Spread no wings
For sunward flight, thou soul with unplumed vans!
Sweet is the lower air and safe, and known
The homely levels.
Dear is the love, I know, of wife and child;
Pleasant the friends and pastimes of your years.
Live--ye who must--such lives as live on these;
Make golden stairways of your weakness; rise
By daily sojourn with those fantasies
To lovelier verities.
(_Buddha's Sermon--The Light of Asia._)--ARNOLD.
Jack made another mistake in coming on to Toronto after finding out the
disastrous failure of his supposed marriage. If he had gone to Lockport
and found Nina at her friend's house, perhaps some arrangement could
have been made for their marriage in Buffalo on the following day. Mr.
Toxham, the clergyman on whom Jack called at the parsonage, had tried to
get his ear for advice on this subject. But, as mentioned before, when
Jack read the address of Matthew Simpson he immediately bolted out,
without waiting to listen to the suggestions which the clergyman tried
to make. If this idea occurred to Jack, there were reasons why he did
not act upon it. He was due at the bank the next morning, and regularity
at the bank was a cast-iron creed with him--the result of continually
subordinating his own wishes to that which the institution expected of
him. The clerk who was doing his work there would be leaving for his own
holidays on the following day, and Jack felt the pressure his duty
brought upon him. Again, how would it be possible, after finding where
Nina was staying in Lockport, to call at the house and take her away
from her friends almost before she had fairly arrived? Geoffrey would
have got over this difficulty. But he had the inventive mind which goes
on inventing in the presence of shock and surprise. Jack was not like
him on land. He had this ability only on a yacht during a sudden call
for alert intelligence. His nerve had not been educated to steadiness by
escapades on land, nor had he had experience in any trouble that
required much insight into consequences. The discovery that the woman
for whom he existed was not his wife seemed to prostrate and confuse
thought. He felt the need of counsel, and was afraid to trust his own
decision. If he could only get home and tell Geoffrey the whole
difficulty, he felt that matters could be mended.
He arrived in Toronto about ten o'clock at night feeling ill and faint,
having eaten nothing since a light breakfast thirteen hours before. He
dropped in at the club and took a sandwich and some spirits to make him
sleep. Then he went to his lodgings (Geoffrey was out somewhere), rolled
into bed, and slept the clock round till eight the next morning.
As he gradually awoke, thoroughly refreshed, there was a time during
which, although he seemed to himself to be awake, he had forgotten about
his supposed marriage. He was single John Cresswell again, with nothing
on his mind except to be at the bank "on time." So his troubles
presented themselves gently; first as only a sort of dream that he had
once been married to the love of his life--to Nina. When he fully awoke
he began to realize everything; but not as he realized it the night
before. Then, the case seemed almost hopeless. Now, his invigorated self
promised success in some way. He was glad he had not met Geoffrey the
night before. The morning confidence in himself made Geoffrey seem
unnecessary. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he walked through the museum of a
sitting-room and into Hampstead's bedroom, where he fell upon that
sleeping gentleman and rudely shook him into consciousness.
"Hello, Jack! Got back?" growled Geoffrey as he awoke.
"Yes. You had better get up if you want to attend the bank to-day."
"All right," said Geoffrey, sitting up. "What sort of a time did you
have? Old people well?"
Jack was supposed to have been in Halifax, where his parents lived with
the other old English families there.
"Yes, I had a pretty good time," said Jack. "The old people are fine!"
he added, freshly. "How are things in the bank?"
Geoffrey then retired to his bath-room, and an intermittent conversation
about the bank and other matters went on for a few minutes during the
pauses created by cold water and splashing.
It was a relief to Jack that neither at breakfast nor afterward did
Geoffrey ask any more questions about his fortnight's holiday. Hampstead
knew better.
During the next six weeks Geoffrey was decidedly unsettled. "Federal"
went up as a matter of course, and he sold out with advantage. He
cleared five thousand dollars on this transaction, and had now a capital
of fifteen thousand dollars. He was rather lucky in his venture into the
stock market. His experience on Wall Street had given him a keen insight
into such matters, and he studied probabilities until his chances of
failure were reduced, keeping up a correspondence by telegraph and
letter with his old Wall Street employers who, in a friendly way, shared
with him some of their best knowledge.
