But Aubrey had not gone away. He had gone out in the dizziness of a
great downfall, scarcely knowing how to keep his feet steady as he
wandered along the dark street, not knowing where he went. The landscape
that had charmed them all so much--was it scarcely an hour ago?--the
lamps reflected in the water; the verandah, with its wreaths of green;
the brilliant yet mysterious glimmer of the moon, made his heart sink to
look at them now. He strayed off into the darkest of the narrow streets,
into the great gloom of the cathedral shadow, where he could see nothing
but a poor light twinkling here and there, making the darkness visible.
Oh! how certain it is that, however sweet they may seem, your sins will
find you out! Oh! how more than certain if you have let yourself be
dragged down once, only once, in a spotless life, that the one fault
will be made into the central fact of your whole existence. If he had
been a bad, dissipated man, it would have been only fair. But this poor
young fellow was like the young man whom our Lord loved though he went
away. All good things he had kept from his youth up--but once, only
once, half distracted by grief, and by the desire which is so natural to
escape from grief, and by infernal temptation, he had fallen--oh, there
was no need to tell him how he had fallen! Had it not been the canker in
his soul ever since? And now this one thing, this miserable,
much-repented fault, which revolted, disgusted, horrified himself, was
brought up against him as if it were the pattern upon which he had
shaped his life.
And now, what was left for him but to fall down, down into the
unfathomable abyss? The distracted feelings with which he had broken
away from home, the horror and dismay that at once belonged to his
natural grief and made the burden of it a thousand times harder to bear,
all rushed back upon him, whirling him down and down to dimmer and more
awful depths. He had partially healed himself in the intolerableness of
his trouble by travel and change, and the arbitrary forgetfulness which
comes from absence and the want of any association which could call back
to him what was past; and then the touch of Bee’s soft, girlish hand,
the sound of her voice, had suddenly called him back into an enchanted
land where everything had again become possible. He had hesitated for
some time, wondering if he might dare--he who had a secret smirch upon
him which nobody suspected--to avail himself of this way of salvation.
The reader will think that he had not hesitated very long--poor
Aubrey--seeing that the introduction, the acquaintance, the love, the
engagement had all occurred within the small space of one month; but to
the brooding spirit the hours of one interminable day are long enough
for a chronicle. Something like the phenomena of love at first sight had
occurred in the bleeding yet young heart, which had felt itself cut
loose from all the best associations of life. Deliverance, recreation,
the new beginning of life and all its possibilities had gleamed upon him
in Bee’s blue eyes. Her appearance swept away everything that was dark
and ominous in his life. Did he dare to ask for her hand, to set out
again to make himself a new career? He had worked at that question
almost from the first day, discussing it with himself for the three
weeks preceding their engagement, waking and sleeping, almost without
intermission; and then in a moment he had forgotten all controversy, and
let forth without intention the words that had been lying, so to speak,
on the threshold of his lips--and in that moment all the clouds had been
swept away. He was only eight and twenty after all--so young to have
such a past behind him, and what so natural as that his life should
begin again--begin now as for the first time? He had hesitated in the
first fervour of his betrothal whether he should not tell all his story.
But there was no one to tell it to but Mrs. Kingsward--a lady, even a
young lady, not looking much older than Bee herself. That is one of the
drawbacks of a young mother. She was still in the sphere of the girls,
not in that of the old ladies whom Heaven has ordained to represent the
mothers of the race. How could he tell to her the story of that
entanglement? If Colonel Kingsward had been there, Aubrey was of opinion
that he would have made a clean breast of everything to him. But I think
it very likely that he might not have done so. He would have intended
it, and he would have put it off from day to day; and then he knew how
lightly men of the world look upon such matters. What would have
horrified Mrs. Kingsward would probably call forth nothing but a
pooh-pooh from her husband. Aubrey, as it proved, was mistaken there,
for Colonel Kingsward had ideas of his own, not always corresponding to
those of the ordinary man of the world; but no doubt had he heard the
story from that side and not from the other, he would have regarded it
in a very different light.
