THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
We returned to England the next day. All the journey through, my uncles
were continually reverting to the matter of John's parentage: the more
they saw of him, the less could they believe lady Cairnedge his mother.
Through questions put to him, and inquiries afterward made, they
discovered that, when he went to London, he had gone to lady Cairnedge's
lawyer, not his father's, of whom he had never heard--which accounted for
his having on that occasion learned nothing of consequence to him. When
we reached London, my uncle Edmund, who, having been bred a lawyer, knew
how to act, went at once to examine the will left by John's father. That
done, he set out for the place where John was born. The rest of us went
home.
The second day after our arrival there, uncle Edmund came. He had found
perfect proof, not only that lady Cairnedge was John's step-mother, but
that she had no authority over him or his property whatever.
A long discussion took place in my uncles' study--I have to shift the
apostrophe of possession--as to whether John ought to compel restitution
of what she might have wrongfully spent or otherwise appropriated. She
had been left an income by each of her husbands, upon either of which
incomes she might have lived at ease; but they had a strong suspicion,
soon entirely justified, that while spending John's money, she had been
saving up far more than her own. But in the discussion, John held to it
that, as she had once been the wife of his father, he would spare her so
far--provided she had nowise impoverished either of the estates. He would
insist only upon her immediate departure.
“Yes, little one,” said my uncle, one summer evening, as he and I talked
together, seated alone in the wilderness, “what we call misfortune is
always the only good fortune. Few will say _yes_ in response, but Truth
is independent of supporters, being justified by her children.
“Until _misfortune_ found us,” he went on, “my brother and I had indeed
loved one another, but with a love so poor that a wicked woman was able
to send it to sleep. To what she might have brought us, had she had full
scope, God only knows: _now_ all the women in hell could not separate
us!”
“And all the women in paradise would but bring you closer!” I ventured to
add.
The day after our marriage, which took place within a month of our return
from Paris, John went to Rising, on a visit to lady Cairnedge of anything
but ceremony, and took his uncles and myself with him.
“Will you tell her ladyship,” he said to the footman, “that Mr. Day
desires to see her.”
The man would have shut the door in our faces, with the words, “I will
see if my lady is at home;” but John was prepared for him. He put his
foot between the door and the jamb, and his two hands against the door,
driving it to the wall with the man behind it. There he held him till we
were all in, then closed the door, and said to him, in a tone I had never
heard him use till that moment,
“Let lady Cairnedge know at once that Mr. Day desires to see her.”
The man went. We walked into the white drawing-room, the same where I sat
alone among the mirrors the morning after I was lost on the moor. How
well I remembered it! There we waited. The gentlemen stood, but, John
insisting, I sat--my eyes fixed on the door by which we had entered.
In a few minutes, however, a slight sound in another part of the room,
caused me to turn them thitherward. There stood lady Cairnedge, in a
riding-habit, with a whip in her hand, staring, pale as death, at my
uncles. Then, with a scornful laugh, she turned and went through a door
immediately behind her, which closed instantly, and became part of the
wainscot, hardly distinguishable. John darted to it. It was bolted on the
outside. He sought another door, and ran hither and thither through the
house to find the woman. My uncles ran after him, afraid something might
befall him. I remained where I was, far from comfortable. Two or three
minutes passed, and then I heard the thunder of hoofs. I ran to the
window. There she was, tearing across the park at full gallop, on just
such a huge black horse as she had smothered in the bog! I was the only
one of us that saw her, and not one of us ever set eyes upon her again.
When we went over the house, it soon became plain to us that she had been
in readiness for a sudden retreat, having prepared for it after a fashion
of her own: not a single small article of value was to be discovered in
it. John's great-aunt, who left him the property, died in the house,
possessed of a large number of jewels, many of them of great price both
in themselves and because of their antiquity: not one of them was ever
found.
A report reached us long after, that lady Cairnedge was found dead in her
bed in a hotel in the Tyrol.
My uncles lived for many years on the old farm. Uncle Edmund bought a
gray horse, as like uncle Edward's as he could find one, only younger. I
often wondered what Death must think--to know he had his master on his
back, and yet see him mounted by his side. Every day one or the other,
most days both, would ride across the moor to see us. For many years
Martha walked in at the door at least once every week.
My uncles took no pains, for they had no desire, to be distinguished the
one from the other. Each was always ready to meet any obligation of the
other. If one made an appointment, few could tell which it was, and
nobody which would keep it. No one could tell, except, perhaps, one who
had been present, which of them had signed any document: their two hands
were absolutely indistinguishable, I do not believe either of them, after
a time, always himself knew whether the name was his or his brother's. He
could only be always certain it must have been written by one of them.
But each indifferently was ready to honour the signature, _Ed.
Whichcote_.
They died within a month of each other. Their bodies lie side by side. On
their one tombstone is the inscription:
HERE LIE THE DISUSED GARMENTS OF EDWARD AND EDMUND WHICHCOTE,
BORN FEB. 29, 1804;
DIED JUNE 30, AND
JULY 28, 1864.
THEY ARE NOT HERE; THEY ARE RISEN.
John and I are waiting.
Belorba Day.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Flight of the Shadow, by George MacDonald