Lady Greystock drove on briskly. They were out of the shadow of the
trees and again on the broad, white gleaming gravelled road that led
to the west lodge, and the turnpike road to Blagden. Not a word was
spoken. On went the ponies, who knew the dark shadows of the elms that
stood at intervals, in groups, two or three together, by the side of
the road, and threw their giant outlines across it, making the
moon-light seem brighter and brighter as it silvered the surface of
the broad carriage drive, and made the crushed granite sparkle--on
went the ponies, shaking their heads with mettlesome impatience when
the pulling of the reins offended them, not frightened at the whirling
of the great droning night insects, which flew out from the oak-trees
on the left, nor shying away from the shadows--on they went through
the sweet, still, soft, scented night air, and the broad, peaceful
light of the silent moon--on they went! Not one word mingled with the
sound of their ringing hoofs, not a breath was heard to answer to the
sighing of the leaves; the "good night" that had been spoken between
the stranger and themselves still seemed to live in the hearing of
those to whom he had spoken, and to keep them in a meditative and
painful silence.
At last the lodge was reached. The servant opened the gates; the
carriage was driven through; the high road was gained, and all
romantic mystery was over; the dream that had held those silent ones
was gone; and like one suddenly awoke, Lady Greystock said: "Eleanor!
how wonderful; you knew that man! Eleanor! he knew you; asked about
you; had been seeking you. Why was he there in the Beremouth
woods--appearing at this hour, among the ferns and grass, like a wild
creature risen from its lair? Eleanor! why don't you speak to me? Why,
when he spoke of you by your name, did you not answer for yourself?
Why did you send him to Jenifer? Oh! Eleanor; I feel there is
something terrible and strange in all this. I cannot keep it to
myself. I must tell my father. It can't be right. It cannot be for any
good that we met a man lurking about, and not owned by you, though he
is here to find you. Speak, Eleanor! Now that I am in the great high
road I feel as if I had gone through a terror, or escaped some strange
danger, or met a mystery face to face."
Lady Greystock spoke fast and in a low voice, and Eleanor, bending a
little toward her, heard every word.
"You _have_ met a mystery face to face," she said in a whisper, which,
however, was sufficiently audible. "I _did_ know that man. And I am
not denying that he sought me, and that he had a right to seek
me. But many things have changed since those old days, when, if I had
obeyed him, I should have done better than I did. I know what he
wants; and Jenifer can give it to him. Here we are at Blagden; think
no more of it, Lady Greystock."
No answer was given to Eleanor's words; they met Dr. Blagden on the
steps at the door. "You are later than usual--all right?" "All quite
right," said Eleanor. "The beauty of the night tempted us to come home
through Beremouth," said Lady Greystock. "How lovely it would look on
such a sweet, peaceful night," said Mrs. Blagden, who now joined them;
and then Eleanor took the carriage wraps in her arms up stairs, and
Lady Greystock went into the drawing-room, and soon after the whole
household--all but Eleanor--were in bed.
Not Eleanor. She opened a box where she kept her letters, and many
small objects of value to her, and carefully shutting out the
moonlight, and trimming her lamp into brilliancy, she took out letter
after letter from Henry Evelyn calling her his beloved one, and his
wife; then the letter from Corny Nugent, saying that Henry Evelyn and
Horace Erskine were one; and the one thing that Corny Nugent had sent
to her as evidence--it seemed to be proof sufficient. It was a part of
a letter from Horace to his uncle, Mr. Erskine, which had been flung
into a waste-paper basket, and which, having the writer's signature,
Corny had kept, and sent to Eleanor. Not, as he said, that he knew the
man's handwriting, but that she did; and that, therefore, to her it
would have value as proving or disproving his own convictions.
Eleanor had never brought this evidence to the proof. She had laid by
Corny's letter, and the inclosure. She had put it all aside with the
weight of a great dread on her mind, and "Not yet, not yet," was all
she said as she locked away both the assertion and the proof.
But her husband was at Beremouth now. Yes; and on what errand? She
knew that too.
Mrs. Brewer had called that morning to see Lady Greystock. Mrs. Brewer
had come herself to tell Claudia that Mary would arrive, and that
Horace would bring her. She would not trust any one but herself to
give that information. She never let go the idea of Horace having
behaved in some wrong way to Claudia. She knew Claudia's disposition,
her bravery, her determination; and her guesses were very near the
truth. "Mother Mary" had those womanly instincts which jump at
conclusions; and the truths guessed at through the feelings are
truths, and remain truths for ever, though reason has never proved
them or investigation explained them.
Then, too, there was her sister's letter, which Mrs. Brewer had sent
to Father Daniels. There the passing fancy for Claudia had been spoken
of. In that letter the love of money had peeped out, and supplied the
motive; but Mrs. Brewer knew very well that Claudia's disposition was
not of a sort to have any acquaintance with passing fancies. If she
had loved Horace, she had loved with her whole heart; and if she had
been deceived in him, her whole heart had suffered, and her whole life
been overcast. "Mother Mary" had felt to some purpose; and now, only
herself should say to Lady Greystock that he was coming among them
again.
She had arrived at Blagden and she had told Claudia everything; what
Horace wished as to Mary, and what her sister and Mr. Erskine desired;
and she had not hidden her own unwillingness to lose her child, or her
own wish that Mary might have married, when she did marry, some one
more to her mother's mind, and nearer to her mother's house. And
it was in remembrance of this conversation that Lady Greystock, when
she took Jenifer into the carriage, had said: "If you ever pray for my
father, and all he loves, pray _now_?"
Something of all this had been told by Lady Greystock to Eleanor. And
in the time that the aunt and niece had been together that day,
Eleanor had said to Jenifer, "He is down at the park wanting to marry
Miss Lorimer."
Jenifer's darling--Jenifer's darling's darling; how she loved "Mother
Mary," and Lansdowne Lorimer's child, only her own great and good
heart knew. What could she do but go to God, and his priest? What
human foresight could have prevented this? What human wisdom could set
things right? And after all, they did not _surely_ know that Eleanor's
husband and Claudia's lover were met in one man, and that man winning
the heart of lovely, innocent Mary Lorimer, and pressing marriage on
her. But for her prayer, Jenifer used to say, she should have gone out
of her mind. Oh, the comfort that grew out of the thought that GOD
KNEW! and that her life and all that was in it were given to him. Such
a shifting of responsibility--such a supporting sense of his never
allowing anything to be in that life that was not, in some way, for
his glory--such practical strength, such heart-sustaining power, grew
out of Jenifer's prayer that even Eleanor's numbed heart rested on it,
and she had learnt to be content to live, from hour to hour, a life of
submission and waiting.