But it was too late--too late for these reflections now. The fiat had
gone forth, the sentence had been pronounced beyond appeal. Oh, Bee,
Bee, she was too good for him; too fresh, too bright, unsullied by the
world, for a man who had gone through so much already although he was
still young enough. He who had loved and married--though, oh, how
differently!--poor little Amy, who was nobody, whom he had liked for her
yielding sweetness, sweetness which had cost him so dear--he who had
been a father, who had lost his way in life amid the fogs of death and
grief--how had he now dared to think that such a girl as Bee should
dedicate her fresh young life to restore him again to the lost
possibilities of his? It seemed to him the greatest presumption, the
most dreadful, cynical, almost blasphemous attempt. It was the way of
the world--to think that any woman, however good, might be sacrificed to
the necessities of a man’s restoration whatever he had done; everybody
thought so, his own mother even. But he, Aubrey, should have known
better--he should have known that even at his best he could never have
been good enough for Bee, and to think that he had dared now when he was
no longer at his best! What a fool, what a fool he had been! He had come
to be able to endure the daylight and “get on” well enough when he had
arrived at the Bath and seen her first. Why had he not contented himself
with that, knowing that he had no right to expect more? And now there
was nothing--nothing before him but a plunge into the unutterable
darkness--darker than ever, without any hope--worse almost, if worse
were possible, than when he had fled from his home.
He did not know how long he had been roaming about the dark town
pondering all these dreadful thoughts. When he went back to the hotel,
which he finally did, worn out, not knowing where else to go, one
reproachful waiter, with eyes that said he ought to have been in bed
long ago, was waiting for him with a curt demand what he would have to
eat, and all the house, except that deserted eating-room, where one
light twinkled--reproachful, like the waiter--was shut up. He went to
his room when he had swallowed some brandy, which was the only thing he
could find to put a little warmth into his chilled limbs and despairing
heart, and threw himself miserable upon his bed, where I have no doubt
he slept, though he was not aware of it--as Bee did, though she had no
intention of doing so.
The only one who was really a sufferer in this respect was poor Mrs.
Kingsward, who was ill, and who had been far more agitated than her
feeble strength could bear. She it was who lay and wondered all through
the night what she must do. Was he really gone without a word, thus
proving how much he was in the wrong, and how right the Colonel was? It
would have saved her from a great deal of embarrassment, but I do not
think Mrs. Kingsward wished that Aubrey might have really gone. It was
too summary, it was not natural, it would show Colonel Kingsward to have
been too right. Oh! she believed he was right! She did not doubt that
his decision was for the best any more than she doubted that it was
inexorable: but still the heart revolted a little, and she hoped that he
might not be proved so unutterably right as that. And poor Bee--poor
little Bee! She did not know, poor child, that there were bitters in the
sweetest cup--that if she had twenty years of Aubrey she would not
probably have thought quite so much of him as now--that nobody was
perfect, which was a conviction that had been forced upon Mrs.
Kingsward’s own mind, though it was not a strong one, by the passage of
the years. And then the poor lady went off into perplexed considerations
of what she personally must do. Must he leave them all at once, travel
home in a different carriage, avoid them at the stations, not venture to
come near their table when they dined on the way? It would seem so
ridiculous, and it would be so embarrassing after their very close
intercourse. But men never thought of these little things. She felt sure
that the Colonel would expect her never to let the two meet again. And
how could she do that when they were both travelling the same way?
Besides, was it fair, was it just, would Bee endure it--never to see him
again?
Bee woke up in all the energy of despair. It burst upon her in the first
moment of her waking that he had gone away, that it was all over; but
her mind, when it had time to think, rejected that idea; he would not,
could not have gone without a word, without even saying farewell,
without asking her--anything, anything--to forgive him or to forget him,
or to be faithful to him, or not to believe what was said against him.
One or other of these things Aubrey must say to her before he went away.
Therefore, he could not have gone away, and everything was still
possible. In her passion and pride she had refused last night to let her
mother tell her what it was. She had resolved that Aubrey should be
present, that he should hear the accusation against him, that he should
give his own explanation--that was only just, she said to herself--the
poorest criminal had a right to that! And Aubrey should have it. He
should not, whatever papa said and whatever mamma said, be condemned
unheard. She dressed in great haste and rang the bell energetically to
ascertain if he had come back. But the chambermaid who answered Bee’s
bell was stupid and could not understand what Herr it was about whom the
young lady questioned her so closely. Had he come back? Oh, yes, she
believed all the Herren had come back; there was not a bed to be had in
the house. But what Herr was it whom the gracious young lady sought.
The old gentleman in the next room, who was so ill? She heard that he
was a little better this morning--or the young Herr in number ten, or
the Herr whose eyes were so bad, who was going to the great doctor at
Dusseldorf? Perhaps poor Bee’s German was at fault. She was still
attempting to make the matter clear when Moulsey came in with the news
that Mrs. Kingsward was very poorly, and had not slept at all, a
statement which Betty, rushing in half-dressed, confirmed anxiously.
