A few mornings afterwards, Lancelot, as he glanced his eye over the
columns of The Times, stopped short at the beloved name of Whitford.
To his disgust and disappointment, it only occurred in one of those
miserable cases, now of weekly occurrence, of concealing the birth
of a child. He was turning from it, when he saw Bracebridge's name.
Another look sufficed to show him that he ought to go at once to the
colonel, who had returned the day before from Norway.
A few minutes brought him to his friend's lodging, but The Times had
arrived there before him. Bracebridge was sitting over his untasted
breakfast, his face buried in his hands.
'Do not speak to me,' he said, without looking up. 'It was right of
you to come--kind of you; but it is too late.'
He started, and looked wildly round him, as if listening for some
sound which he expected, and then laid his head down on the table.
Lancelot turned to go.
'No--do not leave me! Not alone, for God's sake, not alone!'
Lancelot sat down. There was a fearful alteration in Bracebridge.
His old keen self-confident look had vanished. He was haggard,
life-weary, shame-stricken, almost abject. His limbs looked quite
shrunk and powerless, as he rested his head on the table before him,
and murmured incoherently from time to time,--
'My own child! And I never shall have another! No second chance
for those who--Oh Mary! Mary! you might have waited--you might have
trusted me! And why should you?--ay, why, indeed? And such a
pretty baby, too!--just like his father!'
Lancelot laid his hand kindly on his shoulder.
'My dearest Bracebridge, the evidence proves that the child was born
dead.'
'They lie!' he said, fiercely, starting up. 'It cried twice after
it was born!'
Lancelot stood horror-struck.
'I heard it last night, and the night before that, and the night
before that again, under my pillow, shrieking--stifling--two little
squeaks, like a caught hare; and I tore the pillows off it--I did;
and once I saw it, and it had beautiful black eyes--just like its
father--just like a little miniature that used to lie on my mother's
table, when I knelt at her knee, before they sent me out "to see
life," and Eton, and the army, and Crockford's, and Newmarket, and
fine gentlemen, and fine ladies, and luxury, and flattery, brought
me to this! Oh, father! father! was that the only way to make a
gentleman of your son?--There it is again! Don't you hear it?--
under the sofa cushions! Tear them off! Curse you! Save it!'
And, with a fearful oath, the wretched man sent Lancelot staggering
across the room, and madly tore up the cushions.
A long postman's knock at the door.--He suddenly rose up quite
collected.
'The letter! I knew it would come. She need not have written it:
I know what is in it.'
The servant's step came up the stairs. Poor Bracebridge turned to
Lancelot with something of his own stately determination.
'I must be alone when I receive this letter. Stay here.' And with
compressed lips and fixed eyes he stalked out at the door, and shut
it.
Lancelot heard him stop; then the servant's footsteps down the
stairs; then the colonel's treading, slowly and heavily, went step
by step up to the room above. He shut that door too. A dead
silence followed. Lancelot stood in fearful suspense, and held his
breath to listen. Perhaps he had fainted? No, for then he would
have heard a fall. Perhaps he had fallen on the bed? He would go
and see. No, he would wait a little longer. Perhaps he was
praying? He had told Lancelot to pray once--he dared not interrupt
him now. A slight stir--a noise as of an opening box. Thank God,
he was, at least, alive! Nonsense! Why should he not be alive?
What could happen to him? And yet he knew that something was going
to happen. The silence was ominous--unbearable; the air of the room
felt heavy and stifling, as if a thunderstorm were about to burst.
He longed to hear the man raging and stamping. And yet he could not
connect the thought of one so gay and full of gallant life, with the
terrible dread that was creeping over him--with the terrible scene
which he had just witnessed. It must be all a temporary excitement-
-a mistake--a hideous dream, which the next post would sweep away.
He would go and tell him so. No, he could not stir. His limbs
seemed leaden, his feet felt rooted to the ground, as in long
nightmare. And still the intolerable silence brooded overhead.
What broke it? A dull, stifled report, as of a pistol fired against
the ground; a heavy fall; and again the silence of death.
