WE HAVE DONE WITH TEARS AND TREASONS.
"I wonder if there is any ancient crime in the Tregonell family that
makes the twenty-fifth of October a fatal date," Mopsy speculated, with
a lachrymose air, on the afternoon which followed the Baron's hasty
departure. "This very day last year Mr. Hamleigh shot himself, and
spoiled all our pleasure; and to-day, the Baron de Cazalet rushes away
as if the house was infected, Mrs. Tregonell keeps her own room with a
nervous headache, and Mr. Tregonell is going to carry off Jack to be
broiled alive in some sandy waste among prowling tigers, or to catch his
death of cold upon more of those horrid mountains. One might just as
well have no brother."
"If he ever sent us anything from abroad we shouldn't feel his loss so
keenly," said Dopsy, in a plaintive voice, "but he doesn't. If he were
to traverse the whole of Africa we shouldn't be the richer by a single
ostrich feather--and those undyed natural ostriches are such good style.
South America teems with gold and jewels; Peru is a proverb; but what
are _we_ the better off?"
"It is rather bad form for the master of a house to start on his travels
before his guests have cleared out," remarked Mopsy.
"And an uncommonly broad hint for the guests to hasten the clearing-out
process," retorted Dopsy. "I thought we were good here for another
month--till Christmas perhaps. Christmas at an old Cornish manor-house
would have been too lovely--like one of the shilling annuals."
"A great deal nicer," said Mopsy, "for you never met with a
country-house in a Christmas book that was not peopled with ghosts and
all kind of ghastliness."
Luncheon was lively enough, albeit de Cazalet was gone, and Mrs.
Tregonell was absent, and Mr. Tregonell painfully silent. The chorus of
the passionless, the people for whom life means only dressing and
sleeping and four meals a day, found plenty to talk about.
Jack Vandeleur was in high spirits. He rejoiced heartily at the turn
which affairs had taken that morning, having from the first moment
looked upon the projected meeting on Trebarwith sands as likely to be
fatal to his friend, and full of peril for all concerned in the
business.
He was too thorough a free-lance, prided himself too much on his
personal courage and his recklessness of consequences, to offer
strenuous opposition to any scheme of the kind; but he had not faced the
situation without being fully aware of its danger, and he was very glad
the thing had blown over without bloodshed or law-breaking. He was glad
also on Mrs. Tregonell's account, very glad to know that this one woman
in whose purity and honesty of purpose he had believed, had not proved
herself a simulacrum, a mere phantasmagoric image of goodness and
virtue. Still more did he exult at the idea of re-visiting the happy
hunting-grounds of his youth, that ancient romantic world in which the
youngest and most blameless years of his life had been spent. Pleasant
to go back under such easy circumstances, with Leonard's purse to draw
upon, to be the rich man's guide, philosopher, and friend, in a country
which he knew thoroughly.
"Pray what is the cause of this abrupt departure of de Cazalet, and this
sudden freak of our host's?" inquired Mrs. Torrington of her next
neighbour, Mr. FitzJesse, who was calmly discussing a cutlet _à la
Maintenon_, unmoved by the shrill chatter of the adjacent Dopsy. "I hope
it is nothing wrong with the drains."
"No, I am told the drainage is simply perfect."
"People always declare as much, till typhoid fever breaks out; and then
it is discovered that there is an abandoned cesspool in direct
communication with one of the spare bedrooms, or a forgotten drainpipe
under the drawing-room floor. I never believe people when they tell me
their houses are wholesome. If I smell an unpleasant smell I go," said
Mrs. Torrington.
"There is often wisdom in flight," replied the journalist; "but I do not
think this is a case of bad drainage."
"No more do I," returned Mrs. Torrington, dropping her voice and
becoming confidential; "of course we both perfectly understand what it
all means. There has been a row between Mr. and Mrs. Tregonell, and de
Cazalet has got his _congé_ from the husband."
