THE HOUR OF NEED.
Catherine stood upon the threshold of her own gate: her house still and
vacant behind, the lamps just carried into the vacant place up stairs,
the windows beginning to show lights. She stood, herself a shadow, for
the moment regardless of the shadow at her feet, looking out into the
dim world after the other shadow which went along swift and silent into
the darkness. "Edward!" she cried; but he did not hear. He had
disappeared before she turned her eyes to the other, who, by this time,
had raised herself to her knees, and remained there looking up, her face
a paleness in the dim air, nothing more. Catherine Vernon looked at her
in silence. She had heard all that had been said. She had heard the girl
plead for herself, and it had not touched her heart. She had heard
Hester beaten down to the ground by the reproach of her father's shame,
and a certain pity had moved her. But a heart, like any other vessel,
can contain only what it can contain. What time had she to think of
Hester? what room? Edward had been her son, her creed; whoso proved that
he was not worthy of faith even in Catherine's interest was her enemy;
everything else came in a second place. He had stabbed and stabbed her,
till the blood of those wounds seemed to fill up every crevice in her
being. How could she think of a second? She looked after him with a cry
of sorrow and anger and love that would not die. "Edward!" No doubt he
could explain everything--he could tell her how it was, what had
happened, what was the meaning of it all. Only when he was gone, and it
was certain that he meant to explain nothing, did she turn to the other.
They looked at each other, though neither could see anything but that
paleness of a face. Then Catherine said--
"If you are not hurt, get up and come in. I have to ask you--there are
things to explain----"
"I am not hurt: he did not throw me down," said Hester, "it was an
accident."
Catherine made an impatient gesture. She did not even help the girl to
get up; the dislike of so many years, raised to the tragic point by this
association with the most terrible moment of her life, was not likely to
yield in a moment, to give way to any sense of justice or pity. She
motioned to her to follow, and led the way quickly into the house. The
great door was ajar, the stairs and passages still dark. They went up,
one shadow following another, without a word. In the drawing-room
Marshall had just placed the two shaded lamps, and was closing the
windows. His mistress called to him to leave them as they were, and sat
without speaking until, after various flittings about the room, he went
away. Then she hastily raised the shade from the lamp upon her own
table, throwing the light upon her own face and the other. They were
both very pale, with eyes that shone with excitement and passion. The
likeness between them came out in the strangest way as they stood thus,
intent upon each other. They were like mother and daughter standing
opposed in civil war. Then Catherine sat down and pointed Hester to
another chair.
"We are not friends," she said, "and I don't think I can ever forgive
you; but you are young, and perhaps you are strained beyond your
strength. I would not be cruel. Will you let me give you something to
restore you, or will you not, before you speak? for speak you must, and
tell me what this means."
"I want nothing," said Hester. "If I should be killed, what would it
matter? I recognise now that I have no right to your kindness--if that
was true----"
"It was true."
"Then I ask your pardon," said the girl, folding her hands. "I would do
it on my knees, but you would think that was--for effect. I should think
so myself in your place. You do right to despise us: only this--oh, God
help us, God help us--I never knew----"
"Girl," cried Catherine roughly, "the man you love (I suppose) has just
fled away, so far as I can see, dishonoured and disgraced, and leaving
you for ever! And yet you can stop to think about effect. I do not think
you can have any heart."
Hester made no reply. She had reached that point which is beyond the
heights of sensation. She had felt everything that heart could feel.
There were no more tears in her, nor anger nor passion of any kind. She
stood speechless, let any one say what they would to her. It might all
be true.
"I do not think you can have any heart," cried her passionate opponent.
"If it had been me at your age, and I had loved him, when he threw me
from him so, I should have died."
There came a ghost of an awakening on Hester's face, a sort of pitiful
smile of acquiescence. Perhaps it might be so. Another, more finely
tempered, more impassioned, more high and noble than she, might have
done that: but for her, poor soul, she had not died. She could not help
it.