But was the waiting to be over now?--was something coming? If so, she
must be prepared. And so, diligently, by the lamp-light, Eleanor
produced her own letters, and opened that torn sheet to compare the
writing. It was different in some things, yet the same. As she gazed,
and examined, and compared terminations, and matched the capital
letters together, she knew it was the same handwriting. Time had done
its work. The writing of the present was firmer, harder, done with a
worse pen, written at greater speed. But that was all the change. She
was convinced; and she put away her sorrow-laden store, locked them
safe from sight, said her night prayers, and went to bed. Not a sigh,
nor a tear. No vain regrets, no heart-easing groans. The time for such
consolations had long been passed with Eleanor. Within the last nine
years her life had as much changed as if she had died and risen again
into another world of intermediate trial. A very great change had been
wrought in her by Lady Greystock's friendship. Eleanor had become
educated. The clever, poetical girl, who had won Horace Erskine's
attention by her natural superiority to everything around her--even
when those surroundings had been of a comparatively high state of
cultivation, had hardened into the industrious and laborious woman.
When it pleased Lady Greystock to hear her sing, in her own sweet,
untaught way, the songs of her own country, she had sung them; and
then, when Lady Greystock had offered to cultivate the talent, she had
worked hard at improvement. She had been brought up by French nuns, at
a convent school, and had spoken their language from childhood; when
Lady Greystock got French books, it was Eleanor's delight to read
aloud; and she had made Mrs. Blagden's two little girls almost as
familiar with French as she was herself. Those things had given rise
to the idea that Mrs. Evelyn, as she was always called, had seen
better days; and no one had ever suspected her relationship to
Jenifer. Mr. Brewer alone knew of it. As to Mr. Brewer ever telling
anything that could be considered, in the telling, as a breach of
confidence, that was, of course, impossible.
That night--that night so important in our story, Jenifer, having done
all her duties by her mistress, which were really not a few, and
having seen that the girl who did the dirty work was safe in the
darkness of a safely put out candle, opened her lattice to look on the
night. Her little room had a back view. That is, it looked over the
flagged kitchen court, and the walled-in flower garden, and beyond
toward the village of Blagden and the majestic woods at the back of
the house at Beremouth.
Jenifer had gone to bed, and had risen again, oppressed by a feeling
that something was, as she expressed it, "going on--something doing
somewhere--'something up,' as folks say, sir. I can't account for it.
I fancied I heard something--that I was wanted. And I thought at first
that some one was in my room. Then I went into mistress's room,
without my shoes, not to wake her. She was all right, sleeping like a
tender babe. Then I went to Peggy's room. The girl was asleep. I
sniffed up and down the passage, just to find if anything wrong in the
way of smoke or fire was about. No; all was pure and pleasant; and
then I went down stairs to make sure of the doors being locked.
Everything was right, sir"--such was Jenifer's account to Mr. Brewer;
who, when she paused at this point, asked: "What next did you do? Did
you go upstairs again to bed?" "I went upstairs," the woman answered,
"but not to bed. I sat at the window, and looked out over the garden,
and over the meadows beyond the old bridge, and on to Beremouth. And
the night was the brightest, fairest, loveliest night I ever beheld.
And so, sir, I said my prayers once more, and went again to bed; and
slept in bits and snatches, for still I was always thinking that
somebody wanted me, till the clock struck six; and then I got up."
"You don't usually get up at six, or before the girl gets up, do you?"
"No, sir; never, I may say. But I got up to ease my mind of its
burthens. And when Peggy had got up, and was down stairs, I started
off for the alms-house; I thought Mr. Dawson might be up to say mass
there, for it was St. Lawrence's Day." "Well?" "But there had been no
message about mass, and no priest was expected. And as I got back to
our door there was Mrs. Fell, the milk-woman. She had brought the milk
herself. I asked how that should be. She said they had had a cow like
to die in the night, and that their man had been up all night, and
that she was sparing him, for he had gone to lie down. Then I said,
'Why, I could never have heard any of you busy about the cattle in the
night'--you see they rent the meadows. But she said they were not in
the meadows; the beasts were all in the shed at the farm. 'But,' she
said, it's odd if you were disturbed, for a man came to our place just
before twelve o'clock, and asked for you.' 'For me!' I cried--'a man
at your place in the middle of the night, asking for me!' She said,
'Yes; and a decent-spoken body, too. But tired, and wet through and
through. He said he had fallen into the Beremouth deer pond, up in the
park. That is, he described the place clear enough, and we knew it was
the deer pond, for it could not be anywhere else!'" "And did you ask
where the man went to?" "No, sir. I lifted my eyes, and I saw him."
"And who was he?" "Oh, Mr. Brewer, it must all be suffered as he gives
it to me to suffer; but I am not clear about telling his name."
Mr. Brewer took out his watch and looked at it. "It is nearly ten
o'clock," he said. "Where's your mistress?"
"Settled to her work, sir."
Mr. Brewer held this long talk with Jenifer in that right-hand parlor
down stairs where he had paid that money to Mrs. Morier, when the
reader first made his acquaintance. He had great confidence in
Jenifer. He knew her goodness, and her patience, and her trust. He
knew something, too, of her trials, and also of her prayer; but he had
come there to investigate a very serious matter, and he was going
steadily through with it.
"Listen, Jenifer."
"Yes, sir."
"Last night, just after our night prayers, Father Daniels being in the
house, my friend, Mr. Erskine, who escorted my step-daughter, Mary
Lorimer, home, went out into the park, just, as was supposed, to have
a cigar before going to bed. Mrs. Brewer and I were in Mary's room
when we heard Mr. Erskine leave the house. He certainly lighted his
cigar. Mary's window was open, and we smelt the tobacco. Jenifer, he
never returned."
They were both standing and looking at each other. "My life, and all
that is in it!" Up went Jenifer's prayer, but voicelessly, to heaven.
"My life, and all that is in it!" But a strong faith that the one
terrible evil that her imagination pictured would not be in it, was
strong within her.
