That night Arthur dreamed no evil dreams, but he thought he heard a
sound outside his door, and some one speak of fire. Hearing nothing
more, he turned and went to sleep again. Waking in the early dawn he
felt, ere yet his senses fully came, a happy sense of something, he
knew not what, a rosy shadow of coming joy, such as will, only with
more intensity, fall upon our quickened faculties when, death ended,
our souls begin to stir as we awaken to Eternity.
He sprang from his bed, and his eye fell on a morocco case upon the
dressing-table. It contained the diamonds which he had had re-set as a
wedding present to Angela. They were nothing compared with Mildred
Carr’s, but still extremely handsome, their beauty being enhanced by
the elegance of the setting, which was in the shape of a snake with
emerald head and ruby eyes, so constructed as to clasp tightly round
Angela’s shapely throat.
The sight of the jewellery at once recalled his present circumstances,
and he knew that the long hour of trial was passed—he was about to meet
Angela. Having dressed himself as quickly as he could, he took up the
jewel-case, but, finding it too large to stow away, he opened it, and,
taking out the necklace, crammed it into his pocket. Thus armed he
slipped down the stairs, past the open common room where the light
shone through the cracks in the shutters on a dismal array of sticky
beer-mugs and spirit glasses, down the sanded passage into the village
street.
It was full daylight now, and the sun never looked upon a lovelier
morning. The air was warm, but there was that sharp freshness in it
which is needful to make summer weather perfect, and which we always
miss by breakfasting at nine o’clock. The sky was blue, just flecked
with little clouds; the dewdrops sparkled upon every leaf and blade of
grass; touches of mist clung about the hollows, and the sweet breath of
the awakened earth was full of the perfect scent of an English June,
which is in its way even more delicious than the spicy odours of the
tropics. It was a morning to make sick men well, and men happy, and
atheists believers in a creative hand. How much more then did it fire
Arthur’s pulses, already bounding with youth and health, with an untold
joy.
He felt like a child again, so free from care, so happy, except that
his heart swelled with a love beyond the knowledge of children. His
quick temperament had rebounded from the depths of unequal depression,
into which it so often fell, to the heights of a happy assurance. The
Tantalus cup was at his lips at last, and he would drink his full, be
sure! His eyes flashed and sparkled, his foot fell light and quick as
an antelope’s, his brown cheek glowed—never had he looked so handsome.
Angela would not forget her promise; she would be waiting for him by
the lake, he was sure of that, and thither he made his way through the
morning sunshine. They were happy moments.
Presently he passed into the parish of Bratham, and his eye fell upon a
neat red brick cottage, a garden planted with sunflowers, and a bright
gravel path running to the rustic gate. He thought the garden
charmingly old-fashioned, and had just entered a mental note to ask
Angela who lived there, when the door opened, and a figure he knew
emerged, bearing a mat in one hand and a mopstick in the other. He was
some way off, and at first could not quite distinguish who it was; but
before she had come to the gate he recognized Pigott. By this time she
had stepped into the road, and was making elaborate preparations to
dust her mat so that she did not see him, till he spoke to her.
“How are you, Pigott? What may you be doing down here? Why are you not
up at the Abbey?”
She gave a cry, and the mat and mopstick fell from her hands.
“Mr. Heigham!” she said, in an awed voice that chilled his blood, “what
has brought you back, and why do you come to me? I never wronged you.”
“What are you talking about? I have come to marry Angela, of course. We
are going to be married to-morrow.”
“Oh, then it’s really _you_, sir! _And she married yesterday—oh, good
God!_”
“Don’t laugh at me, nurse—please don’t laugh. It—it upsets me. Why do
you shake so? What do you mean?”
“Mean!—I mean that my Angela _married her cousin, George Caresfoot, at
Roxham, yesterday._ Heaven forgive me for having to tell it you!”
Reader, have you ever mortally wounded a head of large game? You hear
your bullet thud upon the living flesh, and see the creature throw up
its head and stagger for a moment, and then plunge forward with
desperate speed, crashing through bush and reeds as though they were
meadow-grass. Follow him awhile, and you will find him standing quite
still, breathing in great sighs, his back humped and his eye dim, the
gore trickling from his nostrils. He is dying—but be careful, he means
mischief before he dies.
Any great shock, mental or physical, is apt to reduce man to the level
of his brother beasts. Arthur, for instance, behaved very much like a
wounded buffalo as soon as the stun of the blow passed away, and the
rending pain began to make itself felt. For a few seconds he gazed
before him stupid and helpless, then his face turned quite grey, the
eyes and nostrils gaped wide, and a curious rigidity took possession of
his muscles.
The road he was following led to a branching lane, the same that Angela
was turning up that misty Christmas Eve when she saw Lady Bellamy glide
past in her carriage. This lane had in former ages, no doubt, to judge
from its numerous curves, been an ancient forest-path, and it ran to
the little bridge over the stream that fed the lake—a point that, by
travelling as the crow flies from Pigott’s cottage, might be reached in
half the time. This fact Arthur seemed at that dreadful moment to
suddenly realize, more probably from natural instinct than from any
particular knowledge of the lay of the land. He did not speak again to
Pigott, and she was too frightened at his face to speak to him. He only
looked at her, but she never forgot that look so long as she lived.
Then he turned like a mad thing, and went _crash_ through the thick
fence that hedged the road, and ran at full speed towards the lake,
diverging neither to the right nor to the left, but breaking his way
without the slightest apparent difficulty through everything that
opposed him.