“Mamma has had a very bad night; and what is the matter, Bee, that we
are all at sixes and sevens, and why did you lock your door? I came up
as soon as I could--as soon as Charlie would let me. He said it was
dreadful, nobody coming down; and that we must eat through the dinner
for the sake of appearances. And Aubrey never showing neither, and me
obliged to sleep in mamma’s room because you had locked the door.”
“I want to know,” said Bee, “whether Aubrey came back last night.”
“Oh, how should I know?” said Betty, “and why shouldn’t he come back?
Of course he must have come back. Is he going anywhere else but home? I
wish people would not get letters,” said the girl. “You are all so
ridiculous since those letters came last night. Letters are nice when
they are nice. But, oh! how much nicer it was yesterday morning when you
had none, and we were all quite happy, and mamma well, and Aubrey and
you as funny as you could be!”
There flashed upon Bee as she spoke the whole bright panorama of
yesterday. Not a cloud in the sky nor a trouble in the world. Mamma as
fresh as the morning, the river shining, the steamboat thrilling through
the water with a shiver of pleasure in its wooden sides, every group
adding amusement, and they themselves affording it, no doubt, to the
rest. How conscious they had been when they laughed under their breath
at the young German pairs, that they themselves were lovers too, quite
as happy, if not so demonstrative. Oh! yesterday--yesterday! You might
as well say last century for anything that resembled it now. Bee turned
almost fiercely to Moulsey, who stood looking on with that air of
knowing all about it which so often exasperated the girls, and requested
her to go downstairs immediately and ask if Mr. Leigh had come back.
Moulsey hesitated and protested that the chambermaid would know. “And
you that know the language, Miss Bee.”
“Go down directly and inquire if Mr. Leigh has come back. You know the
waiter that speaks such good English as well as I do,” said Bee,
peremptorily. And Moulsey could do nothing but obey.
Yes, Mr. Leigh had come back; he had occupied his room, but was not yet
up so far as the attendants knew. There came such a change on Bee’s face
at this news as startled both the curious observers. The light grew less
fierce, more like the usual sunny brightness in her eyes. A softening
came over her face. Her colour flashed back. “I want to know when mamma
is coming downstairs,” she said. “Moulsey--or no, stop. I’ll go myself
and see.”
Moulsey was so roused that she caught the young lady by the arm. “If it
was your papa himself, my lady shan’t be disturbed,” she said. “And not
by you, Miss Bee, as are the cause of it all; not if you should put a
knife into me afore her door.”
“How dare you say I am the cause of it all?”
“Because it’s the truth,” said the enraged maid. “She was worrited
enough before by those letters, and you coming in like the wind, like
your papa himself, as I always said you were his living image; and
stopping her in the middle of her little bit of cutlet that would have
given her strength, and questioning of her like a drum-major, and pacing
up and down outside the door like a wild beast. Mind my words: you don’t
know, none of you, how little strength my poor lady’s got. And you’re
all so masterful, every one, with mamma here and mamma there, and you’ll
not find out till it’s too late----”
“But mamma’s better,” cried Betty. “She has taken her cure, and she’s
all right till next year.”
“I only wish as you may all find it so, miss,” said Moulsey, folding her
arms across her broad chest and shaking her head.
Bee was awe-struck for a moment by this speech, but she knew that
Moulsey was always a croaker, and it was quite true about the cure. She
paused a little uncertain, and then she resumed in a subdued voice--
“I never want to disturb mamma. But Moulsey, we’ve got to leave here
to-day.”
“That can’t be,” said Moulsey, decisively. “My lady is not fit to travel
after such a bad night, and I won’t have it,” she said. “The doctor has
put my lady into my hands, and he says ‘She’s not to be overtired. Mind,
I don’t respond for nothing if she’s overtired.’ And she just shan’t
go--that’s flat. And you may all say what you like, and your papa, too.”
“Not to-day?” said Bee, with another change of countenance. It flashed
upon her that another day’s delay would give time for all the
explanations in which she could not help hoping. Her excited pulses
calmed down a little. She was not alarmed about her mother. Had she been
so, it would no doubt have given her thoughts another direction. But Bee
knew nothing of illness, much less anything of death. She was not
afraid of them. In her experience people might be ill occasionally, but
they always got better. Mamma, too, would be better presently, when she
got up; and then they could all meet, and the letters and the whole
matter could be discussed. And it seemed to be impossible--impossible
that from this some better conclusion could be arrived at. There had
been so much confusion last night, when it burst upon them like a
thunderstroke. When looked at calmly, without flurry or haste, the
better moment would bring better views, and who could say that all might
not yet be well?