months’ imprisonment. I consorted with
thieves, poachers, and other refuse of society; and in my madness to
obtain revenge upon the class which had injured me, I listened to their
specious arguments till I became the curse to myself and others which
you, sir, have known me. Well, society sent me to school, and society
has had the benefit of the lessons that were taught me. I came out of
gaol a bad and well-nigh a desperate man, to learn that my wife had
returned to her father’s house and died, giving birth to a boy. In my
anger I refused to acknowledge the child, but the old man took care of
it. Time passed on: the elder of the two brothers quarrelled with his
father and died abroad, the younger one married; but God visited him for
his sin. His wife saw by accident in an old newspaper an account of my
trial for the assault; the shock brought on a premature confinement;
she also died in childbirth, and the child remained an idiot. Yes! you
start, but you have guessed rightly--the boy to whom you are tutor is
the son of the man who wronged me. The ways of God are very wonderful:
had the boy possessed his proper senses you might never have come here,
and I might not now be lying on my death-bed.”
Again Hardy broke off from weakness, and again Lewis administered the
cordial to him and wiped the cold dews from his brow.
“Little more remains to tell,” he added after a few minutes’ pause; “and
’tis well that it is so, for death comes on apace. I do not fear to
die; I have long wished myself dead, life was such deep misery, yet
now I should be glad to live, that I might undo some of the evil I have
caused. Since I saw you last I have felt more like my former self than I
have ever done from the time my wife left me. Poor Harriet! Do you think
we shall meet in the world of spirits, Mr. Arundel?”
“These are things God alone knows,” replied Lewis gravely. “He has not
seen fit to reveal to living man the secrets of the grave!” After a
short silence, in which Hardy appeared to be collecting strength to
finish his relation, he continued--
“After my release from the prison I took to drinking to banish
reflection. Drinking is a vice which brings all others in its train. I
soon fell into bad company, became involved in debt; and at last, in a
drunken fit, enlisted in the----th Dragoons, my height attracting the
notice of a recruiting party from that regiment. I served ten years, at
the end of which time my wife’s father died and left his little property
between the two children, with the exception of a sum to purchase my
discharge if I chose to come and take care of them. The confinement and
regularity of a soldier’s life did not suit me, and I availed myself
of the opportunity thus offered, returned home, and lived on a certain
income set apart for the maintenance and education of the children. This
was a fresh chance for me, and had I conducted myself properly I might
have yet known some peaceful years; but a craving for excitement
haunted me. I sought out some of my old companions, joined a Chartist
association, took to habits of poaching--and this has been the end of
it.”
“What became of the boy who was left to your care?” inquired Lewis.
Hardy uttered a low groan.
“That is another sin I have to answer for,” he said. “I never liked the
child--I doubted whether it was mine, and the sight of it recalled the
memory of my wrongs; accordingly, I treated the boy harshly, and
he repaid me by sullen disobedience; and yet there should have been
sympathy between us. He was brave even to rashness, and copied my vices
with an aptitude which proved his power of acquiring better things. By
the time he was thirteen he could set a snare, hit a bird on the wing,
thrash any boy of his own weight, and alas! drink, game, and swear as
well as I could myself. One night I had been drinking he angered me, and
in my rage I struck him. For a moment he looked as if he would return
the blow; but the folly of such an attempt seemed to occur to him, and
he glanced towards a knife which lay on the table; then his sister threw
her arms round him, and he refrained. He waited till she had gone to
bed, sitting sulkily without speaking. When we were alone he looked up
and asked me abruptly, ‘Father, are you sorry that you struck me that
blow?’ There was something in the boy’s manner that appealed to my
better feelings, and I was half inclined to own myself wrong, but a
false shame prevented me, and I angrily replied ‘that I would repeat the
blow if he gave me any more of his impertinence.’ He looked sternly at
me, and muttering, ‘That you shall never do,’ quitted the room. From
that day to this I have never seen him. My poor Jane, who was dotingly
fond of him, was broken-hearted at his loss. She told me he often
threatened to run away when I had treated him harshly, and that his
intention was to go to sea. I have no doubt he contrived to put it into
execution. Perhaps if her brother had remained with her the poor girl
might not have left her home so readily. God help me, my sins have
brought their own punishment!”
An attack of faintness here overpowered him, of so severe a character
that Lewis thought it advisable to summon assistance. When Hardy had
in some degree recovered, Lewis, on consulting his watch, found that
he must return without further delay; he therefore prepared to depart,
bidding Hardy farewell, and promising to see him again on the following
day. The dying man shook his head.
“There will be no to-morrow for me in this world,” he said; then
pressing Lewis’s hand, he added, “God bless you, Mr. Arundel; you have
done me more good by your kind words than your sword has done me evil;
nay, even for my death I thank you; for had I lived on as I was I should
only have added crime to crime. You will remember your promise about
poor Jane?”
Lewis repeated his willingness to do all in his power to carry out the
dying man’s wishes; and Hardy added, “It may be that the poor boy I told
you of is still alive. If he should ever return, I should like him to
know that I have often grieved for my bad conduct to him. I have left
a letter for you with the clergyman in case I had not seen you,” he
continued; “it only contains the request I have now made, and one or two
other particulars of less consequence; he will give it to you when I am
gone.” He again pressed Lewis’s hand feebly, and closing his eyes, lay
more dead than alive.
As Lewis quitted the room the surgeon met him and informed him that it
was not probable Hardy would survive through the night, but promised
that every attention should be bestowed upon him. Lewis’s thoughts, as
he rode back to Broadhurst, naturally ran upon the history of sin and
shame and sorrow to which he had just listened, and he could not but
wonder for what purpose a frank, generous nature, such as Hardy had
originally possessed, should have been so severely tried. A like
question may have occurred to many of us, and we may have felt that the
safest course is to look upon such things as mysteries to be regarded
by the twilight of a patient faith, which waits trustfully till all that
now seems dark shall be made clear in the glorious brightness of the
perfect day.