He rushed upstairs. A corpse lay on its face upon the floor, and
from among its hair, a crimson thread crept slowly across the
carpet. It was all over. He bent over the head, but one look was
sufficient. He did not try to lift it up.
On the table lay the fatal letter. Lancelot knew that he had a
right to read it. It was scrawled, mis-spelt--but there were no
tear-blots on the paper:--
'Sir--I am in prison--and where are you? Cruel man! Where were you
all those miserable weeks, while I was coming nearer and nearer to
my shame? Murdering dumb beasts in foreign lands. You have
murdered more than them. How I loved you once! How I hate you now!
But I have my revenge. YOUR BABY CRIED TWICE AFTER IT WAS BORN!'
Lancelot tore the letter into a hundred pieces, and swallowed them,
for every foot in the house was on the stairs.
So there was terror, and confusion, and running in and out: but
there were no wet eyes there except those of Bracebridge's groom,
who threw himself on the body, and would not stir. And then there
was a coroner's inquest; and it came out in the evidence how 'the
deceased had been for several days very much depressed, and had
talked of voices and apparitions;' whereat the jury--as twelve
honest, good-natured Christians were bound to do--returned a verdict
of temporary insanity; and in a week more the penny-a-liners grew
tired; and the world, too, who never expects anything, not even
French revolutions, grew tired also of repeating,--'Dear me! who
would have expected it?' and having filled up the colonel's place,
swaggered on as usual, arm-in-arm with the flesh and the devil.
Bracebridge's death had, of course, a great effect on Lancelot's
spirit. Not in the way of warning, though--such events seldom act
in that way, on the highest as well as on the lowest minds. After
all, your 'Rakes' Progresses,' and 'Atheists' Deathbeds,' do no more
good than noble George Cruikshank's 'Bottle' will, because every one
knows that they are the exception, and not the rule; that the
Atheist generally dies with a conscience as comfortably callous as a
rhinocerous-hide; and the rake, when old age stops his power of
sinning, becomes generally rather more respectable than his
neighbours. The New Testament deals very little in appeals ad
terrorem; and it would be well if some, who fancy that they follow
it, would do the same, and by abstaining from making 'hell-fire' the
chief incentive to virtue, cease from tempting many a poor fellow to
enlist on the devil's side the only manly feeling he has left--
personal courage.
But yet Lancelot was affected. And when, on the night of the
colonel's funeral, he opened, at hazard, Argemone's Bible, and his
eyes fell on the passage which tells how 'one shall be taken and
another left,' great honest tears of gratitude dropped upon the
page; and he fell on his knees, and in bitter self-reproach thanked
the new found Upper Powers, who, as he began to hope, were leading
him not in vain,--that he had yet a life before him wherein to play
the man.
And now he felt that the last link was broken between him and all
his late frivolous companions. All had deserted him in his ruin but
this one--and he was silent in the grave. And now, from the world
and all its toys and revelry, he was parted once and for ever; and
he stood alone in the desert, like the last Arab of a plague-
stricken tribe, looking over the wreck of ancient cities, across
barren sands, where far rivers gleamed in the distance, that seemed
to beckon him away into other climes, other hopes, other duties.
Old things had passed away--when would all things become new?
Not yet, Lancelot. Thou hast still one selfish hope, one dream of
bliss, however impossible, yet still cherished. Thou art a changed
man--but for whose sake? For Argemone's. Is she to be thy god,
then? Art thou to live for her, or for the sake of One greater than
she? All thine idols are broken--swiftly the desert sands are
drifting over them, and covering them in.--All but one--must that,
too, be taken from thee?
One morning a letter was put into Lancelot's hands, bearing the
Whitford postmark. Tremblingly he tore it open. It contained a few
passionate words from Honoria. Argemone was dying of typhus fever,
and entreating to see him once again; and Honoria had, with some
difficulty, as she hinted, obtained leave from her parents to send
for him. His last bank note carried him down to Whitford; and, calm
and determined, as one who feels that he has nothing more to lose on
earth, and whose torment must henceforth become his element, he
entered the Priory that evening.