"He never returned. My man-servant woke me in my first sleep by
knocking at the bed-room door, and saying that Mr. Erskine had not
returned. I rose up and dressed myself. I collected the men and went
out into the park. We went to the south lodge, to ask if any one had
seen him. 'No,' they said. 'But the west lodge-keeper had been there
as late as near to ten o'clock, and he had said that a man had been in
their house asking a good many questions about Beremouth, and who we
had staying there, and if a Mr. Erskine was there, or ever had been
there, and inquiring what sort of looking man he was, whether he wore
a beard, or had any peculiarity? how he dressed, and if there had ever
been any report of his going to be married? They had answered his
questions, because they suspected nothing worse than a gossiping
curiosity; and they had given him a rest, and a cup of tea. He said
that a friend, a cousin of his, had lived as servant with Mr. Erskine;
and he also asked if Mr. Erskine would be likely to pass through that
lodge the next day, for that he had a great curiosity to see him. He
said that he had known him well once, and wanted greatly to see him
once more. He, after all this talking, asked the nearest way to
Marston. He was directed through the park, and he left them. Our
inquiries about Horace Erskine having been answered by this history
told by one lodge-keeper to the other, we could not help suspecting
that some one had been on the watch for the young man, and taking
Jones from the lodge, and his elder boy with us, we dispersed
ourselves over the park to seek for him, a good deal troubled by what
we had heard. We got to the deer pond, but we had sought many places
before we got there; it did not seem a likely place for a man to go to
in the summer night. We looked about--we went back to get
lanterns--they were necessary in the darkness made by the thick
foliage; one side was bright enough, and the pool was like a
looking-glass where it was open to the sloping turf, and the short
fern, which the deer trample down when they get there to drink; but
the side where the thorns, hollies, and yew-trees grow was as black as
night; and yet we thought we could see where the wild climbing plants
had been pulled away, and where some sort of struggle might have taken
place. As we searched, when we came back, we found strong evidence of
a desperate encounter; the branches of the great thorn-tree were
hanging split from the stem, and, holding the lantern, we saw the
marks of broken ground by the margin of the pond, as if some one had
been struggling at the very edge of it. Then, all at once, and I shall
never understand why we did not see it before--the moonbeams grew
brighter, I suppose--but there in the pond was the figure of a man;
not altogether in the water, but having struggled so far out as to get
his head against the bank, hid as it was with the grass and low
brush-wood, the ferns and large-leaved water-weeds; we laid bold of
the poor fellow--it was Horace Erskine, Jenifer!"
"_My life, and all that is in it_." But the hope, the faith, rather,
was still alive, that that worst grief should not be in it--so she
prayed--so she felt--for Jenifer! "Master," she gasped, "not dead--not
dead--Mr. Brewer."
"Not dead!" he said gravely; "he would have been dead if we had not
found him when we did. He was bruised and wounded; such a sight of
ill-treatment as no eyes ever before beheld, I think. He must have
been more brutally used than I could have believed possible, if I had
not seen it. His clothes were torn; his face so disfigured that he
will scarcely ever recover the likeness of a man, and one arm is
broken." "But not dead?" "No; but he _may_ die; the doctor is in the
house, and the police are out after the man whom we suspect of this
horrible barbarity. Now, Jenifer, hearing some talk of a stranger who
seemed to know yon, I came here to ask you to tell me, in your own
honest way, your honest story."
But Jenifer seemed to have no desire to make confidences.
"Who told you of a stranger?"
"Have you not told me yourself, in answer to my first questions,
before giving you my reasons for inquiring?"
"No, sir; that won't do. I judge from what you said that you had heard
something of this stranger before you came here."
"I had, Jenifer." And Mr. Brewer looked steadily at her.
"Well, sir?"
"Jenifer, I have really come out of tenderness to you, and to those
who may belong to you."
"No one doubts your tenderness, sir; least of any could I doubt it.
Tell me who mentioned a stranger to you, so as to send you here to
me?"
"Lady Greystock's groom, coming to Beremouth early, and finding us in
great trouble, made a declaration as to a stranger who had appeared
and stopped his mistress as she was driving through the park last
night. He says this man asked if they could tell where Mrs. Evelyn
lived, and Mrs. Evelyn, immediately answering, said that she lived
somewhere in the neighborhood, and that he could learn by inquiring
for you. The groom says that the man evidently knew Mrs. Morier's
name, as well as year name; and that after speaking to him, Mrs.
Evelyn asked Lady Greystock to drive on, and that she drove rapidly,
and never spoke till they had almost got back to Blagden."
"It is quite true," said Jenifer. "He told me the same story this
day."
"Can you say where this man is? He will be found first or last; and it
is for the sake of justice that you should speak, Jenifer. The police
are on his track. Let me entreat you to give me every information.
Concealment is the worst thing that can be practised in such a case as
this--have you any idea where he is? I do not ask you who he is; you
will have to tell all, I fear, before a more powerful person than I
am. I only come as a friend, that you may not be induced to conceal
the evil-doer."
"The evil-doer," said Jenifer; "who says he did it?"
"I say he will be tried for doing it; and that a trial is good for the
innocent in such a case of terrible suspicion as this."
"May be," said Jenifer, "may be!"
Then, once more, that prayer, said, from her very heart, though
unspoken by her lips; and then these quiet words--"And as to the man
himself. He is my brother. My mother's child by her second husband."
"Your brother--he with whom Eleanor lived in Ireland?" "Yes, Mr.
Brewer; he of whom I told you when you saved Eleanor so many
years ago. And as to where he is--step into the kitchen, sir, and you
may see him sleeping in a chair by the fire--any way, I left him
there, when I came to open the door to you."
Mr. Brewer had really come to Jenifer in a perfectly friendly way;
exactly as he had said--out of tenderness. He had known enough to send
him there, and to have those within call who would secure this
stranger, whoever he was, and wherever he was found. Now, known, he
walked straight into the kitchen, and there stopped to take a full
view of a man in a leathern easy chair, his arm resting on Jenifer's
tea-table, and sound asleep. A finer man eyes never saw. Strong in
figure, and in face of a remarkable beauty. He was sunburnt; having
pulled his neckcloth off, the skin of his neck showed in fair
contrast, and the chest heaved and fell as the strong breath of the
sleeper was drawn regularly and with healthy ease. It was a picture of
calm rest; it seemed like a pity to disturb it. There stood Mr. Brewer
safely contemplating one who was evidently in a state of blissful
unconsciousness as to danger to others or himself.
"Your brother?" repeated Mr. Brewer to Jenifer, who stood stiff and
upright by his side.
"My half-brother, James O'Keefe."