Catherine sat in her seat as in a throne, with a white face and gleaming
eyes, and poured forth her accusations.
"I am glad of it," she said, "for my part! for now you will be queen's
evidence, which it is fit and right your father's daughter should be. Do
not stand there as if I had put you on your trial. What is it to me if
you have any heart or not? I want information from you. Sit down there
and husband your strength. How long has this been going on? It was not
the first time he had talked to you of flying, oh no. Tell me honestly:
that will be making some amends. How long has this been going on?"
Hester looked at her with great liquid eyes, dewy in their youthfulness
and life, though worn with fatigue and pain. She asked in a low,
wondering voice, "Did you hear all we said?"
"I heard--all, or almost all. Oh, you look at me so to accuse me, a
listener that has heard no good of herself! I am not sorry I did it. It
was without intention, but it was well. I can answer for myself. Do you
answer for yourself. How long has it been going on?"
Hester stood still, clasping and unclasping her hands. She had nobody to
appeal to, to stand by her: this was a kind of effort to get strength
from herself. And her spirit began to come back. The shock had been
terrible, but she had not been killed. "What can I say to you beyond
what I have said," she cried, "if you heard what we said? There was no
more. His life has been intolerable to him for a long time; the
monotony, the bondage of it, has been more than he could bear. He has
wanted change and freedom--"
Hester thought she was making excuses for Edward. She said all this
quickly, meaning to show that these were innocent causes for his flight,
motives which brought no guilt with them. She was brought to a sudden
pause. Catherine, who had been gazing at her when she began with harsh,
intent earnestness, suddenly threw up her hands with a low cry of
anguish. She sank back into her chair and covered her face. The girl
stood silenced, overawed, her lips apart, her eyes wide staring. The
elder woman had shown no pity for her anguish. Hester, on her side, had
no understanding of this. She did not know that this was the one
delusion of Catherine's soul. Miss Vernon had believed in no one else.
She had laughed and seen through every pretence--except Edward. Edward
had been the sole faith of her later life. He had loved her, she
believed; and she had been able to give him a life worthy of him. Heaven
and earth! She had heard him raving, as she said to herself, outside.
The boy had gone wrong, as, alas, so many have gone: out of a wicked,
foolish love, out of a desire to be rich, perhaps. But this was
different. A momentary temptation, even a quick recurring error, that
can be understood. But that his life should have been intolerable, a
monotony, a bondage, that change had been what he longed for--change
from her house, her presence, her confidence! She gave vent to a cry
like that of a wild animal, full of horror and misery and pain. The girl
did not mean to hurt her. There was sincerity in every tone of her
voice. She thought she was making his sins venial and defending him. Oh,
it was true, true! Through Catherine's mind at that moment there ran the
whole story of her later days, how she had used herself to the pretences
of all about her, how every one around had taken from her, and snarled
at her, eaten of her bread, and drunk of her cup, and hated her--except
Edward. He alone had been her prop, her religion of the affections. The
others had sneered at her weakness for him, and she had held her head
high. She had prided herself on expecting no gratitude, on being
prepared, with a laugh, to receive evil for good--except from him. Even
now that she should be forced to acknowledge him ungrateful, that even
would have been nothing, that would have done her no hurt. But to hear
that his past life had been a burden, a bondage, a monotony, that
freedom was what he longed for--freedom from her! The whole fabric of
her life crushed together and rocked to its foundations. She cried out
to Heaven and earth that she could not bear it--she could not bear it!
Other miseries might be possible, but this she could not endure.
Hester stood motionless, arrested in what she had to say. She did not
understand the sudden effect of her words; they seemed to her very
common words, nothing particular in them: certainly no harm. She herself
had experienced the monotony of life, the narrowness and bondage. But as
she stood silenced, gazing, there came over her by degrees a faint
comprehension; and along with this a sudden consciousness how strange it
was that they should be both heartbroken on one subject and yet stand
aloof from each other like enemies. It was not possible to mistake that
cry--that sudden gesture, the hiding of Catherine's face. Whatever was
the cause of it, it was anguish. And was there not cause enough? For a
moment or two, Hester's pride kept her back--she had been already
repulsed. But her heart was rent by trouble of her own. She made a step
or two forward, and then dropped upon her knees, and touched Catherine's
arm softly with a deprecating, half-caressing touch.