Immediately after he had sold out "Federal" an American railway magnate
died. This man almost owned an American railway which was operating and
leasing a Canadian railway. No sooner was the death known than the stock
of the Canadian Railway took a tumble. For a moment public confidence in
it seemed to be lost. Now Geoffrey had studied chances as to this line.
He knew that it was one of the few Canadian railways that under fair
management was able to pay a periodical dividend--a small one at times,
perhaps, but always something. It did not go on for years without paying
a cent like some of the others. He had waited for this millionaire to
die in order to buy the largely depreciated stock. When the opportunity
arrived he bought on margin a very large quantity of it at a low figure.
But the trouble was that the public did not agree with him and the few
cool heads who tried to keep quiet, hold on, and wait till things
reinstated themselves. An ordinary man's chances in the stock market do
not depend upon his own sagacity more than does guessing at next week's
weather. Fortunes are lost, like lives, not from the threatened danger
but from panic. Bad rumors about the railway were afloat and the stock
continued to go down. Geoffrey hastily sold out his other stocks for
what he could get, and stuffed everything available into the widening
gap through which forces seemed to be entering to overwhelm him.
In the meantime while Nina was at Lockport, Jack had gone on quietly
with his work in the Victoria Bank. He had not given notice of his
intentions to leave that institution, because, after his return, he had
thought he would like to take more money than he had already saved to
California with him. His brother had written previously to say that he
ought to bring with him at least three thousand dollars, to put into the
business of grape-farming, and Jack thought if he could only hold on at
the bank, where he was fairly well paid, he might in a few months
complete the sum required. Already he had put away over twenty-five
hundred dollars, and it would not take long to save the balance.
Nina came back from Lockport blaming herself for her former unreasoning
infatuation for Geoffrey. Hers was a nature that had of necessity to
lavish its affection on something or somebody. If she could have given
this affection, or part of it, to her own mother it would have been a
valuable outlet in these later years. The confidences that ought to have
existed between them would then have been the first links to be sundered
when she sought Hampstead's society.
Unluckily Mrs. Lindon was not in every way perfect. While she had
continued to be "not weary in well doing," as she called it, her
daughter had been gradually commencing to consider how her duties and
social law might be evaded. While Mrs. Lindon visited the Haven and
listened to the stories of the women there which were always so
interesting to her, and while she expended her time in ways that her
gossip-loving nature sought, her daughter had been left the most
defenseless person imaginable.
The fact to be remarked was, that the same impulses which had led Nina
into wrong-doing previously were now becoming her greatest power for
good. For those who claim to distinguish the promptings that come from
Satan from those that come from Heaven, there is in nature a good deal
of irony. Nature is wonderfully kind to the pagan, considering his
disadvantages. When self has been abandoned for an inspiring object
there is no reason to think that the self-surrendered devoted Buddhist,
or the self-offered victim to Moloch, experiences, any less than the
Salvation Army captain, that deep, heart-felt, soul-set, almost ecstatic
gladness--that sensation of consecration and confidence--that internal
song which the New Testament so beautifully puts words to. It is a great
thing for a woman to be allowed to lavish her affection in a way
permitted by society, for few have enough strength of character to hold
up their heads when society frowns.
Nina was just such a woman as many whom her mother liked to converse
with at the Haven. They were poor and she was rich and well educated,
but she was neither better nor worse than the majority of them.
Nevertheless, from a social point of view, she was on the right track
now, apparently. From a social point of view, Mrs. John Cresswell with
society at her feet would not be at all the same person as Nina Lindon
disgraced. True, it would require subtlety and deception before she
could feel that she had re-established herself safely, but, as Hampstead
quoted, "some sorts of dirt serve to clarify," and to her it seemed the
only way feasible. She did not like painstaking subtlety any more than
other people. It gave her intense unrest. She looked gladly forward to
the time when she would leave Toronto with Jack for California, said she
longed with her whole heart for the necessity of deception to be over
and done with. She did not know--Jack had not told her--that their
supposed marriage was void, and she was following out the train of
thought that leads toward ultimate good. She was saddened and subdued,
wept bitter tears of contrition for her faults, and prayed with an
agonized mind for forgiveness and strength to carry her through what lay
before her.