"There is some one at the front door; will you open it?"
Jenifer guessed at the personage to be found there. But she went
steadily through the front passage, and, opening the door, let the
policeman who had been waiting enter, and then she came back to the
kitchen without uttering a word. As the man entered Mr. Brewer laid
his hand on the sleeper's shoulder, and woke him. He opened his fine
grey eyes, and looked round surprised. "On suspicion of having
committed an assault on Mr. Horace Erskine last night, in the park at
Beremouth," said the policeman, and the stranger stood up a prisoner.
He began to speak; but the policeman stopped him. "It is a serious
case," he said. "It may turn out murder. You are warned that anything
you say will be used against you at your trial." "Are you a
magistrate, sir?" asked O'Keefe as he turned to Mr. Brewer. "Yea; I
am. I hope you will take the man's advice, and say nothing."
"But I may say I am innocent?" "Every word you say is at your own
risk." "I ran no risk in saying that I am innocent--that I never saw
this Horace Erskine last night--though if I had seen him--"
"I entreat you to be silent; you must have a legal adviser"--"I! Who
do I know?"' "You shall be well looked to, and well advised," said
Jenifer. "There are those in this town, in the office where Lansdowne
Lorimer worked, who will work for me."
It was very hard for Mr. Brewer not to promise on the spot that he
would pay all possible expenses. But the recollection of the
disfigured and perhaps dying guest in his own house rose to his mind,
and he had a painful feeling that he was retained on the other side.
However, he said to Jenifer that perfect truth and sober justice
anybody might labor for in any way. And with this sort of broad hint
he left the house, and Jenifer saw the stranger taken off in safe
custody, and, mounting his horse, rode toward Blagden. He asked for
his daughter; and he was instantly admitted, and shown upstairs into
her sitting-room--there he found Claudia, looking well and happy,
engaged in some busy work, in which Eleanor was helping her.
"Oh, my dear father!" and Lady Greystock threw the work aside, and
jumped up, and into the arms that waited for her.
It was always a sort of high holiday when Mr. Brewer come by himself
to visit his daughter. When the sound of the brown-topped boots was
heard on the stairs, like a voice of music to Claudia's heart,
all human things gave way, for that gladness that her father's great
heart brought and gave away, all round him, to everybody,
everywhere--but _there_, there, where his daughter lived--there, among
the friends with whom she had recovered from a great illness and got
the better of a threatened, life-long woe--there Mr. Brewer felt some
strong influence making him _that_, which people excellently expressed
when they said of him--"he was more than ever himself that day."
Now Mr. Brewer's influence was to make those to whom he addressed
himself honest, open, and good. He was loved and trusted. It did not
generally enter into people's minds to deceive Mr. Brewer. Candor grew
and gained strength in his presence. Candor took to herself the
teachings of wisdom; candor listened to the advice of humility; candor
threw aside all vain-glorious garments when Mr. Brewer called for her
company, and candor put on, forthwith, the crown of truth. "My
darling!" said Mr. Brewer, as he kissed Claudia; "my darling!"
"Oh, my dear father--my father, my dear father!" so answered Claudia.
Then she pushed forward a chair; and then Eleanor made ready to leave
the room. "Yes, go; go for half an hour, Mrs. Evelyn. But don't be out
of the way; I have a fancy for a little chat with you, too, to-day." A
grave smile spread itself over Eleanor's placid face as she said she
should come back when Lady Greystock sent for her, and then she went
away. Once more, when she was gone, Mr. Brewer stood up and taking
Claudia's hand, kissed her. "My darling," he said, "I have something
to say, and I can only say it to you--I have some help to ask for, and
only you can help me. But are you strong enough to help me; are you
loving enough to trust me?"
"I will try to be all you want, father; I _am_ strong; I _can_
trust--but if you want to know how much I love you--why, you know I
can't tell you that--it is more than I can measure, I am afraid. Don't
look grave at me. It can't be anything very solemn, if _I_ can help
you; or anything of much importance, if my help is worth your having."
"Your help is absolutely necessary; at least necessary to my own
comfort--now, Claudia. Tell your father why you broke off your
engagement with Horace Erskine."
"_He_ did it"--she trembled. Her father took her little hand into the
grasp of his strong one, and held it with an eloquent pressure.
"He wanted more money, father. It came as a test. He was in debt. I
had loved him, as if--as if he had been what _you_ must have been in
your youth. You were my one idea of man. I had had no heart to study
but yours. I learnt that Horace Erskine was unworthy. He was a coward.
The pressure of his debts had crushed him into meanness. He asked me
to bear the trial, and to save him. I did. I did, father!"
"Yes, my darling."
He never looked at her. Only the strong fingers closed with powerful
love on the little hand within their grasp. "But you were fond of Sir
Geoffrey?"
"Yes; and glad, and grateful. I should have been very happy--but--"
"But he died," said her father, helping her.
"But Horace sent to Sir Geoffrey the miniature I had given
him--letters--and a lock of my poor curling hair--" How tight the
pressure of the strong hand grew. "I found the open packet on the
table"--she could not say another word. Then a grave, deep voice told
the rest for her--"And your honored husband's soul went up to God and
found the truth"--and the head of the poor memory-stricken daughter
found a refuge on her father's breast, and she wept there silently.
"And that made you ill, my darling; my dear darling Claudia--my own
dear daughter! Thank you, my precious one. And you don't like
Beremouth now?"
"I love Beremouth, and everything about it," cried Lady Greystock,
raising her head, and gathering all her strength together for the
effort; "but I dare not see this man--and I would rather never look
again on the deer-pond in the park, because there he spoke: there he
promised--there I thought all life was to be as that still pool,
deep, and overflowing with the waters of happiness and their
never-ceasing music. We used to go there every day. I have not looked
on it since--I could not bear to listen to the rush of the stream
where it falls over the stones between the roots of the old trees,
between whose branches the tame deer would watch us, and where old
Dapple--the dear old beauty whose name I have never mentioned in all
these years---used to take biscuits from our hands. Does old Dapple
live, father? Dapple, who was called _'old'_ nine years ago?" And Lady
Greystock looked up, and took her hand from her father's grasp, and
wiped her eyes, and wetted her fair forehead from a bowl of water, and
tried by this question to get away from the misery that this sudden
return to the long past had brought to mind.
"Dapple lives," said Mr. Brewer. And then he kissed her again, and
thanked her, and said "they should love each other all the better for
the confidence he had asked and she had given."