He hardly spoke or looked at a soul; he felt that he was there on an
errand which none understood; that he was moving towards Argemone
through a spiritual world, in which he and she were alone; that, in
his utter poverty and hopelessness, he stood above all the luxury,
even above all the sorrow, around him; that she belonged to him, and
to him alone; and the broken-hearted beggar followed the weeping
Honoria towards his lady's chamber, with the step and bearing of a
lord. He was wrong; there were pride and fierceness enough in his
heart, mingled with that sense of nothingness of rank, money, chance
and change, yea, death itself, of all but Love;--mingled even with
that intense belief that his sorrows were but his just deserts,
which now possessed all his soul. And in after years he knew that
he was wrong; but so he felt at the time; and even then the strength
was not all of earth which bore him manlike through that hour.
He entered the room; the darkness, the silence, the cool scent of
vinegar, struck a shudder through him. The squire was sitting half
idiotic and helpless, in his arm-chair. His face lighted up as
Lancelot entered, and he tried to hold out his palsied hand.
Lancelot did not see him. Mrs. Lavington moved proudly and primly
back from the bed, with a face that seemed to say through its tears,
'I at least am responsible for nothing that occurs from this
interview.' Lancelot did not see her either: he walked straight up
towards the bed as if he were treading on his own ground. His heart
was between his lips, and yet his whole soul felt as dry and hard as
some burnt-out volcano-crater.
A faint voice--oh, how faint, how changed!--called him from within
the closed curtains.
'He is there! I know it is he! Lancelot! my Lancelot!'
Silently still he drew aside the curtain; the light fell full upon
her face. What a sight! Her beautiful hair cut close, a ghastly
white handkerchief round her head, those bright eyes sunk and
lustreless, those ripe lips baked, and black and drawn; her thin
hand fingering uneasily the coverlid.--It was too much for him. He
shuddered and turned his face away. Quick-sighted that love is,
even to the last! slight as the gesture was, she saw it in an
instant.
'You are not afraid of infection?' she said, faintly. 'I was not.'
Lancelot laughed aloud, as men will at strangest moments, sprung
towards her with open arms, and threw himself on his knees beside
the bed. With sudden strength she rose upright, and clasped him in
her arms.
'Once more!' she sighed, in a whisper to herself, 'Once more on
earth!' And the room, and the spectators, and disease itself faded
from around them like vain dreams, as she nestled closer and closer
to him, and gazed into his eyes, and passed her shrunken hand over
his cheeks, and toyed with his hair, and seemed to drink in magnetic
life from his embrace.
No one spoke or stirred. They felt that an awful and blessed spirit
overshadowed the lovers, and were hushed, as if in the sanctuary of
God.
Suddenly again she raised her head from his bosom, and in a tone, in
which her old queenliness mingled strangely with the saddest
tenderness,--
'All of you go away now; I must talk to my husband alone.'
They went, leading out the squire, who cast puzzled glances toward
the pair, and murmured to himself that 'she was sure to get well now
Smith was come: everything went right when he was in the way.'
So they were left alone.
'I do not look so very ugly, my darling, do I? Not so very ugly?
though they have cut off all my poor hair, and I told them so often
not! But I kept a lock for you;' and feebly she drew from under the
pillow a long auburn tress, and tried to wreathe it round his neck,
but could not, and sunk back.
Poor fellow! he could bear no more. He hid his face in his hands,
and burst into a long low weeping.
'I am very thirsty, darling; reach me--No, I will drink no more,
except from your dear lips.'
He lifted up his head, and breathed his whole soul upon her lips;
his tears fell on her closed eyelids.
'Weeping? No.--You must not cry. See how comfortable I am. They
are all so kind--soft bed, cool room, fresh air, sweet drinks, sweet
scents. Oh, so different from THAT room!'
'What room?--my own!'
'Listen, and I will tell you. Sit down--put your arm under my head-
-so. When I am on your bosom I feel so strong. God! let me last to
tell him all. It was for that I sent for him.'