The change in her was due to improved conditions under which her nature
became able to advance by woman's ordinary channels toward woman's
possible perfection. A great after-life might be opening before her.
Some time, probably, her father's wealth would be hers. After long years
of chastening remembrances of trouble, after years of the outflow toward
good of a heart that refused to be checked in its love, and would be
able from personal experience to understand, and thus lift up lovingly,
wounded souls, and with many of the perfections of a ripened womanhood,
we can imagine Nina as admirable among women, a power for good,
controlling through the heart rather than the intellect, as generous as
the sun.
But where will these beautiful possibilities be if her sin is found out?
Since her return Jack had not told Nina the terrible news which awaited
her. The secret on his mind made him uneasy in her presence. When he had
called once or twice in the afternoon he was very silent and even
depressed, but she considered that he had a good deal to think about,
and it was also a relief to her not to be expected to appear brilliantly
happy. What he thought was that after he had earned the rest of the
money he required they could get married at the first American town they
came to on their way to California. He could not bring himself to tell
her the truth, which would make her wretched in the mean time, and he
did not see why the real marriage should not be deferred until it was
more convenient for him to leave Canada. When Nina had spoken about
going away, he had evaded the topic, and she did not wish to press the
point. He explained his long periods of absence during this time by
several excuses. His secret weighed so heavily upon him that he dreaded
lest in a weak moment he might tell her. It was significant of the
change in Nina toward him that, during the time he was there, nothing
would induce her to sacrifice the restful moments to anybody. She would
sit beside him, talking quietly and restfully, holding his hand in hers,
or with her head upon his shoulder. Once, when he was leaving, all the
hope she now felt welled up within her as she said good-by. All that was
good and kind seemed to her to be personified in Jack, and it smote him
when she put her arms round his neck and, with a quiet yearning toward
good in her face, said:
"Good-by, Jack, dear husband!"
Jack's great heart was rent with pity and affection as he saw through
the gathering mists that calm, wondrous yearning look in her face that
afterward haunted him. He did not understand fully from what depths of
black anguish that look came, straining toward the light. But he knew
that he was not her husband, and he could see that when she called him
by this name she was uttering a word which to her was hallowed.
Another week now slipped by, and Geoffrey could not understand why Jack
had not gone to California. He called on Nina to ascertain how matters
stood. She received him standing in the middle of the room. To-day
Geoffrey closed the door behind him. It was the last time he ever
intended to be in this house, and so he did not care much what the
inquisitive door-opener might think.
There was no mark of special recognition on either side. He walked
quickly toward her, seeing, at one quick glance, that he was not
regarded as a friend.
"Why have you and Jack not gone yet to California?" he said, without
prelude.
"I don't know," she answered coldly, still standing and eyeing him with
aversion, as he also stood before her. "Has not Jack given any notice of
his intention to leave the bank?"
"I have not heard of any. You ought to know that better than I," said
Geoffrey. "By the way," he added, "you might as well sit down, Nina.
There is no use that I see in playing the tragedy queen." His voice
hardened her aversion to him.
"No," she said, her voice deep and full with resentment. "If I am always
allowed to choose, I will never sit down in your presence again. You
have come here to look after your own interests, and I have got to
listen to you, to learn from your lips your devil's cunning. You are
forced to tell me the proper plans, and I am forced to listen and act
upon them. Now go on and say what you have to say."
Hampstead nodded, and said simply: "Perhaps you are right. I don't know
that it is worth your while to take so much trouble, but I respect the
feeling which prompts it."
Nina looked angry.
