Into Philip’s guilty thoughts, as he wended his homeward way, we will
not inquire, and indeed, for all the warm glow that the thousand pound
cheque in his pocket diffused through his system, they were not to be
envied. Perhaps no scoundrel presents at heart such a miserable object
to himself and all who know him, as the scoundrel who attempts to
deceive himself and, whilst reaping its profits, tries to shoulder the
responsibility of his iniquity on to the backs of others!
Unfortunately, in this prosaic world of bargains, one cannot receive
cheques for one thousand pounds without, in some shape or form, giving
a _quid pro quo_. Now Philip’s _quid_ was to rid his house and the
neighbourhood of Arthur Heigham, his guest and his daughter’s lover. It
was not a task he liked, but the unearned cheque in his breeches-
pocket continually reminded him of the obligation it entailed.
When Arthur came to smoke his pipe with his host that evening, the
latter looked so gloomy and depressed, that he wondered to himself if
he was going to be treated to a repetition of the shadow scene, little
guessing that there was something much more personally unpleasant
before him.
“Heigham,” Philip said, suddenly, and looking studiously in the other
direction, “I want to speak to you. I have been thinking over our
conversation of about a week ago on the subject of your engagement to
Angela, and have now come to a final determination. I may say at once
that I approve of you in every way” (here his hearer’s heart bounded
with delight), “but, under all the circumstances, I don’t think that I
should be right in sanctioning an immediate engagement. You are not
sufficiently sure of each other for that. I may seem old-fashioned, but
I am a great believer in the virtue of constancy, and I’m anxious, in
your own interests, to put yours and Angela’s to the test. The terms
that I can offer you are these. You must leave here to-morrow, and must
give me your word of honour as a gentleman—which I know will be the
most effectual guarantee that I can take from you—that you will not for
the space of a year either attempt to see Angela again, or to hold any
written communication with her, or anybody in any way connected with
her. The year ended, you can return, and, should you both still be of
the same mind, you can then marry her as soon as you like. If you
decline to accede to these terms—which I believe to be to your mutual
ultimate advantage—I must refuse my consent to the engagement
altogether.”
A silence followed this speech. The match that Arthur had lit before
Philip began, burnt itself out between his fingers without his
appearing to suffer any particular inconvenience, and now his pipe fell
with a crash into the grate, and broke into fragments—a fit symbol of
the blow dealt to his hopes. For some moments he was so completely
overwhelmed at the idea of losing Angela for a whole long year, losing
her as completely as though she were dead, that he could not answer. At
length he found his voice, and said, hoarsely:
“Yours are hard terms.”
“I cannot argue the point with you, Heigham; such as they are, they are
my terms, founded on what I consider I owe to my daughter. Do you
accept them?”
“I cannot answer you off-hand. My happiness and Angela’s are too
vitally concerned to allow me to do so. I must consult her first.”
“Very good, I have no objection; but you must let me have your answer
by ten to-morrow.”
Had Arthur only known his own strength and Philip’s weakness—the
strength that honesty and honour ever have in the face of dishonour and
dishonesty—had he known the hesitating feebleness of Philip’s
avarice-tossed mind, how easy it would have been for him to tear his
bald arguments to shreds, and, by the bare exhibition of unshaken
purpose, to confound and disallow his determinations—had he then and
there refused to agree to his ultimatum, so divided was Philip in his
mind and so shaken by superstitious fears, that he would have accepted
it as an omen, and have yielded to a decision of character that had no
real existence in himself. But he did not know; indeed, how could he
know? and he was, besides, too thorough a gentleman to allow himself to
suspect foul play. And so, too sad for talk, and oppressed by the dread
sense of coming separation from her whom he loved more dearly than his
life, he sought his room, there to think and pace, to pace and think,
until the stars had set.
When, wearied out at length, he threw himself into bed, it was only to
exchange bad for worse; for on such occasions sleep is worse than
wakefulness, it is so full of dreams, big with coming pain. Shortly
after dawn he got up again, and went into the garden and listened to
the birds singing their matin hymn. But he was in no mood for the songs
of birds, however sweet, and it was a positive relief to him when old
Jakes emerged, his cross face set in the gladness of the morning, like
a sullen cloud in the blue sky, and began to do something to his
favourite bed of cabbages. Not that Arthur was fond of old Jakes; on
the contrary, ever since the coffin-stand conversation, which betrayed,
he considered, a malevolent mind, he detested him personally; but still
he set a fancy value on him because he was connected with the daily
life of his betrothed.
