At the bottom of the garden I sat out under the hedge of nut trees this
afternoon and did my best to formulate a plan of action. Dandy sat on
the ground before me, staring up into my face. He knew I was thinking
deeply and, though he would not have disturbed me for the world, I
saw that he was offering me his assistance. It consists of a rapt and
undivided attention while I speak aloud whatever comes first into my
head. There are but few occasions when I refuse his offer. I accepted
it then.
"This requires strenuous concentration," said I, whereupon I began to
let my eyes wander up the garden to where Cruikshank was seeing to his
raspberry canes.
He really should have been called Adam. Cruikshank is no proper name
for him. For that matter, she might with better reason have been called
Eve. They are just a man and woman in a garden and, so far as I know,
there is no tree within its high stone walls, the fruit of which they
may not touch. It would have saved a deal of trouble had the garden of
Eden been like this.
As I looked back, I caught Dandy's eye. It was reminding me that I
was letting concentration go with the wind. That wind always springs
up when I attempt anything in the nature of concentration. I know
so well the tune of it. So sure as I set my mind to some definite
contemplation, it plays the prettiest of fancies in my ears.
"Well, then," said I, with an effort, "what's to be done? There are a
thousand difficulties. First of all, she is never alone, except in that
little cage of hers with its drab white muslin curtains. If we meet
her on the cliffs at night, there are the Miss Fennells guarding her
with their escort. There is no possibility of seeing her in the house.
But last of all--" and here I bent down, looking Dandy squarely in
the eyes--"what right have we to interfere when the God of a Thousand
Circumstances makes up His mind to break a woman's heart?"
Now Dandy knows nothing of the God of a Thousand Circumstances. The
only God he honors is that of Chance, wherefore and on that score he
answered my question as best he could. There was a sudden rustling in
the long grass under the nut trees, whereat he pricked his ears and all
his body stiffened to the sound. The next instant a large rat crept out
of the bushes, and Dandy was after him. I made no objection. He never
catches them. For a few minutes he rushes wildly in many directions,
digs up innumerable things that have nothing whatever to do with it,
and behaves generally as though life were a whirlwind, of which he is
the centre and all-important force. After that, he comes back quietly
once more to me, and sitting down says--
"I might have caught him. I got very near. I don't often miss them like
that. I was really too clever for him; that's how he got away."
Then a scarlet tongue comes out and he licks his lips. It proves
conclusively to me how near he did get. He always does; that is why I
raise no objections. It puts him in excellent mood, and, I imagine,
has a way of teaching the rat that fitness is a quality never to be
despised in this world.
I waited on this occasion till it was quite over. Then Dandy came back
and told me all about it, right through, without any variation, even to
the licking of the lips.
"So that's your answer," said I. "Have no truck with the God of
Circumstance. Follow the God of Chance."
It was the best advice he could have given me. Adventure makes a man
of one. I had set forth upon mine and there was no sense in turning
back because I had come to a passage at arms with difficulty in the
very first stage of the journey. Here was this child, friendless, at
the mercy of two gaolers in whose possession were all the bolts of
prejudice wherewith to keep her locked away. There was no appealing to
the kindlier nature of the two Miss Fennells. There was no telling them
the truth of that nephew on whom all their hopes were centred. Then
how to prove to this little prisoner that she had a friend waiting
outside the walls of her fortress, ready to help her, if she would but
accept help, ready to save her from herself and all the relentless
consequences of the step she was about to take. How to prove to her
that she had need of a friend at all? Would she believe it? Would she
ever take the word of an utter stranger against the promises of the man
she loved? Not if I had any knowledge of women at all.
"But plain knowledge never won or lost an adventure yet," said I,
and Dandy looked up with a vast amount of appreciation into my face.
He entirely agreed with me there. "We must write to her," I went on.
"Contrive to meet her one of these nights on the cliffs--give her
the letter, make some effort to see her alone and tell her--tell her
everything--tell her to go back to her blue skies and her sunshine
where she can bury those black grave clothes, the garments of a
civilized community, and take out her gown of canary-colored satin once
more."
Having made up our minds to this, we went into the house and began
the inditing of a letter to Clarissa. It was at this point that Dandy
lost interest. He will give me the full of his attention so long as
I talk to him; but it is more than he can stand when I take up a pen
and, except for the scratching of it on the paper, sit in silence at my
table. The sound of scratching, to begin with, annoys him; then, again,
although he has tried, he cannot understand one word of what I write.
On these occasions he wanders aimlessly round the room, coming back at
intervals to my chair to try and catch my eye. Failing many times in
this, he at last throws himself in despair upon the hearthrug where,
lying with his nose between his two fore-paws, he day-dreams--dreams
of past adventures in which he figures as the hero, and I, if indeed
I appear in them at all, am just a super on an over-crowded stage. He
behaved no differently this morning, except that as I sat down and
dipped my pen in the ink, he yawned. He had never done that before. I
took no notice. I wrote my letter. Here is what I said:
"CLARISSA,--I know your eyes are not bad. I know all about it. I have
seen him in London and I want to tell you something. Can you manage to
meet me one evening round the cliffs? Try and think how you can arrange
it. I must see you alone."
I did not sign it because I had determined that if it were to be
delivered at all, it must be with my own hands. But how? It had all
the difficulties attached to it as I remember having experienced when
I was a boy at school. At the church where we went every Sunday, there
attended also a neighboring school of girls. It was my fortune that
one of them should catch my eye. From Sunday to Sunday those glances
continued, till at last they held a smile. She smiled at me. I could
hardly believe it to be true. Again I looked and again she smiled. Then
I remember how I tore from my hymn-book that page containing the hymn:
"Can a woman's tender care
Cease toward the child she bare?
Yes, she may forgetful be,
Yet will I remember thee."
And in the fulness of my heart, believing it to convey all my
sentiments far better than I could ever have expressed them myself, I
marked the last line deeply with pencil, meaning to give it her at the
very first opportunity. But how? I have never found out to this day.
Shall I ever find out the way to give this letter to Clarissa?