"But why did you ask?"
"I want to have my luncheon at your early dinner," said Mr. Brewer,
not choosing to answer her. "You do dine early, don't you?"
"Yes, and to-day Eleanor was going to dine with me."
"Quite right. And I want to speak to her. Claudia, something has
happened. You most know all before long. Everybody will know. You had
better be in the room while I speak to Eleanor. Let us get it over.
But you had better take your choice. It is still about Horace that I
want to speak--to speak to Eleanor, I mean."
"I should wish to be present," said Claudia. And she rose and rang the
bell.
"Will you ask Mrs. Evelyn to come to us?" she said, when her servant
appeared. In a very few minutes in walked Eleanor.
"Mrs. Evelyn," said Mr. Brewer, "last night you directed a man to seek
Jenifer at Mrs. Morier's house. That man was James O'Keefe, Jenifer's
half-brother. You knew him?" "Yes, Mr. Brewer, I knew him." "But he
did not know you?" "No." "He asked about you. Why did you send him to
Marston?" "Because he could there learn all he wanted to know. I am
not going to bring the shadow of my troubles into this kind house."
"That was your motive?" "Yes. But I might have had more motives than
one. I think that was uppermost; and on that motive I believe that I
acted."
"That man was in the park. At the lodge-gate he had made inquiries
after my guest, Mr. Erskine. That man was at Mrs. Fell's, the
dairy-woman, at midnight. He was not through; he had, he said, fallen
into the water--he described the place, and they knew it to be the
deer-pond."
As Mr. Brewer went on in his plain, straightforward way, both women
listened to him with the most earnest interest; but as he proceeded
Eleanor Evelyn fixed her eye on him with an anxiety and a mingled
terror that had a visible effect on Mr. Brewer, who hesitated in his
story, and who seemed to be quite distracted by the manner of one
usually so very calm and so unfailingly self-processed.
"Now Mr. Erskine had gone out into the park late. Mr. Erskine, my dear
friends,--Mr. Erskine _never came back._" He paused, and
collected his thoughts once more, in order to go on with his story.
"We went to seek for him. He was found at last, at the deer-pond,
surrounded by the evidences of a hard struggle having taken place
there, a struggle in which he had only just escaped with his life. He
has been ill-treated in a way that it is horrible to contemplate. He
is lying now in danger of death. And this morning I have assisted in
the capture of James O'Keefe, whom I found by Mrs. Morier's kitchen
fire, for this possible murder. I should tell you that Mr. Erskine is
just as likely to die as to live."
"Mr. Brewer," said Eleanor, rising up and taking no notice of Lady
Greystock's deathlike face,--"Mr. Brewer, is there any truth in a
report that has reached me from a man who was in the elder Mr.
Erskine's service in Scotland--a report to the effect that Mr. Horace
Erskine wished to propose marriage, or had proposed marriage, to Miss
Lorimer?"
"There _is_ truth in that report," said Mr. Brewer.
"Then I must see that man," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Before this terrible
affair can proceed, I must see Horace Erskine. If indeed it be true
that he has received this terrible punishment, I can supply a motive
for James O'Keefe's conduct that any jury ought to take into
consideration."
"But O'Keefe denies having ever seen him," said Mr. Brewer. "He does
not deny having inquired about him. He even said words before me that
would make me suppose that he had come into this neighborhood on
purpose to see him, and to take some vengeance upon him. Mr. Erskine
is found with the marks of the severest ill-usage about him, and you
say you can supply a motive for such a deed. O'Keefe, however, denies
all but the will to work evil; he confesses to the will to do the
deed, but denies having done it."
"I must see Mr. Erskine," was all that Eleanor answered. "I must see
Mr. Erskine. Whether he sees me or not, _I_ must see _him_."
The young woman was standing up--her face quite changed by the
expression of anxious earnestness that animated it.
"I must see Mr. Erskine. Mr. Brewer, you must so manage it that I must
see Mr. Erskine without delay."
"But you would do no good," said Mr. Brewer, in a very stern tone and
with an utter absence of all his natural sympathy. "The man is so
injured that his own mother could not identify him."
"Then may God have mercy on us!" cried Eleanor, sinking into a chair.
"If I could only have seen that man before this woe came upon us!"
And then that woman burst into one of those uncontrollable fits of
tears that are the offspring of despair. Lady Greystock looked at her
for a moment, and then rose from her chair. "Victories half won are
neither useful nor honorable," she said. "Wait, Eleanor, I will show
you what that man was."
She opened a large metal-bound desk, curiously inlaid, and with a look
of wondrous workmanship. She said, looking at her father, "I left this
at Beremouth, never intending to see it again, But it got sent here a
few years ago. It has never been opened since I locked it before my
wedding day." She opened it, and took out several packets and small
parcels. Then she opened one--it was a miniature case which matched
that one of herself which had been so cruelly sent to good, kind Sir
Geoffrey--she opened it "Who is that, Eleanor?" It was curious to see
how the eyes, blinded by tears, fastened on it "My husband--my
husband--Henry Evelyn. My husband, Mr. Brewer. Oh, Lady Greystock,
thank God that at any cost he did not run his soul still farther
into sin by bringing on you and on himself the misery of a marriage
unrecognized by God."
"And because your unde, James O'Keefe, heard the report that got about
concerning that man and Miss Lorimer, he ran his own soul into a guilt
that may by this time have deepened into the crime of murder. Oh,
Eleanor! when shall we remember that 'vengeance is mine, saith the
Lord?'"
"_My life, and all that is in it!_" The words came forth softly, and
Mr. Brewer, turning round, saw Jenifer.
"He has been before the magistrates at Marston, Mr. Brewer. He has
denied all knowledge of everything about it. He is remanded on the
charge--waiting for more evidence--waiting to see whether Mr. Erskine
lives or dies. I hired a gig, and came off here to you as fast as I
could be driven. Mr. May, in the old office, says that if Mr. Erskine
dies, it will be hard to save him. But the doctor's man tells me Mr.
Erskine has neither had voice nor sight since he was found--I saw
Father Daniels in the street, and he, too, is evidence against the
poor creature. He knows of Corny Nugent's letter; and Corny wrote to
Jem also, so Jem told me, and he came off here to make sure that
Horace Erskine and Henry Evelyn were the same people. And he walked
from the Northend railway station, and asked his way to Beremouth, and
got a gossip with the gate-keeper, and settled to come on to Marston.
