HE FEARS HIS FATE TOO MUCH.
The quiet course of Lucius Davoren’s life, so full of hard work and
high hopes and simple unalloyed happiness, was by and by interrupted
by a summons from Geoffrey, that spoiled child of fortune, who, in his
hour of perplexity, turned again to that staunch friend whose counsel
he had set at naught.
This was Geoffrey Hossack’s letter:
‘Stillmington, August 13th.
‘Dear Lucius,—I daresay you’ll be surprised to see me still abiding
in this sleepy old place, when yesterday’s gray dawn saw the first
shot fired on many a moor from York to Inverness. However, here I
am, and in sore distress of mind, no nearer a hopeful issue out of
my perplexities than I was when you ran down here nearly four months
ago to see that dear child. Will you come down again, like a good old
fellow, forget how rude and ungracious I was the last time I saw you,
and hear my difficulties, and help me if you can?
‘After all, you are the only man whose good sense and honour I would
trust in such a crisis of my life—the only friend before whom I would
bare the secrets of my heart. Do come, and promptly.
‘Yours, as ever, G. H.’
Of course Lucius complied. He left London early in the afternoon, and
arrived at Stillmington towards evening. He found Geoffrey waiting
on the platform, with much of the old brightness and youthfulness of
aspect, but with a more thoughtful expression than of old in the candid
face, a graver look about the firm well-cut mouth. They greeted each
other in the usual off-hand manner.
‘Uncommonly sweet of you to come, old fellow,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I ought
to have run up to you, of course, only—only I’ve taken root here, you
see. I know every post in the streets, every tree in the everlasting
avenues that make the glory of this slow old town. But still I remain.
You’re looking fagged, Lucius, but bright as of old.’
‘I have been working a little harder than usual, that is all,’ replied
Lucius, who was disinclined to speak of his new happiness yet awhile.
It would be time enough to tell Geoffrey when the future lay clearer
before him; and as he had somewhat ridiculed his friend’s passion, he
did not care to own himself a slave.
‘Now, Geoffrey, what is the matter?’ he asked presently, as they
strolled slowly along one of those verdant avenues of lime and chestnut
which surrounded the little gem-like town of Stillmington with a
network of greenery. ‘Still the old story, I suppose.’
‘Yes, Lucius, the old story, with very little variation. She is here,
and I can’t tear myself away, but go dawdling on from day to day and
hour to hour. Half-a-dozen times I have packed my portmanteaus and
ordered the fly to take me to the station, and then at the last moment
I have said to myself, “Why should I go away? I am a free man, and an
idle one, and may just as well live here as anywhere else.”’
‘Ah, Geoff, that comes of your being without a profession.’
‘It would be just the same if I were half-way towards the Woolsack—ay,
if I were Lord Chancellor—I should only be torn in twain between my
profession and my hopeless foolish love.’
‘But how does it happen that she—Mrs. Bertram—is still here? Are there
perpetual concerts in Stillmington?’
‘No; but after the little girl’s illness, perhaps in consequence of
that, she took a disgust for concert singing. She fancied the hurrying
from place to place—the excitement caused by frequent change of
scene—bad for her darling’s health. Nor was this her only reason; she
has often told me her own dislike of public life. So when the little
girl recovered, Mrs. Bertram advertised for pupils in the local papers.
The doctor, who had taken a great fancy to her, recommended her to all
his patients, and in less than a month she had secured half-a-dozen
pupils, and had taken nicer rooms than those in which you saw her.
She has now a singing class three times a week. I hear them sol-faing
when I pass the windows during my morning walk. There is even a little
brass-plate on the door: “Mrs. Bertram, teacher of music.” Imagine,
Lucius, the woman I love to the verge of idolatry is obliged to put
a brass-plate on her door and teach squalling misses, while I am
wallowing in wealth.’
‘A much better life for any woman than that of a public singer,’ said
Lucius; ‘above all for—’
‘Such a lovely woman as Jane Bertram. Yes, I agree with you. Who could
see her and not adore her? But think, Lucius, how superior this woman
must be to all the things which most women love, when she can willingly
surrender professional success, the admiration of the public, even the
triumph of her art, for the love of her child: and shut herself in from
the world, and resign herself to lead a life as lonely and joyless as
the life of a convent.’
‘It proves, as you say, that the lady possesses a superior mind; for
which I should have given her credit even without such evidence. But it
appears that in her seclusion she has not closed her door against you;
since you are so familiar with her opinions and her mode of life.’
