"YOURS ON MONDAY, GOD'S TO-DAY."
The warning gong sounded at half-past seven as usual, and at eight the
butler announced dinner. Captain Vandeleur and Mr. Montagu had returned
from Bodmin, and they were grouped in front of the fire talking in
undertones with Mr. Tregonell, while Christabel and the younger Miss
Vandeleur sat on a sofa, silent, after a few murmured expressions of
grief on the part of the latter lady.
"It is like a dream," sighed Mopsy, this being the one remark which a
young person of her calibre inevitably makes upon such an occasion. "It
is like a dreadful dream--playing billiards last night, and now--dead!
It is too awful."
"Yes, it is awful; Death is always awful," answered Christabel,
mechanically.
She had told herself that it was her duty to appear at the
dinner-table--to fulfil all her responsibilities as wife and
hostess--not to give any one the right to say that she was bemoaning him
who had once been her lover; and she was here to do her duty. She wanted
all the inhabitants of her little world to see that she mourned for him
only as a friend grieves for the loss of a friend--soberly, with pious
submission to the Divine Will that had taken him away. For two hours she
had remained on her knees beside her bed, drowned in tears, numbed by
despair, feeling as if life could not go on without him, as if this
heavily-beating heart of hers must be slowly throbbing to extinction:
and then the light of reason had begun to glimmer through the thick
gloom of grief, and her lips had moved in prayer, and, as if in answer
to her prayers, came the image of her child, to comfort and sustain her.
"Let me not dishonour my darling," she prayed. "Let me remember that I
am a mother as well as a wife. If I owe my husband very little, I owe my
son everything."
Inspired by that sweet thought of her boy, unwilling, for his sake, to
give occasion for even the feeblest scandal, she had washed the tears
from her pale cheeks, and put on a dinner gown, and had gone down to the
drawing-room just ten minutes before the announcement of dinner.
She remembered how David, when his beloved was dead, had risen and
washed and gone back to the business of life. "What use are my tears to
him, now he is gone?" she said to herself, as she went downstairs.
Miss Bridgeman was not in the drawing-room; but Mopsy was there, dressed
in black, and looking very miserable.
"I could not get poor Dop to come down," she said, apologetically. "She
has been lying on her bed crying ever since she heard the dreadful news.
She is so sensitive, poor girl; and she liked him so much; and he had
been so attentive to her. I hope you'll excuse her?"
"Please don't apologize. I can quite imagine that this shock has been
dreadful for her--for every one in the house. Perhaps you would rather
dine upstairs, so as to be with your sister?"
"No!" answered Mopsy, taking Christabel's hand, with a touch of real
feeling. "I had rather be with you. You must feel his loss more than we
can--you had known him so much longer."
"Yes, it is just five years since he came to Mount Royal. Five years is
not much in the lives of some people; but it seems the greater part of
my life."
"We will go away to-morrow," said Mopsy. "I am sure you will be glad to
get rid of us: it will be a relief, I mean. Perhaps at some future time
you will let us come again for a little while. We have been so intensely
happy here."
"Then I shall be happy for you to come again--next summer, if we are
here," answered Christabel, kindly, moved by Mopsy's _naïveté_: "one can
never tell. Next year seems so far off in the hour of trouble."
Dinner was announced, and they all went in, and made believe to dine, in
a gloomy silence, broken now and then by dismal attempts at general
conversation on the part of the men. Once Mopsy took heart of grace and
addressed her brother:
"Did you like the hanging, Jack?" she asked, as if it were a play.
"No, it was hideous, detestable. I will never put myself in the way of
being so tortured again. The guillotine is swifter and more merciful. I
saw a man blown from a gun in India--there were bits of him on my boots
when I got home--but it was not so bad as the hanging to-day: the limp,
helpless, figure, swaying and trembling in the hangman's grip while they
put the noose on, the cap dragged roughly over the ghastly face, the
monotonous croak of the parson reading on like a machine, while the poor
wretch was being made ready for his doom. It was all horrible to the
last degree. Why can't we poison our criminals: let them die
comfortably, as Socrates died, of a dose of some strong narcotic. The
parson might have some chance--sitting by the dying man's bed, in the
quiet of his cell."
"It would be much nicer," said Mopsy.
"Where's Miss Bridgeman?" Leonard asked suddenly, looking round the
table, as if only that moment perceiving her absence.
"She is not in her room, Sir. Mary thinks she has gone out," answered
the butler.
"Gone out--after dark. What can have been her motive for going out at
such an hour?" asked Leonard of his wife, angrily.
"I have no idea. She may have been sent for by some sick person. You
know how good she is."
"I know what a humbug she is," retorted Leonard. "Daniel, go and find
out if any messenger came for Miss Bridgeman--or if she left any message
for your mistress."
Daniel went out, and came back again in five minutes. No one had seen
any messenger--no one had seen Miss Bridgeman go out.
"That's always the case here when I want to ascertain a fact," growled
Leonard: "no one sees or knows anything. There are twice too many
servants for one to be decently served. Well, it doesn't matter much.