And he met Lady Greys took in the carriage, and asked where Eleanor
lived, and inquired his way. Did you know him, Eleanor?"
"Yes, I knew him directly; and it was partly because I knew him that I
directed him on to you."
"Then he lost his way, and took to getting out of the park by walking
straight away in the direction he knew Marston to be lying in. And he
got by what we call 'the threshetts,' sir--the water for keeping the
fishponds from shallowing--and there he must have fallen in, for he
says he climbed the hedge just after, and walked straight away through
the grass fields and meadows, and seeing the lights where the Fells
were tending the sick cow last night, he got in there, all dripping
wet, as the town-clock struck twelve. He does not deny to the
magistrates that if he had found Horace Erskine and Henry Evelyn to be
one and the same man, that he might have been tempted to evil; he does
not deny that. He says he felt sore tempted to go straight to
Beremouth House and have him out from sleep and bed, if to do so could
have been possible, and to have given him his punishment on the spot.
He says he wished as he wandered through the park that something might
send the man who had injured us all so sorely out to him, to meet him
in the way, that they might have come hand to hand, and face to face.
He says he has had more temptations since Corny Nugent's letter to
him, and more heart-stirrings in the long silent time before it came,
than he can reckon up; and that he has felt as if a dark spirit goaded
him to go round the world after that man, and never cease following
him till he had made his own false tongue declare to all the earth his
own false deeds--but something, he says, kept him back. Always kept
him back till now; till now, when Corny's last letter said that
Erskine was surely gone to Beremouth to be married. Then, he said, it
was as if something sent him--ah yes; and sent him _here_ to see the
man, to make sure who he was. To tell you, as a brother Catholic, the
whole truth--to keep from the dear convert mother the bitter grief of
seeing her child bound to a man whom she could never call that child's
husband. So he came, Mr. Brewer. He came, and he was found
here--but he knows no more of the punishment of that poor man, that
poor girl's husband"--pointing to Eleanor--"than an unborn babe. As I
hear him speak, I trace the power of the prayer that I took up long
ago in my helplessness--when I could not manage my own troubles, my
own life, my own responsibilities, it came into my heart to offer all
to him. '_My life and all that is in it_.' You and yours have been in
it, Mr. Brewer. Your wife has been in it, her life, and her
child's--you, too, my dear," turning to Claudia,--"you whom I have
loved like one belonging to me--you have been in it; and that woman,
my sister's legacy to my poor helplessness. There were so many to care
for, to fear for, to suffer for, and to love--how could I put things
right, or keep off dangers? I could only give up all to the Father of
us all--'_My life, and all that is in it_.' And I tell you this, Mr.
Brewer--I tell it [to] you because my very soul seems to know it, and
my lips must utter it: In that life there will be no red-handed
punishment--no evil vengeance--no vile murder, nor death without
repentance. I cannot tell you, I cannot even guess, how that bad man
got into this trouble--I have no knowledge of whose hands he fell
into--but not into the hands of any one who belongs to me, or to that
life which has been so long given into God's keeping."
Jenifer stopped speaking. She had been listened to with a mute
attention. Her hearers could not help feeling convinced by her
earnestness. She had spoken gently, calmly, sensibly. The infection of
her entire faith in the providence of God seized them. They, too,
believed. Lady Greystock, the only one not a Catholic, said afterward
that she felt quite overpowered by the simple trust that Jenifer
showed, and the calm strength with which it endowed her. And Lady
Greystock was the first to answer her.
"It is no time for self-indulgence," she said. "Father, Eleanor and I
must both go to Beremouth. And we must stay there. We must be there on
the spot, to see how these things are accounted for--to know how
matters end--to help, as far as we may, to bring them right."
And so, before two hours were over, Jenifer was back in Mrs. Morier's
parlor, and Mary Lorimer was with her; sent there to stay; and Lady
Greystock and Mrs. Evelyn were at Beremouth.
There was silence in the house, that sort of woful silence that
belongs to the anxiety of a dreadful suspense. Toward evening there
were whispered hopes--Mr. Erskine was better, people thought. But the
severest injuries were about the neck and throat, the chest and
shoulders. His hair had been cut off in large patches where the head
wounds were--his face was disfigured with the bandages that the
treatment made necessary. He lay alive, and groaning. He was better.
When more was known about the injuries done to the throat and chest,
something less doubtful would be said as to his recovery. "If he can't
swallow, he'll die," said one nurse. "He can live long enough without
swallowing," said another. And still they waited.
At night, Eleanor and Lady Greystock stood in the room, with Mr.
Brewer, far off by the door, looking at him. There was no love in
either heart. The poor wife shrank away, almost wishing that the
period of desertion might last for ever.
A week passed, a terribly long week. He could swallow. He could speak.
He could see out of one eye. He had his senses. He had said something
about his arm. He would be ready in another week to give some account
of all he had gone through. He would be able, perhaps, to
identify the man. In the meantime, James O'Keefe was safe in custody.
And Jenifer was saying her prayer--"_My life, and all that is in it;_"
still quite sure, with a strong, simple, never-failing faith, that the
great evil of a human and remorseless vengeance was not in it. And
yet, as time passed on, and, notwithstanding every effort made by the
police, backed by the influence of all that neighborhood, and by Mr.
Brewer himself, not a mark of suspicion was found against any one
else, it seemed to come home to every one's mind with the force of
certainty that James O'Keefe had tried to murder Horace Erskine--that
James O'Keefe had done this thing, and no one else.
Very slowly did Horace seem to mend--very slowly. When questions were
put to him in his speechless state, he seemed to grow so utterly
confused as to alarm his medical attendants. It was made a law at
Beremouth that he was to be kept in perfect quietness. James O'Keefe
was again brought before the magistrates, and again remanded; and
still this time of trial went on, and still, when it was thought
possible to speak to Horace on the subject of his injuries, he grew so
utterly confused that it was impossible to go on with the matter.
Was there to be no end to this misery? The waiting was almost
intolerable. The knowledge that now existed in that house of Horace
Erskine's life made it very easy to understand his confusion and
incoherency when spoken to of his injuries. But the lingering--the
weight of hope deferred--the long contemplation of the miserable
sufferer--the slowness of the passage of time, was an inexpressible
burthen to the inhabitants of Beremouth.