‘There you are wrong. I have never crossed the threshold of her present
abode. On the very day you left Stillmington she told me in the
plainest words, but with a gentleness that made even unkind words seem
sweet, that she could receive no farther visits from me. “You have been
very good,” she said, “and in the hour of trouble such friendship as
you have shown to me is very precious. But now the danger is past I can
only return to my old position. It is my destiny to live quite alone;
pray do not try to come between me and Fate.”’
‘You pleaded against this decision, I suppose?’
‘With all the force of the truest passion that man ever felt. I think
I was almost eloquent, Lucius, for at the last she burst into tears;
she entreated me to desist, told me that I was too hard upon her, that
I tempted her too cruelly. How could I tempt her if she did not care
a straw for me? These ambiguous phrases fanned the flame of hope. I
left her at her command, which I dared not disobey; but I stayed in
Stillmington.’
‘You have stayed on all this time and seen no more of her?’
‘_Pas si bête._ No, I have seen her and talked to her now and then. She
is obliged to give her child an airing every fine afternoon. She has
no maid here, and the mother and child walk out together. Sometimes,
but not too often, for that would seem like persecution, I contrive to
meet them, and join them in their ramble in one of the long avenues
or across a breezy common; and then, Lucius, for a little while I
am in Paradise. We talk of all manner of things; of life and its
many problems, of literature, art, nature, religion, and its deepest
mysteries; but of her past life she never speaks, nor of her dead
husband. I have studiously refrained from any word that might seem to
pry into her secrets, and every hour I have spent with her has served
but to increase my love and honour for her.’
‘You have again asked her to be your wife?’
‘Over and over again, and she has refused with the same steadfast
persistence, with a constancy of purpose that knows no change. And yet,
Lucius, I believe she loves me. I am neither such a blockhead nor such
a scoundrel as to pursue any woman to whom I was an object of dislike,
or even of indifference. But I see her face light up when we meet; I
hear the sweet tremulous tones of her voice when she speaks of the love
she refuses to grant me. No, Lucius, there is no indifference, there is
no obstinate coldness there. God only knows the reason which keeps us
asunder, but to me it is an inexorable mystery.’
‘And you have sent for me only to tell me this. In your letter you
spoke of my helping you. How can any help of mine aid you here?’
‘In the first place, because you are a much cleverer fellow than I
am, a better judge of human nature, able to read aright much that is
a mystery to me. In the second place, you, who are not blinded by
passion, ought speedily to discover whether I am only fooling myself
with the fancy that my love is returned. You know I was just a little
inclined to be jealous of you the last time you were here, old fellow.’
‘You had not the faintest reason.’
‘I know. Of course not. But I was fool enough to grudge you even her
gratitude. I don’t mean to repeat that idiotcy. You are the only friend
whose opinions I really respect. The common run of one’s acquaintance
I look upon as egotistical monomaniacs; that is to say, they have all
gone mad upon the subject of self, and are incompetent to reason upon
anything that has not self for its centre. But you, Lucius, have a
wider mind; and I believe, your judgment being untroubled by passion,
you will be able to read this mystery aright, to fathom the secret my
darkened eyes have vainly striven to pierce.’
‘I believe that I can, Geoffrey,’ said Lucius gravely. ‘But tell me
first, do you really wish this mystery solved, for good or for evil, at
the risk even of disenchantment?’
‘At any hazard; the present uncertainty is unbearable. I am tortured
by the belief that she loves me, and yet withholds her love. That if
inclination were her only guide, she would be my wife. And yet she
toils on, and lives on, lonely, joyless, with nothing but her child’s
love to brighten her dreary days.’
‘There are many women who find that enough for happiness. But, no
doubt, as your wife her existence might be gayer, her position more
secure.’
‘Of course. Think of her, Lucius, that loveliest and most refined among
women, slaving for a pittance.’
‘I do think of her, I sympathise with her, I admire and honour her,’
answered the other, with unwonted earnestness.
‘And yet you advise me against marrying her. That seems hardly
consistent.’
‘I have advised you not to marry her in ignorance of her past life. If
she will tell you the secret of that past—without reserve—and you find
nothing in the story to diminish your love, I will no longer say do not
marry her. But there must be nothing kept back—nothing hidden. She must
tell you all; even if her heart almost breaks in the telling. And it
will then be for you to renounce her and your love; or to take her to
your heart of hearts to reign there for ever.’
‘I do not fear the test,’ cried Geoffrey eagerly. ‘She can have nothing
to tell me that she should blush to speak or I to hear. She is all
goodness and truth.’
‘Have you ever asked for her confidence?’
‘Never. Remember, Lucius, I possess her friendship only on sufferance.