Miss Bridgeman is old enough to take care of herself--and if she walks
off a cliff--it will be her loss and nobody else's."
"I don't think you ought to speak like that of a person whom your mother
loved--and who is my most intimate friend," said Christabel, with grave
reproach.
Leonard had drunk a good deal at dinner; and indeed there had been an
inclination on the part of all three men to drown their gloomy ideas in
wine, while even Mopsy, who generally took her fair share of champagne,
allowed the butler to fill her glass rather oftener than usual--sighing
as she sipped the sparkling bright-coloured wine, and remembering, even
in the midst of her regret for the newly dead, that she would very soon
have returned to a domicile where Moët was not the daily beverage, nay,
where, at times, the very beer-barrel ran dry.
After dinner Christabel went to the nursery. It flashed upon her with
acutest pain as she entered the room, that when last she had been there
she had not known of Angus Hamleigh's death. He had been lying yonder by
the waterfall, dead, and she had not known. And now the fact of his
death was an old thing--part of the history of her life.
The time when he was alive and with her, full of bright thoughts and
poetic fancies, seemed ever so long ago. Yet it was only
yesterday--yesterday, and gone from her life as utterly as if it were an
episode in the records of dead and gone ages--as old as the story of
Tristan and Iseult. She sat with her boy till he fell asleep, and sat
beside him as he slept, in the dim light of the night-lamp, thinking of
him who lay dead in the lonely farmhouse among those green hills they
two had loved so well--hushed by the voice of the distant sea, sounding
far inland in the silence of night.
She remembered how he had talked last night of the undiscovered country,
and how, as he talked, with flushed cheeks, and too brilliant eyes, she
had seen the stamp of death on his face. They had talked of "The Gates
Ajar," a book which they had read together in the days gone by, and
which Christabel had often returned to since that time--a book in which
the secrets of the future are touched lightly by a daring but a delicate
hand--a book which accepts every promise of the Gospel in its most
literal sense, and overflows with an exultant belief in just such a
Heaven as poor humanity wants. In this author's creed transition from
death to life is instant--death is the Lucina of life. There is no long
lethargy of the grave, there is no time of darkness. Straight from the
bed of death the spirit rushes to the arms of the beloved ones who have
gone before. Death, so glorified, becomes only the reunion of love.
He had talked of Socrates, and the faithful few who waited at the prison
doors in the early morning, when the sacred ship had returned, and the
end was near; and of that farewell discourse in the upper chamber of the
house at Jerusalem which seems dimly foreshadowed by the philosopher's
converse with his disciples--at Athens, the struggle towards light--at
Jerusalem the light itself in fullest glory.
Christabel felt herself bound by no social duty to return to the
drawing-room, more especially as Miss Vandeleur had gone upstairs to sit
with the afflicted Dopsy--who was bewailing the dead very sincerely in
her own fashion, with little bursts of hysterical tears and fragmentary
remarks.
"I know he didn't care a straw for me"--she gasped, dabbing her temples
with a handkerchief soaked in eau-de-Cologne--"yet it seemed sometimes
almost as if he did: he was so attentive--but then he had such lovely
manners--no doubt he was just as attentive to all girls. Oh, Mop, if he
had cared for me, and if I had married him--what a paradise this earth
would have been. Mr. Tregonell told me that he had quite four thousand a
year."
And thus--and thus, with numerous variations on the same theme--poor
Dopsy mourned for the dead man; while the low murmur of the distant sea,
beating for ever and for ever against the horned cliffs, and dashing
silvery white about the base of that Mechard Rock which looks like a
couchant lion keeping guard over the shore, sounded like a funeral
chorus in the pauses of her talk.
It was half-past ten when Christabel left her boy's bedside, and, on her
way to her own room, suddenly remembered Jessie's unexplained absence.
She knocked at Miss Bridgeman's door twice, but there was no answer, and
then she opened the door and looked in, expecting to find the room
empty.
Jessie was sitting in front of the fire in her hat and jacket, staring
at the burning coals. There was no light in the room, except the glow
and flame of the fire, but even in that cheerful light Jessie looked
deadly pale. "Jessie," exclaimed Christabel, going up to her and putting
a gentle hand upon her shoulder, for she took no notice of the opening
of the door, "where in heaven's name have you been?"
"Where should I have been? Surely you can guess! I have been to see
him."
"To the farm--alone--at night?"
"Alone--at night--yes! I would have walked through storm and fire--I
would have walked through----" she set her lips like iron, and muttered
through her clenched teeth, "Hell."
"Jessie, Jessie, how foolish! What good could it do?"
"None to him, I know, but perhaps a little to me. I think if I had
stayed here I should have gone stark, staring mad. I felt my brain
reeling as I sat and thought of him in the twilight, and then it seemed
to me as if the only comfort possible was in looking at his dead
face--holding his dead hand--and I have done it, and am comforted--a
little," she said, with a laugh, which ended in a convulsive sob.