One sad evening, Lady Greystock and her father, on the terrace, talked
together. "Come with me to the deer-pond, Claudia." She shrank from
the proposal "Nay," he said, "come! You said at Blagden that half
victories were powerless things. You must not be less than your own
words. Come to the deer-pond--now." So she took his arm and they
walked away. It was the beginning of a sweet, soft night--the evening
breezes played about them, and they talked together in love and
confidence, as they crossed the open turf, and were lost in the
thickets that gathered round the gnarled oak and stunted yew that
marked the way to the pond.
It had been many years since Claudia had seen its peaceful waters;
terrible in dreams once; and now saddened by a history that would
belong to it for ever. They reached the spot, and stood there talking.
Suddenly they heard a sound, they started--a tearing aside of the
turning boughs--a sound, strong, positive, angry--then a gentle
rustling of the leaves, a soft movement of the feathery fern--and Lady
Greystock had let go her father's arm, and was standing with her hand
on the head, between the antlers, of a huge old deer--Dapple--"Don
Dapple," as the children had called him--and speaking to him
tenderly--"Oh, Dapple, do you know me? Oh, Dapple--alas! poor
beast--did you do it--that awful thing? Are you so fierce, poor
beast--were you the terrible avenger?" How her tears fell! How her
whole frame trembled! How the truth came on her as she looked into the
large, tearful eyes of the once tame buck, that had grown fanciful and
fierce in its age, and of whom even some of the keepers had declared
themselves afraid. Mr. Brewer took biscuit from his coat-pocket,
chance scraps from lunches, secreted from days before, when he had
been out on long rounds through the farms. These old Dapple nibbled,
and made royal gestures of satisfaction and approval--and there,
viewing his stately head in the water, where his spreading antlers
were mirrored, they left him to walk home, with one wonder out of
their hearts, and another--wondering awe at the thing that had
happened among them--to by their for ever.
They came back, they called the doctors, they examined the torn
clothes. They wondered they had never thought of the truth before.
Time went on. And at last, when Horace could speak, and they asked him
about the old deer at the pond, he said that it was so--it was as they
had thought. It had been an almost deadly struggle between man and
beast; and Horace was to bear the marks upon the face and form that
had been loved so well to his life's end. A broken-featured man, lame,
with a stiff arm, and a sightless eye--and the story of his ruined
life no longer a secret--known to all.
Lady Greystock and Mrs. Evelyn remained at Beremouth. Mary Lorimer was
left at her grandmother's under the care of the trusty Jenifer. James
O'Keefe had returned to Ireland, leaving his niece and her history in
good guardianship with Father Daniels and Mr. Brewer; and Freddy,
being at school, had been happily kept out of the knowledge of all but
the surface facts, which were no secrets from anybody, that a man who
had been seen in the park and was a stranger in the neighborhood had
been suspected of being the perpetrator of the injuries of which the
old deer had been guilty. Poor old deer--poor aged Dapple! It was with
a firm hand and an unflinching determination that the kindest man
living met the beast once more at the deer-pond, and shot him dead.
Mr. Brewer would trust his death to no hand but his own--and there in
the thicket where he loved to hide a grave was dug, and the monarch of
the place was buried in it.
Lady Greystock and Eleanor kept their own rooms, and lived together
much as they had done latterly at Blagden. When Horace Erskine was fit
to leave his bed-room, he used to sit in a room that had been called
"Mr. Brewer's." It was, in fact, a sort of writing-room, fitted up
with a small useful library and opening at the end into a bright
conservatory. He had seen Lady Greystock. He knew of Eleanor being in
the house. He knew also that his former relations with her were known,
and he never denied, or sought to deny, the fact of their Catholic
marriage.
No one ever spoke to him on the subject. The subject that was first in
all hearts was to see him well and strong, and able to act for
himself. One thing it was impossible to keep from him; and that was
the anger of Mr. Erskine, his unde, an anger which Lucia his wife did
not try to modify. Mrs. Brewer wrote to her sister; Mr. Brewer pleaded
with his brother-in-law. Not a thing could they do to pacify them.
Horace was everything that was evil in their eyes; his worst crime in
the past was his having made a Catholic marriage with a beautiful
Irish girl, and their great dread for the future was that he would
make this marriage valid by the English law. They blamed Mr. Brewer
for keeping Eleanor in the house; they were thankless to Mr. Brewer
for still giving to Horace care, kindness, and a home. Finally, the
one great dread that included all other dreads, and represented the
overpowering woe, was that contained in the thought that Horace might
repent, and become a Papist.
Mr. Brewer, when it came to that, set his all-conquering kindness
aside for the time, or, to adopt his wife's words when describing
these seeming changes in her husbands's character, "he clothed his
kindness in temporary armor, and went out to fight." He replied to Mr.
and Mrs. Erskine that for such a grace to fall on Horace would be the
answer of mercy to the prayer of a poor woman's faith--that he and all
his household joined in that prayer; that priests at the altar, and
nuns in their holy homes, were all praying for that great result; and
that for himself he would only say that for such a mercy to fall upon
his house would make him glad for ever.
There was no disputing with a man who could so openly take his stand
on such a broad ground of hope and prayer in such direct
opposition to the wishes of his neighbors. The Erskines became silent,
and Mr. Brewer had gained all he hoped for; peace, peace at least for
the time.
At last Horace was well enough to move, and Freddy's holidays were
approaching, and there was an unexpressed feeling that Horace was not
to be at Beremouth when the boy came back. Mr. Brewer proposed that
Horace should go for change of air to the same house in which Father
Dawson was lodging, just beyond Clayton, where the sea air might
refresh him, and the changed scene amuse his mind; and where, too, he
could have the benefit of all those baths, and that superior
attendance, described in the great painted advertisement that covered
the end of the lodging-houses in so promising a manner. Horace
accepted the proposal gladly. He grew almost bright under the
expectation of the change, and when the day came he appeared to
revive, even under the fatigue of a drive so much longer than any that
he had been before allowed to venture upon.