And then, in broken words, she told him how she had gone up to the
fever patient at Ashy, on the fatal night on which Lancelot had last
seen her. Shuddering, she hinted at the horrible filth and misery
she had seen, at the foul scents which had sickened her. A madness
of remorse, she said, had seized her. She had gone, in spite of her
disgust, to several houses which she found open. There were worse
cottages there than even her father's; some tradesmen in a
neighbouring town had been allowed to run up a set of rack rent
hovels.--Another shudder seized her when she spoke of them; and from
that point in her story all was fitful, broken, like the images of a
hideous dream. 'Every instant those foul memories were defiling her
nostrils. A horrible loathing had taken possession of her,
recurring from time to time, till it ended in delirium and fever. A
scent-fiend was haunting her night and day,' she said. 'And now the
curse of the Lavingtons had truly come upon her. To perish by the
people whom they made. Their neglect, cupidity, oppression, are
avenged on me! Why not? Have I not wantoned in down and perfumes,
while they, by whose labour my luxuries were bought, were pining
among scents and sounds,--one day of which would have driven me mad!
And then they wonder why men turn Chartists! There are those
horrible scents again! Save me from them! Lancelot--darling! Take
me to the fresh air! I choke! I am festering away! The Nun-pool!
Take all the water, every drop, and wash Ashy clean again! Make a
great fountain in it--beautiful marble--to bubble and gurgle, and
trickle and foam, for ever and ever, and wash away the sins of the
Lavingtons, that the little rosy children may play round it, and the
poor toil-bent woman may wash--and wash--and drink--Water! water! I
am dying of thirst!'
He gave her water, and then she lay back and babbled about the Nun-
pool sweeping 'all the houses of Ashy into one beautiful palace,
among great flower-gardens, where the school children will sit and
sing such merry hymns, and never struggle with great pails of water
up the hill of Ashy any more.'
'You will do it! darling! Strong, wise, noble-hearted that you are!
Why do you look at me? You will be rich some day. You will own
land, for you are worthy to own it. Oh that I could give you
Whitford! No! It was mine too long--therefore I die! because I--
Lord Jesus! have I not repented of my sin?'
Then she grew calm once more. A soft smile crept over her face, as
it grew sharper and paler every moment. Faintly she sank back on
the pillows, and faintly whispered to him to kneel and pray. He
obeyed her mechanically. . . . 'No--not for me, for them--for them,
and for yourself--that you may save them whom I never dreamt that I
was bound to save!'
And he knelt and prayed . . . what, he alone and those who heard his
prayer, can tell. . . .
* * * * *
When he lifted up his head at last, he saw that Argemone lay
motionless. For a moment he thought she was dead, and frantically
sprang to the bell. The family rushed in with the physician. She
gave some faint token of life, but none of consciousness. The
doctor sighed, and said that her end was near. Lancelot had known
that all along.
'I think, sir, you had better leave the room,' said Mrs. Lavington;
and followed him into the passage.
What she was about to say remained unspoken; for Lancelot seized her
hand in spite of her, with frantic thanks for having allowed him
this one interview, and entreaties that he might see her again, if
but for one moment.
Mrs. Lavington, somewhat more softly than usual, said,--'That the
result of this visit had not been such as to make a second
desirable--that she had no wish to disturb her daughter's mind at
such a moment with earthly regrets.'
'Earthly regrets!' How little she knew what had passed there! But
if she had known, would she have been one whit softened? For,
indeed, Argemone's spirituality was not in her mother's language.
And yet the good woman had prayed, and prayed, and wept bitter
tears, by her daughter's bedside, day after day; but she had never
heard her pronounce the talismanic formula of words, necessary in
her eyes to ensure salvation; and so she was almost without hope for
her. Oh, Bigotry! Devil, who turnest God's love into man's curse!
are not human hearts hard and blind enough of themselves, without
thy cursed help?
For one moment a storm of unutterable pride and rage convulsed
Lancelot--the next instant love conquered; and the strong proud man
threw himself on his knees at the feet of the woman he despised, and
with wild sobs entreated for one moment more--one only!
At that instant a shriek from Honoria resounded from the sick
chamber. Lancelot knew what it meant, and sprang up, as men do when
shot through the heart.--In a moment he was himself again. A new
life had begun for him--alone.
'You will not need to grant my prayer, madam,' he said, calmly:
'Argemone is dead.'