And then at last out came Angela, having spied him from behind the
curtains of her window, clothed in the same white gown in which he had
first beheld her, and which he consequently considered the prettiest of
frocks. Never did she look more lovely than when she came walking
towards him that morning, with her light, proud step, which was so full
of grace and womanly dignity. Never had he thought her more sweet and
heart-compelling, than when, having first made sure that Jakes had
retreated to feed his pigs, she shyly lifted her bright face to be
greeted with his kiss. But she was quick of sympathy, and had learned
to read him like an open page, and before his lips had fairly fallen on
her own she knew that things had gone amiss.
“Oh, what is it, Arthur?” she said, with a little pant of fear.
“Be brave, dear, and I will tell you.” And in somewhat choky tones, he
recounted word for word what had passed between her father and himself.
She listened in perfect silence, and bore the blow as a brave woman
should. When he had finished, she said, with a little tremor in her
voice:
“You will not forget me in a year, will you, Arthur?”
He kissed her by way of answer, and then they agreed to go together to
Philip, and try to turn him from his purpose.
Breakfast was not a cheerful meal that day, and Pigott, noticing the
prevailing depression, remarked, with sarcasm, that they might, for all
appearance to the contrary, have been married for twenty years; but
even this spirited sally did not provoke a laugh. Ten o’clock, the hour
that was to decide their fate, came all too soon, and it was with very
anxious hearts that they took their way to the study. Philip, who was
seated in residence, appeared to view Angela’s arrival with some
uneasiness.
“Of course, Angela,” he said, “I am always glad to see you, but I
hardly expected——”
“I beg your pardon for intruding, father,” she answered; “but, as this
is very important to me, I thought that I had better come too, and hear
what is settled.”
As it was evident that she meant to stay, Philip did not attempt to
gainsay her.
“Oh, very well, very well—I suppose you have heard the terms upon which
I am prepared to consent to your engagement.”
“Yes, Arthur has told me; and it is to implore you to modify them that
we have come. Father, they are cruel terms—to be dead to each other for
a whole long year.”
“I cannot help it, Angela. I am sorry to inflict pain upon either of
you; but I have arrived at them entirely in your own interests, and
after a great deal of anxious thought. Believe me, a year’s probation
will be very good for both of you; it is not probable that, where my
only child is concerned, I should wish to do anything except what is
for her happiness!”
Arthur looked rebellion at Angela. Philip saw it, and added:
“Of course you can defy me—it is, I believe, rather the fashion for
girls, nowadays, to do so—but, if you do, you must both clearly
understand, first, that you cannot marry without my consent till the
first of May next, or very nearly a year hence, when Angela comes of
age, and that I shall equally forbid all intercourse in the interval;
and secondly, that when you do so, it will be against my wish, and that
I shall cut her name out of my will, for this property is only entailed
in the male line. It now only remains for me to ask you if you agree to
my conditions.”
Angela answered him, speaking very slowly and clearly:
“I accept them on my own behalf, not because I understand them, or
think them right, or because of your threats, but because, though you
do not care for me, I am your daughter, and should obey you—and believe
that you wish to do what is best for me. That is why I accept, although
it will make my life wretched for a year.”
“Do you hear what she says?” said Philip, turning to Arthur. “Do you
also agree?”
He answered boldly, and with some temper (how would he have answered
could he have seen the thousand pound cheque that was reposing upon the
table in Philip’s rusty pocket-book, and known for what purpose it came
there?).
“If it had not been Angela’s wish, I would never have agreed. I think
your terms preposterous, and I only hope that you have some
satisfactory reason for them; for you have not shown us any. But since
she takes this view of the matter, and because, so far as I can see,
you have completely cornered us, I suppose I must. You are her father,
and cannot in nature wish to thwart her happiness; and if you have any
plan of causing her to forget me—I don’t want to be conceited, but I
believe that it will fail.” Here Angela smiled somewhat sadly. “So,
unless one of us dies before the year is up, I shall come back to be
married on the 9th of June next year.”
“Really, my dear Heigham, your way of talking is so aggressive, that
some fathers might be tempted to ask you not to come back at all; but
perhaps it is, under the circumstances, excusable.”
“You would probably think so, if you were in my place,” blurted out
Arthur.
“You give me, then, your word of honour as a gentleman that you will
attempt, either in person or by letter, no communication with Angela or
with anybody about this place for one year from to-day?”
“On the condition that, at the end of the year, I may return and marry
her as soon as I like.”
“Certainly; your marriage can take place on the 9th of June next, if
you like, and care to bring a license and a proper settlement—say, of
half your income—with you,” answered Philip, with a half smile.
“I take you at your word,” said Arthur, eagerly, “that is, if Angela
agrees.” Angela made no signs of disagreement. “Then, on those terms, I
give you my promise.”