Mr. Dawson was to be kind, and to watch over him a little; and Father
Daniels was to visit him, and write letters for him, and be his,
adviser and his friend. Before he left Beremouth he had asked to see
Lady Greystock. She went with her father to his room quite with the
old Claudia Brewer cheerfulness prettily mingling with woman's
strength and woman's experience. He rose up, and said, "I wished to
ask you to forgive me, Lady Greystock--to forgive me my many sins
toward you!" She trembled a little, and said, "Mr. Erskine, may God
forgive _me_ my pride, my anger, my evil thoughts, which have made me
say so often I could never see nor pardon you." It seemed to require
all her strength to carry out the resolution with which she had
entered that room. "Of course," she went on, "the personal trial that
you brought upon me, here, in my young days, I know now to have been a
great blessing in a grief's disguise. Though not--_not yet_--a
Catholic, I know you were then, as now, a married man." Horace Erskine
never moved; he was still standing, holding by the heavy
writing-table, and his eyes were fastened on the carpet. She went on:
"Since then your wife, a beautiful and even an accomplished woman, has
become my own dear friend. We are living together, and until she has a
home of her own, we shall probably go on living together. I have
nothing, therefore, to say more, except--except--" Here her voice
trembled, and changed, and she was only just able to articulate her
last words so as to be understood by her hearers, "Except about my
dear husband's death--better death than life under misapprehension.
That too was a blessing perhaps. Let us leave it to the Almighty
Judge. I forgive you; if you wish to hear those words from my poor
erring lips, you may remember that I have said them honestly,
submitting to the will of _him_ who loves us, and from whom I seek
mercy for myself."
She turned round to leave the room. "Stop, Lady Greystock; stop!"
cried Horace. "In this solemn moment of sincerity, tell me--do you
think Eleanor loves me now?" "I would rather not give any opinion."
"If you have ever formed an opinion, give it. I entreat you to tell me
what is, as far as you know, the truth. Does Eleanor love me?" "Must I
speak, father?" "So solemnly entreated, I should say, _yes_." "Does
Eleanor love me?" groaned Horace. "No," said Lady Greystock; and
turning round quickly, she left her father alone with Horace, and went
out of the room.
Five years passed by. Freddy was growing into manhood, enjoying home
by his bright sister Lady Greystock's side, and paying visits to
his other sister, the happy bride, Mrs. Harrington, of
Harrington-leigh, the master of which place, "a recent convert," as
the newspapers said, "had lately married the convert step-daughter of
Mr. Brewer, of Beremouth." Lady Greystock always lived with her father
now, united to him in faith, and joining him in such a flood of good
works that all criticism, all wonderment, all lamentation and argument
at "such a step!" was simply run down, overpowered, deluged, drowned.
The strong flowing stream of charity was irresistible. The solemn
music of its deep waters swallowed up all the surrounding cackle of
inharmonious talk. Nothing was heard at Beremouth but prayer and
praise--evil tongues passed by that great good house to exercise
themselves elsewhere. Evil people found no fitting habitation for
their wandering spirits in that home of holy peace. And all his life
Mr. Brewer walked humbly, looking at Claudia, and calling her "my
crown!" She knew why. He had repented with a great sorrow of those
early days when he had left her to others' teaching. He had prayed
secretly, with strong resolutions, to be blessed with forgiveness. And
at last the mercy came--"crowned at last. All the mercies of my life
crowned by the great gift of Claudia's soul." So the good man went on
his way a penitent. Always in his own sight a penitent. Always
recommending himself to God in that one character--as a penitent.
Five years were passed, and Lady Greystock had been at Mary's wedding,
and was herself at Beremouth, still in youth and beauty, once more the
petted daughter of the house--but Eleanor was there no longer. Full
three years had passed since Eleanor had gone to London with Lady
Greystock, and elected not to return. They heard from her however,
frequently; and knew where she was. When these letters came Claudia
would drive off to Marston to see Grandmamma Morier, still enjoying
life under Jenifer's care. The letters would be read aloud upstairs in
the pretty drawing-room where the fine old china looked as gay and
bright as ever, and where not a single cup and saucer had changed its
place. Jenifer would listen. Taking careful note of every expression,
and whispering--sometimes in the voice of humble prayer, sometimes in
soft tones of triumphant thanksgiving--"My life, and all that is in
it!"
But now this five years' close had been marked by a great fact; the
death of Horace Erskine's uncle, and his great estate passing to his
nephew, whom he had never seen since their quarrel with him, but whom
he had so far forgiven as not to alter his will.
Horace Erskine was in London; and his Beremouth friends were going up
to town to welcome him home after four years of life on the continent.
London was at its fullest and gayest. Mr. Erskine had been well known
there, making his yearly visits, taking a great house, and attracting
round him all the talent of the day. A very rich man, thoroughly well
educated, with a fine place in Scotland, and his beautiful wife Lucia
by his side, he found himself welcome, and made others in their turn
welcome too. Now all this was past. For two seasons London had missed
Mr. Erskine, and he had been regretted and lamented over, as a
confirmed invalid. Now he was dead. And after a little brief wonder
and sorrow the attention of the world was fixed upon his heir, and
people of fashion, pleasure, and literature got ready their best
smiles for his approval.
Horace had been well enough known once. Never exactly sought
after by heads of homes, for he was too much of a speculation. He was
known to be in debt; and all inquiries as to his uncle's property had
been quenched again and again by those telling words, "no entail." But
Horace had had his own world; and had been only too much of a hero in
it. That world, however, had lost him; and as the wheels of fashion's
chariot fly fast, the dust of the light road rises as a cloud and
hides the past, and the people that belonged to Horace Erskine had
been left behind and forgotten. Now, however, Memory was alive, and
brushing up her recollections; and Memory had found a tongue, and was
hoping and prophesying to the fullest extent of friend Gossip's
requirements, when the news came that Horace Erskine had arrived. "He
has taken that charming house looking on to the park. Mr. Tudor had
seen him. Nobody would know him. Broken nose, my dear! And he was so
handsome. He is lame, too--or if not lame, he has a stiff shoulder. I
forget which it is. He was nearly killed by some mad animal in the
park at Beremouth. He behaved with the most wonderful courage,
actually fought and conquered! But he was gored and trampled
on--nearly trampled to death. I heard all the particulars at the time.
His chest was injured, and he was sent to a warmer climate. And there
he turned Papist. He did, indeed! and his uncle never forgave him. But
I suspect it was a love affair. You know he has brought his wife home.
And she is lovely, everybody who has seen her says. She is so very
still--too quiet--too statuesque--that is her only fault in fact. But
all the world is talking of her, and if you have not yet seen her lose
no time in getting introduced; she is the wonder of the day."
And so ran the talk--and such was Eleanor's welcome as Horace
Erskine's wife. Her husband had really repented, and had sought her,
and won her heart all over again, and married her once more.
To have these great triumphs of joy and justice in her life was
granted to Jenifer's Prayer.
[THE END]