Very soon he came to the little bridge, and here, struck by some new
instinct, he halted. He did not appear to be out of breath, but he
leaned on the rail of the bridge and groaned like a dying man. His
ghastly face made a blot in the mimic scenery of the place, which was
really very pretty. The bridge commanded no view, for the little creek
it spanned, and into which the stream ran, gave a turn before it grew
into the neck of the lake; but it was hedged in by greenery, and the
still pool beneath it was starred with water-lilies, turning their
innocent eyes up to the blue sky, and looking as peaceful as though
there were no stormy winds or waters in the world to toss them. Amongst
these water-lilies a moorhen had built her nest, and presently she came
clucking out right under Arthur’s feet, followed by ten or a dozen
little hurrying black balls, each tipped with sealing-wax red. She
looked very happy with her brood—as happy as the lilies and the blue
sky—and the sight made him savage. He took up a large stone that lay by
him and threw it at her. It hit her on the back and killed her, and
Arthur laughed loud as he watched her struggle, and then lie still,
while the motherless chicks hurried, frightened, away. And yet since he
was a boy he had never till now wantonly injured any living creature.
Presently, the dead water-hen floated out of sight, and he roused
himself, straightened his clothes, which had been somewhat torn and
deranged, and, with a steady step and a fixed smile upon his lips, went
forward, no longer at a run, but walking quietly up the path that led
to the big oak and shaded glen. In five minutes he was there.
Again he paused and looked. There was something to see. On one of the
stone seats, dressed in black, her face deathly pale, her head resting
on her hand, and trouble in her eyes, sat Angela. On the other was her
constant companion, the dog which he had given her. He remembered how,
a little more than a year before, she had surprised him in the same
way, and he had looked upon her and loved her. He could even smile at
the strange irony of fate that had, under such curiously reversed
circumstances, brought him back to surprise her, to look upon her, and
hate her.
She moved uneasily, and glanced round, but he was hidden by a bush.
Then she half rose, paused irresolutely, and, as though struggling
against something foolish, sat determinedly down again. When Arthur had
done smiling, he came forward a few steps into the open, feeling that
his face was all drawn and changed, as indeed it was. It was the face
of a man of fifty. His eyes were fire, and his heart was ice.
She turned her head, and looked up with a shrinking in her eyes, as
though she feared to see something hateful—a shrinking which turned
first to wonder, then to dread, then to a lively joy, and then again to
awe. She rose mechanically, with a great gasp; her lips parted, as
though to speak, but no words came. The dog, too, saw him, and growled,
then ran up and sniffed, and leaped upon him with a yelp of joy. He
waved it down, and there was something in the gesture that frightened
the beast. It shrank behind him. Then he spoke in a clear, hard
tone—not his own voice, she thought.
“Angela, is this true? Are you _married?_”
“Oh, no;” and her voice came stealing to his senses like half-
forgotten music; “that is, yes, alas! But is it really you? Oh, Arthur,
my darling, have you come back to me?” and she moved towards him with
outstretched arms.
Already they were closing round him, and he could feel her breath upon
his cheek, when the charm broke, and he wrenched himself free.
“Get back; do not dare to touch me. Do you know what you are? The poor
lost girl is not fallen so low as you. She must get her bread; but, at
any rate, I could have given you bread. What! fresh from your husband’s
arms, and ready to throw yourself into mine! Shame upon you! Were you
not married yesterday?”
“Oh, Arthur, have pity! You do not understand. Oh, merciful God——”
“Have pity! What need for pity? Were you not married yesterday?” and he
laughed bitterly. “I come—I come from far to congratulate the new- made
wife. It is a little odd, though, I thought to marry you myself. See,
here was my wedding present;” and he tore the diamond necklace from his
pocket. “A snake, you see; a good emblem! Away with it, its use is
gone!”
The diamonds went flashing through the sunlight, and fell with a little
splash into the lake.
“What! are you not sorry to see so much valuable property wasted? You
have a keen appreciation of property!”
Angela sank down on her knees before him, like a broken lily. Her looks
grew faint and despairing. The stately head bowed itself to his feet,
and all the golden weight of hair broke loose. But he did not pause or
spare her. He ground his teeth. No one could have recognized in this
maddened, passion-inspired man the pleasant, easy-tempered Arthur of an
hour before. His nature was stirred to its depths, and they were deep.
“You miserable woman! do not kneel to me. If it were not unmanly, I
could spurn you with my foot. Do you know, girl, you who swore to love
me till time had passed—yes, and for all eternity, you who do love me
at this moment—and therein lies your shame—that you have killed me? You
have murdered my heart. I trusted you, Angela, I trusted you, I gave
you all my life, all that was best in me; and now in reward— degraded
as you are—I must always love you as much as I despise you. Even now I
feel that I _cannot_ hate you and forget you. I _must_ love you, and I
_must_ despise you.”
She gazed up at him like a dumb beast at its butcher; she could not
speak, her voice had gone.
“And yet, when I think of it, I have something to thank you for. You
have cleared my mind of illusions. You have taught me what a woman’s
purity is worth. You did the thing well, too! You did not crush me by
inches with platitudes, bidding me forget you and not think of you any
more, as though forgetfulness were possible, and thought a tangible
thing that one could kill. You struck home in silence, once and for
all. Thank you for _that_, Angela. What, are you crying? Go back to the
brute whom you have chosen, the brute whose passion or whose money you
could prefer to me, tell him that they are tears of happiness, and let
him kiss them quite away.”
“Oh, Arthur—cruel—Arthur!” and nature gave way. She fell fainting on
the grass.
Then, when he saw that she could not understand or feel any more, his
rage died, and he too broke down and sobbed, great, gasping sobs. And
the frightened dog crept up and licked first her face and then his
hand.
Kneeling down, Arthur raised her in his arms and strained her to his
heart, kissing her thrice upon the forehead—the lips he could not
touch. Then he placed her on the seat, leaning her weight against the
tree, and, motioning back the dog, he went his way.