"I should have introduced him to the outside of my house three weeks
ago, had I been the Squire," said FitzJesse. "But I believe the
flirtation was harmless enough, and I have a shrewd idea it was what the
thieves call a 'put up' thing--done on purpose to provoke the husband."
"Why should she want to provoke him?"
"Ah, why? That is the mystery. You know her better than I do, and must
be better able to understand her motives."
"But I don't understand her in the least," protested Mrs. Torrington.
"She is quite a different person this year from the woman I knew last
year. I thought her the most devoted wife and mother. The house was not
half so nice to stay at; but it was ever so much more respectable. I had
arranged with my next people--Lodway Court, near Bristol--to be with
them at the end of the week; but I suppose the best thing we can all do
is to go at once. There is an air of general break-up in Mr. Tregonell's
hasty arrangements for an Indian tour."
"Rather like the supper-party in Macbeth, is it not?" said FitzJesse,
"except that her ladyship is not to the fore."
"I call it altogether uncomfortable," exclaimed Mrs. Torrington,
pettishly. "How do I know that the Lodway Court people will be able to
receive me. I may be obliged to go to an hotel."
"Heaven avert such a catastrophe."
"It would be very inconvenient--with a maid, and no end of luggage. One
is not prepared for that kind of thing when one starts on a round of
visits."
For Dopsy and Mopsy there was no such agreeable prospect as a change of
scene from one "well-found" country-house to another. To be tumbled out
of this lap of luxury meant a fall into the dreariness of South
Belgravia and the King's Road--long, monotonous, arid streets, with all
the dust that had been ground under the feet of happy people in the
London season blown about in dense clouds, for the discomfiture of the
outcasts who must stay in town when the season is over; sparse dinners,
coals measured by the scuttle, smoky fires, worn carpets, flat beer, and
the whole gamut of existence equally flat, stale, and unprofitable.
Dopsy and Mopsy listened with doleful countenances to Jack's talk about
the big things he and his friend were going to do in Bengal, the tigers,
the wild pigs, and wild peacocks they were going to slay. Why had not
Destiny made them young men, that they too might prey upon their
species, and enjoy life at somebody else's expense?
"I'll tell you what," said their brother, in the most cheerful manner.
"Of course you won't be staying here after I leave. Mrs. Tregonell will
want to be alone when her husband goes. You had better go with the
Squire and me as far as Southampton. He'll frank you. We can all stop at
the 'Duke of Cornwall' to-morrow night, and start for Southampton by an
early train next morning. You can lunch with us at the 'Dolphin,' see us
off by steamer, and go on to London afterwards."
"That will be a ray of jollity to gild the last hour of our happiness,"
said Mopsy. "Oh, how I loathe the idea of going back to those
lodgings--and pa!"
"The governor is a trial, I must admit," said Jack. "But you see the
European idea is that an ancient parent can't hang on hand too long.
There's no wheeling him down to the Ganges, and leaving him to settle
his account with the birds and the fishes; and even in India that kind
of thing is getting out of date."
"I wouldn't so much mind him," said Dopsy, plaintively, "if
his habits were more human; but there are so many traits in his
character--especially his winter cough--which remind one of the lower
animals."
"Poor old Pater," sighed Jack, with a touch of feeling. _He_ was not
often at home. "Would you believe it, that he was once almost a
gentleman? Yes, I remember, an early period in my life when I was not
ashamed to own him. But when a fellow has been travelling steadily down
hill for fifteen years, his ultimate level must be uncommonly low."
"True," sighed Mopsy, "_we_ have always tried to rise superior to our
surroundings; but it has been a terrible struggle."
"There have been summer evenings, when that wretched slavey has been out
with her young man, that I have been sorely tempted to fetch the beer
with my own hands--there is a jug and bottle entrance at the place where
we deal--but I have suffered agonies of thirst rather than so lower
myself," said Dopsy, with the complacence of conscious heroism.
"Right you are," said Jack, who would sooner have fetched beer in the
very eye of society than gone without it; "one must draw the line
somewhere."