"Don't think I say this unkindly. You, or rather your conditions, have
changed, and I merely wish to acknowledge the improvement. We will speak
very simply to each other to-day. Now, about California; it appears to
me that Jack does not intend to go there for a good while if allowed to
do as he likes. You must go at once. He very likely is wishing to make
more money before he leaves, but this won't do. He must go at once."
"I think," said Nina, "that there need be no further reason for your
seeing me again after this interview. You have always, lately, been
Jack's confidant. Send him to me this evening, and I will tell him to
consult with you. After that, you can arrange with him everything
necessary about our departure. He will need advice, perhaps, in many
ways, and then he can (here Nina's lip curled) benefit by your wisdom."
"I would not sneer too much at the wisdom if I were you. My devil's
cunning, as you are pleased to call it, has put you on the right track,
whatever its faults may be. It has stood us both in good stead this
time, and, if I did force you to marry Jack, you should not blame me for
that now, and I do not think you do."
He turned to move toward the door. He did not consider that he had any
right to say good-by, or anything else beyond what was absolutely
necessary. But his reference to Jack, in a way that seemed to speak of
his worth, aroused Nina; and this, together with the thought that she
would never again see this man who had treated her whole existence as a
plaything, induced her to speak again to him.
"Stop," she said. "I do indeed owe you something. You forced me to marry
Jack, out of your own selfishness, of course, but still I must thank you
for it. To my last hour I will thank you for that. Yes, I will even
thank you for more--for the careful way you have shown me my way from
out of my troubles. I think I am nearly done with anguish now. A little
more will come, no doubt, and after that, please God, whatever troubles
I endure will not be shameful. And now something tells me, Geoffrey,
that I shall never see you again. I can not let you go without saying
that I forgive you all. Some time, perhaps, you will be glad I said so.
You have been by turns cunning, selfish, wise, and loving to me. You
have also seemed--I don't know that you _were_, but you have
_seemed_--cruel to me; but I do not think, now that I look back upon
everything more calmly, that you have been unjust. No; a woman should
bear her part of the consequences of her own deeds. I am glad that
Margaret's happiness is still possible and that I did not drag anybody
down with me. The more I think of everything the less I blame you. You
will think I am getting wise to look at it in this way, but I never
could look at it like this until now."
Nina was speaking in a way that surprised Geoffrey. Sorrow had altered
her; dangers and changes were encompassing her. Though all love for him
was dead, the man whom she had once worshiped stood before her for the
last time. He, who had caused her more happiness and distress than any
other person ever could again, stood in silence taking his leave of
her--forever. Urged by hope, besieged by doubts and dangers, driven by
necessities, her mind had acquired an abnormal activity, and she seemed
all at once to be able to realize what it was to part from him for all
eternity and to become conscious while she stood there of a power to
rise in intelligence above everything surrounding her--above all the
clogging conditions of our existence--and to judge calmly, even
pityingly, of both herself and Geoffrey and of all the agonies and joys
that now seemed to have been so small and unnecessary. As she spoke the
whole of her life seemed spread out before her. She recollected, or
seemed to recollect, all the events of her life, and she remained a
moment gazing before her in a way that made her look almost unreal.
"I can see," she said slowly, in a calm, distinct voice, "everything
that has happened in my life; but all the rest is all a blank to me."
Geoffrey noticed that, with her clearness of vision into the past, she
evidently expected also to see something of the future and was startled
and surprised at seeing nothing. She continued looking before her, as if
unconscious of his presence, until she turned to him shuddering.
"Good-by, Geoffrey. I feel that something is going to happen in some
way, either to you or to me; I don't know how. I see things to-day
strangely, and there are other things I want to see and can not."
She looked at him with a look such as he had never seen in any one.
"You will never see me again, Geoffrey. I am certain of that. I pray
that God may be as good to you as I have been."
Geoffrey grew pale. Something convinced him that she spoke the truth and
that he never would see her again. There was something in her appearance
and in her words that made him shudder. A rarefied beauty had spread
over her; she seemed to be merely an intelligence, speaking from the
purity of some other realm. It seemed as if it were no human prompting
that urged her to the utterance of forebodings, and that her last words
were as sweet as they were terrible.