"Oh, Catherine Vernon!" she cried, "we are both in great trouble. We
have not been fond of each other; but I am sorry, sorry, for you--sorry
to the bottom of my heart."
Catherine made no reply. The shock was too great, too terrible and
overwhelming. She could not answer nor show that she heard even,
although she did hear in the extraordinary tension of her faculties. But
Hester continued to kneel beside her. Youth is more simple than age even
when it is most self-willed. The girl could not look on and refuse to be
touched, and she herself wanted fellowship, human help or even human
opposition, something different from the loneliness in which she was
left. She touched Catherine's arm with her hand softly two or three
times, then after a while in utter downfall and weakness drooped her
forehead upon it, clasping it with both her hands, and sobbed there as
upon her mother's breast. The room was perfectly still, stretching round
them, large and dim: in this one corner the little steadfast light upon
the group, the mother (you would have said) hiding her face from the
light, hiding her anguish from both earth and Heaven, the daughter with
that clinging which is the best support, giving to their mutual misery
the pathetic broken utterance of tears.
Catherine was the first to rouse herself. The spasm was like death, but
it came to an end. She tried to rise with a little wondering impatience
at the obstacle. It was with the strangest sensation that she turned her
eyes upon the hidden head lying so near her own, and felt, with an
extraordinary thrill, the arms clasped round her arm, as if they never
would detach themselves. What new thing was this? Hester had lost all
her spirit and power. She had got within the sphere of a stronger than
she. She was desolate, and she clung to the only arm that could sustain
her. Catherine's first impulse was to snatch her arm away. What was this
creature to her--this girl who one way or other had to do with
everything that had happened to her, and was the cause of the last blow?
She could have flung her away from her as Edward had done. But the
second glance moved her more and more strangely. The helplessness had an
appeal in it, which would not be resisted. It even did her the good
office of withdrawing her thoughts for a moment from the emergency which
claimed them all. She half rose, then fell back again and was silent,
not knowing what to do. What appeal could be more strong than that of
those arms so tightly holding her own? She tried to speak harshly, but
could not. Then an impulse she could not resist, led her to lay her
other hand upon the drooping head.
"Hester," she said, gravely, "I understand that you are very unhappy. So
am I. I thank you for being sorry for me. I will try, in the future, to
be sorry for you. But just now, understand, there is a great deal to do.
We must stand between--him," her voice faltered for a moment, then went
on clear as before, "between him and punishment. If he can be saved he
must be saved; if not, we must save what we can. You have overcome me, I
cannot put you from me. Free me now, for I have a great deal to do."
She had felt, by the closer straining of the clasping arms, that Hester
heard every word. Now the girl raised her face, pale, with a look of
terror.
"What can you do? Are you able to do it?" she said.
"Able!" said Catherine, raising herself upright with a sort of smile. "I
am able for everything that has to be done. Child, get up and help me!
Don't cry there and break my heart."
Hester stumbled to her feet in a moment. She could scarcely stand, but
her heart sprang up like a giant--
"I will do--whatever you tell me," she said.
Catherine rose too. She put away her emotion from her as a workman
clears away all encumbering surroundings. She made the girl sit down,
and went out of the room and brought her some wine.
"Perhaps," she said, "we may help each other; at all events we have a
common interest, and we have no time to give to lamentations to-night.
The first thing is--but your mother will be unhappy about you. What
shall I do? Shall I send her word that you are here and staying with me
all night? Your mother is a happier woman than you or I. She will accept
the reason that is given her without questioning. Probably she will be
pleased. Be calm and rest yourself. I will do all that is needful."