"And to go from a paradise like this to such a den as that," exclaimed
Dopsy, still harping on the unloveliness of the Pimlico lodging.
"Cheer up, old girl. I daresay Mrs. T. will ask you again. She's very
good-natured."
"She has behaved like an angel to us," answered Dopsy, "but I can't make
her out. There's a mystery somewhere."
"There's always a skeleton in the cupboard. Don't you try to haul old
Bony out," said the philosophical Captain.
This was after luncheon, when Jack and his sisters had the billiard-room
to themselves. Mr. Tregonell was in his study, making things straight
with his bailiff, coachman, butler, in his usual business-like and
decisive manner. Mr. FitzJesse was packing his portmanteau, meaning to
sleep that night at Penzance. He was quite shrewd enough to be conscious
of the tempest in the air, and was not disposed to inflict himself upon
his friends in the hour of trouble, or to be bored by having to
sympathize with them in their affliction.
He had studied Mrs. Tregonell closely, and he had made up his mind that
conduct which was out of harmony with her character must needs be
inspired by some powerful motive. He had heard the account of her first
engagement--knew all about little Fishky--and he had been told the
particulars of her first lover's death. It was not difficult for so
astute an observer of human nature to make out the rest of the story.
Little Monty had been invited to go as far as Southampton with the
travellers. The St. Aubyns declared that home-duties had long been
demanding their attention, and that they must positively leave next day.
Mr. Faddie accepted an invitation to accompany them, and spend a week at
their fine old place on the other side of the county--thus, without any
trouble on Christabel's part, her house was cleared for her. When she
came down to luncheon next day, two or three hours after the departure
of Leonard and his party, who were to spend that night at Plymouth, with
some idea of an evening at the theatre on the part of Mop and Dop, she
had only the St. Aubyns and Mr. Faddie to entertain. Even they were on
the wing, as the carriage which was to convey them to Bodmin Road
Station was ordered for three o'clock in the afternoon.
Christabel's pale calm face showed no sign of the mental strain of the
last twenty-four hours. There was such a relief in having done with the
false life which she had been leading in the past month; such an
infinite comfort in being able to fall back into her old self; such an
unspeakable relief, too, in the sense of having saved herself on the
very brink of the black gulf of sin, that it was almost as if peace and
gladness had returned to her soul. Once again she had sought for comfort
at the one Divine source of consolation; once more she had dared to
pray; and this tardy resumption of the old sweet habit of girlhood
seemed like a return to some dear home from which she had been long
banished. Even those who knew so little of her real character were able
to see the change in her countenance.
"What a lovely expression Mrs. Tregonell has to-day!" murmured Mr.
Faddie to his neighbour, Mrs. St. Aubyn, tenderly replenishing her hock
glass, as a polite preliminary to filling his own. "So soft; so
Madonna-like!"
"I suppose she is rather sorry for having driven away her husband," said
Mrs. St. Aubyn, severely. "That has sobered her."
"There are depths in the human soul which only the confessor can sound,"
answered Mr. Faddie, who would not be betrayed into saying anything
uncivil about his hostess. "Would that she might be led to pour her
griefs into an ear attuned to every note in the diapason of sorrow."
"I don't approve of confession, and I never shall bring myself to like
it," said Mrs. St. Aubyn, sturdily. "It is un-English!"
"But your Rubric, dear lady. Surely you stand by your Rubric?"
"If you mean the small print paragraphs in my prayer book, I never read
'em," answered the Squire's wife, bluntly. "I hope I know my way through
the Church Service without any help of that kind."
Mr. Faddie sighed at this Boeotian ignorance, and went on with his
luncheon. It might be long before he partook of so gracious a meal. A
woman whose Church views were so barbarous as those of Mrs. St. Aubyn,
might keep a table of primitive coarseness. A Squire Westernish kind of
fare might await him in the St. Aubyn mansion.