He tried to look at her kindly, to cheer her, but he saw that, for the
moment, the emotions of our ordinary life were totally apart from her
and that he had become nothing to her but a combination of
recollections.
He raised her hand to his lips, took a long look at her, and went his
way, leaving her standing in the middle of the room calmly watching his
retreat.
As Hampstead went back to the club he felt unstrung. He went in and
drank several glasses of brandy to brace himself. He had been drinking a
great deal during this excitement over his investments. At ordinary
times he did not care enough about liquor to try to make a pastime of
drinking. Now, there was a fever in his blood that seemed to demand a
still greater fever. He did not get drunk, because his individuality
seemed to assert itself over and above all he consumed. To-day, to add
to the depression he felt about his prospects (for ruin was staring him
in the face), the strange words of Nina--full of presentiment--her
uncanny, prophetess-like eyes, and the conviction that he had seen her
for the last time--all weighed upon him. Her last words to him haunted
him, and he drank heavily all the evening.
He told Jack he had called to see Nina in the afternoon, and that she
had expressed a wish to see him in the evening.
About eight o'clock Jack made his appearance at Mossbank. Mrs. Lindon
had dragged her unwilling husband off to a dinner somewhere, so that the
young people were not in anticipation of interruption.
Nina had got over the strange phase into which she had passed while
saying good-by to Geoffrey during the afternoon, and was doing her best
to appear natural and pleasant. After some conversation, she inquired
whether he had given the bank notice of his intention to leave. When he
said he had not, she let him know that she must leave Toronto at once,
and the first thing he did was to ejaculate: "O my God, and we not
married!"
Nina caught the words, and sprang toward him from the chair in which she
had been sitting.
They were a pitiable pair; with faces like ashes, confronting each
other.
"What did you say then, Jack? Tell me all--tell me quick, or you will
kill me!"
"Yes, it's true," groaned Jack. "I found out when I went back to Buffalo
that Simpson was only a blackleg criminal and no clergyman. We are no
more married than we ever were."
As Jack said this he had his head down; it was bowed with the misery he
felt. He dreaded to look at Nina. If he had looked, he would have seen
her lips grow almost blue and her eyes lose their sight. The next
moment, before he could catch her, she sank on the floor in shapeless,
inert confusion.
Jack did not wish to call for help. He seized a large ornamental fan of
peacock's feathers and fanned her vigorously.
She soon came to. But still lay for some time before she had strength to
rise. At last he assisted her to a sofa, where she reclined wearily
until able to go on with the conversation.
"Jack," she said, after a while, "if I don't get away from here in three
days I will go mad. Think, now! I can not help you much in the
arrangements to get away. You must arrange everything yourself. Just let
me know when to go, and I will look after myself and will meet you
somewhere--anywhere you propose. But I can not--I don't feel able to
assist you more than that. Stop! an idea strikes me! You can not arrange
everything yourself. There are always things that are apt to be
forgotten. You must get somebody to help you think out things. When we
go away I feel that it will be forever--at least, I felt so this
afternoon. You will have to arrange everything, so that there need be no
correspondence with Toronto any more."
"Yes," said Jack, "I think your advice is good. I have always relied on
Hampstead. If you did not mind my telling him the whole story, Nina, I
think his assistance would be invaluable."
"There is nothing that I dread his knowing," said Nina, as she buried
her face in the cushions. "He is a man of the world, and will know I am
innocent about our intended marriage. I thoroughly believe in his
power, not only to help you to arrange everything, but also to take the
secret with him to his grave."
"I am glad to hear you say so," said Jack. "I have always thought dear
old Geoffrey, in spite of a good many things I would like to see
changed, to be the finest all-round man I ever knew."
"Yes. Now go, Jack! I am too ill to talk a moment more. Simply tell me
when and how I am to go and I will go. As for arranging anything more,
my mind refuses to do it. Give me your arm to the foot of the stairs!
So. Good-night!"