She went to her writing-table and began to write, while Hester,
shattered and broken, looked on. Catherine showed no signs of
disablement. The butler came in in his stealthy way while she was
writing, and asked if he must "shut up." She said--"No," going on with
her writing. "You will go, or send some one, at once to the Heronry with
this note. And afterwards you can go to bed. I wish no one to sit up. I
expect news, for which I must wait myself. Let all go to bed as usual.
No, stop. Go to the White House also and tell Mr. Harry--What do you
think, Hester? is it worth while to call Harry?"
She turned round with the clear eyes and self-controlled aspect of use
and wont. Even Marshall, who had the skill of a well-trained domestic in
spying out internal commotion, was puzzled. She seemed to be asking a
question on a matter of business in which the feelings were no ways
involved. Hester was not equal to the call upon her, but she made a
great effort to respond.
"He is very--anxious."
Catherine made a movement with her footstool which partly drowned the
last word.
"You can wait a little, Marshall. I will write a note to Mr. Harry too."
The two letters were written at full speed, and given with a hand as
steady as usual into the man's keeping. "Let them be taken at once,"
Catherine said. Then she began to walk up and down the room talking in
her usual tones. "Don't mind me pacing about--it is a habit I have. I
can talk best so. It is my way of taking exercise now." She went on
until Marshall was out of hearing, then turned upon Hester with a
changed tone. "He meant to take you away by the midnight train," she
said. "That was so? He cannot leave Redborough till then. I am going to
meet him there, and endeavour to persuade him to return. Quiet, child!
This is not the moment for feeling. I--feel nothing," she said, putting
her hand as nature bids with a hard pressure upon her heart. "We have
got to do now. Are you strong enough to come with me, or must I go
alone?"
Hester rose up too, quickly, with a start of new energy. "I can do
anything that you will let me do," she said.
"Come, then." But after a moment Catherine put her hands on the girl's
shoulders, and drew her into the light. "You are very young," she said,
"not twenty yet, are you? Poor little thing! I was full grown before I
was brought to this. But show what metal is in you now. Come with me and
bathe your face and put yourself in order. We must have no look of
excitement or trouble to bring suspicion. Everything is safe as yet.
What? Do you know anything more?"
"I know only--what I said," said Hester. "Harry is very anxious. He came
to ask if I knew where--_he_ was. I did not. He said all was wrong, that
no one could put things right but he, that----"
"Yes, yes," Catherine said, with a little impatience; she could not bear
any repetitions. "I have told Harry to come here at half-past twelve. If
we find _him_, if _he_ comes back with us--here is your work, Hester, to
see Harry and dismiss him. If Edward is with us, all will be well. If he
comes, if he only comes! Oh God! I will deny nothing. I will oppose
nothing, let but honour be saved and his good name! And in that case you
will see Harry and send him away. But if he does not come----"
"He will, he will!--for you."
Catherine shook her head; but a faint smile came over her face, a
kindling of hope. Surely, surely the old love--the old long-enduring
bond, would tell for something. It could not be possible that he would
throw everything--love and duty, and honour, and even well-being--all
away--when there was still a place of repentance held out to him. She
took Hester to her room, where she dressed herself carefully, tying on
her bonnet, and drawing out the bows with an elaboration at which the
girl looked on wondering. Then they went down stairs where all was now
in half light, one lamp burning dimly in the hall. As Catherine drew the
heavy door behind her it sent a muffled echo into the air. It was after
eleven o'clock. The world was wrapped in a soft darkness more confusing
than blacker night: there was not a creature visible on the road. She
had not walked, save for her pleasure, in the sunshine just so far as
was agreeable, for years, and it was far to go. To Hester this strange
walk through the dark was at once novel and terrible. She did not know
what interruptions they might meet. She kept close by her companion, who
went along with a free and rapid step, as if she had shaken off half her
weight of years. Deep down in the recollection of many a woman of whom
the world knows no such history will lurk the recollection of such a
walk taken in terror and sorrow, to call back some wanderer, to stop
some shame. The actors in such scenes never speak of them, though they
may be the noblest in their lives. Catherine said something not
uncheerful from time to time, keeping up her own courage as well as her
companion's. Nobody noticed them as they came within the lighted
streets, which were deserted at this late hour, except round the railway
station, where Catherine sped along without a pause. The train had not
arrived; there were a number of people about upon the platform waiting
for it, among them a little group composed of Emma and her trunks, with
old Captain Morgan standing like a pillar in the midst of the confused
heap. "Wait here and watch," Catherine said, putting Hester into a quiet
corner, where the girl stood trembling, gazing at the shifting groups,
hardly able to sustain her fatigued and tottering limbs, but following
with a kind of fascination the movements of her companion, who seemed to
penetrate every knot, to scan every countenance, not a creature there
escaping her inspection.