An hour later, he pressed Christabel's hand tenderly as he bade her
good-bye. "A thousand thanks for your sweet hospitality," he murmured,
gently. "This visit has been most precious to me. It has been a
privilege to be brought nearer the lives of those blessed martyrs, Saint
Sergius and Saint Bacchus; to renew my acquaintance with dear Saint
Mertheriana, whose life I only dimly remembered; to kneel at the rustic
shrines of Saint Ulette and Saint Piran. It has been a period of mental
growth, the memory of which I shall ever value."
And then, with a grave uplifting of two fingers, and a blessing on the
house, Mr. Faddie went off to his place beside Clara St. Aubyn, on the
back seat of the landau which was to convey the departing guests to the
Bodmin Road Station, a two-hours' drive through the brisk autumn air.
And thus, like the shadowy figures in a dissolving view, Christabel's
guests melted away, and she and Jessie Bridgeman stood alone in the
grand old hall which had been of late so perverted from its old sober
air and quiet domestic uses. Her first act as the carriage drove away
was to fling one of the casements wide open.
"Open the other windows, Jessie," she said impetuously; "all of them."
"Do you know that the wind is in the east?"
"I know that it is pure and sweet, the breath of Heaven blowing over
hill and sea, and that it is sweeping away the tainted atmosphere of the
last month, the poison of scandal, and slang, and cigarettes, and
billiard-marker talk, and all that is most unlovely in life. Oh, Jessie,
thank God you and I are alone together, and the play is played out."
"Did you see your husband to-day before he left?
"No. Why should we meet any more? What can we two have to say to each
other?"
"Then he left his home without a word from you," said Jessie, with a
shade of wonder.
"His home," repeated Christabel; "the home in which his poor mother
thought it would be my lot to make his life good and happy. If she could
know--but no--thank God the dead are at peace. No, Jessie, he did not go
without one word from me. I wrote a few lines of farewell. I told him I
had prayed to my God for power to pity and forgive him, and that pity
and pardon had come to me. I implored him to make his future life one
long atonement for that fatal act last year. I who had sinned so deeply
had no right to take a high tone. I spoke to him as a sinner to a
sinner."
"I hope he does repent--that he will atone," said Miss Bridgeman,
gloomily. "His life is in his own keeping. Thank God that you and I are
rid of him, and can live the rest of our days in peace."
* * * * *
Very quietly flows the stream of life at Mount Royal now that these
feverish scenes have passed into the shadow of the days that are no
more. Christabel devotes herself to the rearing of her boy, lives for
him, thinks for him, finds joy in his boyish pleasures, grieves for his
boyish griefs, teaches him, walks with him, rides with him, watches and
nurses him in every childish illness, and wonders that her life is so
full of peace and sunshine. The memory of a sorrowful past can never
cease to be a part of her life. All those scenes she loves best in this
world, the familiar places amidst which her quiet days are spent, are
haunted by one mournful shadow; but she loves the hills and the
sea-shore only the dearer for that spiritual presence, which follows her
in the noontide and the gloaming, for ever reminding her, amidst the
simple joys of the life she knows, of that unknown life where the veil
shall be lifted, and the lost shall be found.
Major Bree is her devoted friend and adviser, idolizes the boy, and just
manages to prevent his manliness deteriorating under the pressure of
womanly indulgence and womanly fears. Jessie has refused that faithful
admirer a second time, but Christabel has an idea that he means to tempt
his fate again, and in the end must prevail, by sheer force of goodness
and fidelity.
Kneeling by Angus Hamleigh's grave, little Leo hears from his mother's
lips how the dead man loved him, and bequeathed his fortune to him. The
mother endeavours to explain in simplest, clearest words how the wealth
so entrusted to him should be a sacred charge, never to be turned to
evil uses or squandered in self-indulgence.
"You will try to do good when you are a man, won't you, Leo?" she asks,
smiling down at the bright young face, which shines like a sunbeam in
its childish gladness.
"Yes," he answers confidently. "I'll give Uncle Jakes tobacco."
This is his widest idea of benevolence at the present stage of his
developement.
THE END.