In a moment she may give me my irrevocable dismissal, forbid me ever to
speak to her any more, as she has forbidden me to visit her. I could
not afford to surrender even those occasional hours we spend together.’
‘In that case why send for me? I thought you wanted to bring matters to
a crisis.’
‘Why, so I do. Yet at the thought of her anger I grow the veriest
coward. Banishment from her means such unutterable misery, and to
offend her is to provoke the sentence of banishment.’
‘If she is as good and true as you believe, and as I too believe her to
be, she will not be offended by your candour. She may have a confession
to make to you which she could hardly make unasked; but which, once
being made, might clear away all doubt, remove every impediment to your
happiness.’
‘You are right. Yes, I will hazard all. What is that old verse?
“He either fears his fate too much,
Or his desert is small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.”
Just imagine my feelings on the twelfth, Lucius, when I thought of my
collection of guns going to rust, and those Norwegian hills that I had
made up my mind to shoot over this very August.’
‘Bravely said, Geoff. And now I will do my uttermost to aid you. I
think that I may have some small influence with Mrs. Bertram. Her
gratitude exaggerated the trifling service I did her sick child. I will
write her a letter; as your friend I can say much more than you could
say for yourself. You shall deliver it into her hands, and then ask
her, in the simplest, plainest words, to tell you whether she loves or
does not love you; and, if she owns to caring for you a little, why it
is she rejects your love. I think you will come at the truth then.’
‘You will write to her!’ cried Geoffrey aghast. ‘You, almost a
stranger!’
‘How can I be a stranger when she thinks I saved her child’s life?
Come, Geoffrey, if I am to help you I must go to work in my own way.
Give Mrs. Bertram my letter, and I’ll answer for it, she will give you
her confidence.’
Geoffrey looked at his friend with the gaze of suspicion. Yet, after
entreating his aid, he could hardly reject it, even if the manner of it
seemed clumsy and undiplomatic.
‘Very well, I’ll do it. Only, I must say, it strikes me as a hazardous
business. Write your letter; but for heaven’s sake remember she is a
woman of a most sensitive nature, a most delicate mind! I implore you
not to offend her.’
‘I know more of her mind than you do,—by the light of psychology.’
‘Very likely,’ replied Geoffrey rather gloomily. ‘But you haven’t hung
upon her words or studied her looks day after day as I have done.
Psychology is an uncommonly easy way of getting at a woman’s mind if
you know much of her after a single interview. However, write your
letter, and I’ll deliver it. I can cut my throat if it makes her angry.’
‘One does not cut one’s throat at seven-and-twenty,’ said Lucius
coolly. ‘And now, Geoff, if you have no objection, I should not be
sorry to bend my steps towards your hotel with a view to refreshment.
We seem to have wandered rather far afield.’
Geoffrey, in his desire for unrestrained converse with his friend, had
led him away from the town, by a winding road that ascended a gentle
hill; a wooded hill covered with richest green sward, whence they
looked downward on the gentlemanlike town of Stillmington, with its
white villas and spotless streets and close-cut lawns and weedless
flower-beds, over which the sister spirits of order and prosperity
spread their protecting wings. The respectable family hotel proudly
dominated the smaller tenements of the High-street, its well-kept
garden gaudy with geraniums, its fountain spirting mildly in the
sunset.
‘Come along, old fellow,’ said Geoffrey; ‘it was rather too bad of me
to forget how far you’d travelled. I’ve ordered dinner for eight sharp;
and hark, the clock of Stillmington parish church proclaims half-past
seven, just time enough to get rid of the dust of the journey before we
sit down. And after—’
‘After dinner,’ said Lucius, ‘I’ll write to Mrs. Bertram.’
‘Then by Apollo, as old Lear says, I’ll deliver the letter to-night. I
couldn’t afford to sleep upon it. My courage would evaporate, like Bob
Acres’s, before morning.’
Thus, with simulated lightness, spoke the lover, while strange doubts
and gnawing fears consumed his heart.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON:
ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
Transcriber’s Notes
pg 2 Changed: It is December, the bleakest, deariest month
to: It is December, the bleakest, dreariest month
pg 14 Changed: torn moosekin shoes upon his feet
to: torn mooseskin shoes upon his feet
pg 113 Changed: a cabinet in Forentine mosaic
to: a cabinet in Florentine mosaic
pg 236 Changed: hope and fear during the ast few days
to: hope and fear during the last few days
pg 294 Changed: Like the chamelion, he changes colour
to: Like the chameleon, he changes colour
pg 300 Changed: So be it, my weestest.
to: So be it, my sweetest.
pg 302 Changed: she praised with fondest enthusiam
to: she praised with fondest enthusiasm