If he had been there, would all this page of history have been changed,
and wrong become right again? These strange turns for good or evil, that
seem to hang upon the quiver of a balance, are too bewildering for
mortal senses. Catherine by that time had no doubt. Had she but found
him, quivering with love and strength and passion as she was, she would
have saved him still. But he was not there. She made no affectation of
secresy. She called the guard to her, and gave him a succinct reason for
wishing to find her nephew. "Some news have come for him since he left
the house. Find him for me," she said, with a smile, and a half-crown
ready. But by and by she came back to the girl in the corner, reproving
her with an impatient touch on her shoulder. "Don't look so scared," she
said. "What is there to be frightened for?" She took hold of Hester by
the arm. She was trembling from head to foot: for by this time she knew
that he was not there.
There was still the chance left that he might dart in at the last
moment, and it was for this reason that she placed herself by the
doorway, her face full in the lamplight, with a smile upon it, her look
of expectation frank and cheerful. Then came the deafening clang of the
arrival, the confusion and bustle and leave-takings, the little pause
full of voices and noises, and then the clang of the train getting under
way, the sweep and wind of its going, the emptiness and blackness left
behind: all so vulgar and ordinary, yet all tragic sometimes as the most
terrible of accessories. She drew Hester aside almost violently, and let
the other spectators stream away. Among the first old Captain Morgan
stalked forth, tired but contented, noticing nobody. Of all people in
the world he would least have recognised these two standing in agitation
inconceivable, subduing as they could the heart-throbs that took away
their breath. When he had got well on his way the two women came out
into the light. They were holding by each other, Hester clasping her
companion's arm, and guiding her as she had once guided her mother. A
sombre cloud had come over Catherine's face. She had allowed herself to
hope, and the second disappointment was almost worse than the first
revelation. It was all her self-command could do to prevent her from
flinging off from her the girl whose share in all this--what was it?
perhaps the whole was her doing, perhaps the suggestion of everything,
perhaps, God knows, craft enough to make this final effort to recover
the boy a failure. Who could say if Hester had not known from the
beginning that the attempt would be fruitless? And the other, too,
Harry, whom she had called to her by an impulse which seemed now to have
been put into her head by some one, and not to be her own. Harry, too.
He would be brought into the secret! Her humiliation would be complete.
The boy she had scoffed at, the girl she had disliked, turned into her
confidants, and Edward, her own, her heir, her son, the successor she
had chosen!--Catherine's heart cried out within her with a mother's
passion. In the quiet of the country road she could hold her peace no
longer. She drew her arm out of Hester's abruptly.
"No doubt," she said, "no doubt! he was to carry you away, a fine lady
like you, with posthorses in a romantic way--not by the vulgar method of
a train; and you have deceived me, and lost me my last chance. Edward!
Edward! Oh where are you, my boy, my boy?"
Here, had she but known it, poor Catherine's comedy of human nature was
complete. Edward, upon whom she called with tragic passion as great as
that of a Constance, was just then approaching Emma, in a fierce farce
of self-compensation, determined to make the adventure complete, to cut
every tie and tear every remnant of the past to pieces. Her laugh of
contempt at the poor farce-tragedy would have been supreme had it been
any case but her own.