"My good warm-hearted Jessie!" murmured Christabel, bending over her
lovingly, tears raining down her cheeks; "I know you always liked him."
"Always liked him!" echoed the other, staring at the fire, in blank
tearless grief; "liked him? yes, always."
"But you must not take his death so despairingly, dear. You know that,
under the fairest circumstances, he had not very long to live. We both
knew that."
"Yes! we knew it. I knew--thought that I had realized the fact--told
myself every day that in a few months he would be hidden from us under
ground--gone to a life where we cannot follow him even with our
thoughts, though we pretend to be so sure about it, as those women do in
'The Gates Ajar.' I told myself this every day. And yet, now that he is
snatched away suddenly--cruelly--mysteriously--it is as hard to bear as
if I had believed that he would live a hundred years. I am not like
you, a piece of statuesque perfection. I cannot say 'Thy will be done,'
when my dearest--the only man I ever loved upon this wide earth is
snatched from me. Does that shock your chilly propriety, you who only
half loved him, and who broke his heart at another woman's bidding? Yes!
I loved him from the first--loved him all the while he was your lover,
and found it enough for happiness to be in his company--to see and hear
him, and answer every thought of his with sympathetic thoughts of
mine--understanding him quicker and better than you could, bright as you
are--happy to go about with you two--to be the shadow in the sunshine of
your glad young lives, just as a dog who loved him would have been happy
following at his heels. Yes, Belle, I loved him--I think almost from the
hour he came here, in the sweet autumn twilight, when I saw that poetic
face, half in fire-glow and half in darkness--loved him always, always,
always, and admired him as the most perfect among men!"
"Jessie, my dearest, my bravest! And you were so true and loyal. You
never by word or look betrayed----"
"What do you think of me?" cried Jessie, indignantly. "Do you suppose
that I would not rather have cut out my tongue--thrown myself off the
nearest cliff--than give him one lightest occasion to suspect what a
paltry-souled creature I was--so weak that I could not cure myself of
loving another woman's lover. While he lived I hated myself for my
folly; now he is dead, I glory in the thought of how I loved him--how I
gave him the most precious treasures of my soul--my reverence--my
regard--my tears and hopes and prayers. Those are the only gold and
frankincense and myrrh which the poor of this earth can offer, and I
gave them freely to my divinity!"
Christabel laid her hand upon the passionate lips; and, kneeling by her
friend's side, comforted her with gentle caresses.
"Do you suppose I am not sorry for him, Jessie?" she said reproachfully,
after a long pause.
"Yes, no doubt you are, in your way; but it is such an icy way."
"Would you have me go raving about the house--I, Leonard's wife, Leo's
mother? I try to resign myself to God's will: but I shall remember him
till the end of my days, with unspeakable sorrow. He was like sunshine
in my life; so that life without him seemed all one dull gray, till the
baby came, and brought me back to the sunlight, and gave me new duties,
new cares!"
"Yes! you can find comfort in a baby's arms--that is a blessing. My
comfort was to see my beloved in his bloody shroud--shot through the
heart--shot through the heart! Well, the inquest will find out something
to-morrow, I hope; but I want you to go with me to-morrow morning, as
soon as it is light, to the Kieve."
"What for?"
"To see the spot where he died."
"What will be the good, Jessie? I know the place too well; it has been
in my mind all this evening."
"There will be some good, perhaps. At any rate, I want you to go with
me; and if there ever was any reality in your love, if you are not
merely a beautiful piece of mechanism, with a heart that beats by
clockwork, you will go."
"If you wish it I will go."
"As soon as it is light--say at seven o'clock."
"I will not go till after breakfast. I want the business of the house to
go on just as calmly as if this calamity had never happened. I don't
want any one to be able to say, 'Mrs. Tregonell is in despair at the
loss of her old lover.'"
"In fact you want people to suppose that you never cared for him!"
"They cannot suppose that, when I was once so proud of my love. All I
want is that no one should think I loved him too well after I was a wife
and mother. I will give no occasion for scandal."
"Didn't I say that you were a handsome automaton?"
"I do not want any one to say hard things of me when I am dead--hard
things that my son may hear."
"When you are dead! You talk as if you thought you were to die soon. You
are of the stuff that wears to threescore-and-ten, and even beyond the
Psalmist's limit. There is no friction for natures of your calibre. When
Werther had shot himself, Charlotte went on cutting bread and butter,
don't you know? It was her nature to be proper, and good, and useful,
and never to give offence--her nature to cut bread and butter,"
concluded Jessie, laughing bitterly.
Christabel stayed with her for an hour, talking to her, consoling her,
speaking hopefully of that unknown world, so fondly longed for, so
piously believed in by the woman who had learnt her creed at Mrs.
Tregonell's knees. Many tears were shed by Christabel during that hour
of mournful talk; but not one by Jessie Bridgeman. Hers was a dry-eyed
grief.
"After breakfast then we will walk to the Kieve," said Jessie, as
Christabel left her. "Would it be too much to ask you to make it as
early as you can?"
"I will go the moment I am free. Good-night, dear."