“Very good. Then that is settled, and I will send for a dog-cart to
take you to the four o’clock train. I fear you will hardly be ready for
the 12.25. I shall, however, hope,” he added, “to have the pleasure of
presenting this young lady to you for good and all on this day next
year. Good-bye for the present. I shall see you before you go.”
It is painful to have to record that when Arthur got outside the door,
and out of Angela’s hearing, he cursed Philip, in his grief and anger,
for the space of some minutes.
To linger over those last hours could only be distressing to the
sympathetic reader of this history, more especially if he, or she, has
ever had the misfortune to pass through such a time in their own proper
persons. The day of any one’s departure is always wretched, but much
more is it wretched, when the person departing is a lover, whose face
will not be seen and of whom no postman will bear tidings for a whole
long year.
Some comfort, however, these two took in looking forward to that joyous
day when the year of probation should have been gathered to its
predecessors, and in making the most minute arrangements for their
wedding: how Angela was to warn Mr. Fraser that his services would be
required; where they should go to for their honeymoon, and even of what
flowers the wedding bouquet, which Arthur was to bring down from town
with him, should be composed.
And thus the hours passed away, all too quickly, and each of them
strove to be merry, in order to keep up the spirits of the other. But
it is not in human nature to feel cheerful with a lump of ice upon the
heart! Dinner was even more dismal than breakfast, and Pigott, who had
been informed of the impending misfortune, and who was distrustful of
Philip’s motives, though she did not like to add to the general gloom
by saying so, made, after the manner of half-educated people, a painful
and infectious exhibition of her grief.
“Poor Aleck,” said Angela, when the time drew near, bending down over
the dog to hide a tear, as she had once before bent down to hide a
blush; “poor Aleck, I shall miss you almost as much as your master.”
“You will not miss him, Angela, because I am going to make you a
present of him if you will keep him.”
“That is very good of you, dear. I shall be glad to have him for your
sake.”
“Well, keep him, love, he is a good dog; he will quite have transferred
his allegiance by the time I come back. I hope you won’t have done the
same, Angela.”
“Oh, Arthur, why will you so often make me angry by saying such things?
The sun will forget to shine before I forget you.”
“Hush, love, I did not mean it,” and he took her in his arms. And so
they sat there together under the oak where first they had met, hand in
hand and heart to heart, and it was at this moment that the self-
reliant strength, and more beautiful serenity of Angela’s character as
compared with her lover’s came into visible play. For whilst, as the
moment of separation drew nigh, he could scarcely contain his grief,
she on the other hand grew more and more calm, strengthening his
weakness with her quiet power; and bidding him seek consolation in his
trouble at the hands of Him who for His own purposes decreed it.
“Dearest,” she said, in answer to his complainings, “there are so many
things in the world that we cannot understand, and yet they must be
right and lead to a good end. What may happen to us before this year is
out, of course we cannot say, but I feel that all love is immortal, and
that there is a perfect life awaiting us, if not in this world, then in
the next. Remember, dear, that these few years are, after all, but as a
breath to the general air, or as that dew-drop to the waters of the
lake, when compared with the future that awaits us there, and that
until we attain that future we cannot really know each other, or the
true meaning and purpose of our love. So look forward to it without
fear, dear heart, and if it should chance that I should pass out of
your life, or that other ties should spring up round you that shall
forbid the outward expression of our love——” Here Arthur started and
was about to interrupt, but she stopped him. “Do not start, Arthur. Who
can read the future? Stranger things have happened, and if, I say, such
a thing should come about in our case, then remember, I implore you,
that in that future lies the answer to the puzzles of the world, and
turn your eyes to it, as to the horizon beyond which you will find me
waiting for you, and not only me, but all that you have ever loved.
Only, dear, try to be a good man and love me always.”
He looked at her in wonder.
“Angela,” he said, “what has made you so different from other women?
With all whom I have known, love is an affair of passion or amusement,
of the world and the day, but yours gazes towards Heaven, and looks to
find its real utterance in the stillness of Eternity! To be loved by
you, my dear, would be worth a century of sorrows.”
At last the moment came, as all moments good and bad must come. To
Pigott, who was crying, he gave a hug and a five-pound note, to Aleck,
a pat on the head, to Philip, who could not look him in the face, a
shake of the hand, and to Angela, who bravely smiled into his eyes—a
long last kiss.
But, when the cruel wheels began to crunch upon the gravel, the great
tears welling to her eyes blotted him from sight. Blindly she made her
way up to her room, and throwing herself upon the bed let her
unrestrained sorrow loose, feeling that she was indeed desolate and
alone.