SELF-SACRIFICE.
"Weather-wise--fool otherwise," is a West-country proverb that by no
means applied to Red Rube. The harbourer, who had taken a judicious view
of John Garnet's position, and gave him sensible advice under the
circumstances, proved also a reliable prophet, even in so uncertain a
prediction as the quarter from which the wind would blow. It remained,
as he expected, in the north, and a keen frost setting in on the night
of the great chase from Cloutsham-Ball, gave promise of an earlier
winter than was either expected or desired in the fertile coombes of
West Somerset and North Devon. The honest yeomen-farmers looked grave
and shook their heads. There were apples yet ungathered in late
orchards, oats standing in sheaves on bare hill-farms; the cold weather
would bring the stags on, too, and put an end to their favourite sport.
Nobody wanted to begin winter in October, while old people dreaded the
effects of an unseasonably low temperature, or neighbours who were a few
years, or even a few months, older than themselves.
More than one venerable inhabitant of Porlock, noting his shrunken form
and feeble gait, was heard to express a fear that, with the close of
autumn, it would "go hard with Master Carew," and the veteran himself,
though he kept his opinion from Nelly, little hoped to see the buds and
blossoms of another spring. He felt that Death was coming like a giant
on the mountains, casting his shadow before him as he advanced with
swift and noiseless strides, nor, but for the leaving of his grandchild,
did it seem so hard to follow the host of friends and comrades who had
preceded him to the unknown country beyond the deep, dark, narrow
stream. A brave man is seldom deceived in such matters. Old Carew,
taking to his bed, gaunt and weary, an hour before Nelly came home, knew
he would never leave it again alive.
Guiding Cowslip deftly down the hill into Porlock, the girl believed her
cup of misery was full. She told herself it could not hold another drop.
Severed from the love of her life at a single blow, dealt by her own
hand--bound to the man she loathed and feared and hated, by her own
promise--pledged never to see nor speak to John Garnet again--forbidden
even to warn him that he must fly! No! Honour or dishonour, she would
_not_ hold to this part of the contract! He must learn the truth from
her own lips, and then, though he should heap curses on her perfidy, she
would bid him farewell for ever, and live out, as best she might, the
life of misery and desolation she had chosen for his sake!
It formed no part of her calculations that he should be waiting for her
at her own door, that, lighting down from her pony in the dusk of
evening, she should leap into his arms, and find herself folded in a
close embrace against his heart.
"Oh! you musn't! you musn't!" was all Nelly had strength to say, for one
happy moment, ere she released herself and stood apart, trembling in
every limb. Then, even in the failing light, she observed that his face
was very grave, and she missed the gay, careless ring in his tone, that
possessed so strange a charm for her loving ear. She had never heard him
speak so sadly before.
"Sweetheart," he whispered, "my own Nelly, I looked for you all the way
home, and waited here till you came back, because I had something to
say that it was right you should hear to-night. I have not the heart to
say it now. I was going away to-morrow morning, only for a time, Nelly,
but I cannot leave you in your distress. I must stay and help you to
keep up your courage, dear heart, and to take care of grandfather. He is
ill--very ill, I fear, my pretty lass, and asked for you before he went
to lie down; but try not to be frightened, dear heart, if--if--he
doesn't seem to know you at first, when you go to his bedside!"
With a little cry of pity and terror she bounded from him while he
spoke, and sped like a lapwing to her grandfather's chamber, leaving
John Garnet standing by the porch, with Cowslip's bridle on his arm, in
the last stage of perplexity and distress.
Leading the pony to the stable, he felt utterly at a loss what to do.
Courageous as he was, and too reckless of his own safety, he could not
but feel that his position here in the hiding-place he had chosen became
more dangerous every hour. Red Rube's warning did but corroborate his
own suspicions, and when he reflected on Parson Gale's unscrupulous
hatred, which would leave no stone unturned to deliver him into the
hangman's hands, his common sense told him there was but one chance of
escape left, while the plan advised by the harbourer, of taking boat at
Ilfracombe, seemed the only practicable means of flight.
So soon, therefore, the next day, as Katerfelto was recovered from the
effects of his exertions, he had intended to make for that little
seaport, and embark forthwith, sending the grey horse back to Porlock by
a trusty hand, to remain in Mistress Carew's care till its owner's
return. He promised himself one more interview with Nelly, when, for the
fiftieth time, they might exchange vows of unalterable affection, and
so would go his way, despondent indeed and unhappy, yet not wholly
despairing of better days to come.
And now old Carew's dangerous illness, of which he was advised the
moment he got off his horse, scattered all these projects to the winds.
While he waited for Nelly's return, that he might prepare her to expect
the worst, he resolved that no consideration of safety for himself
should part him from the woman he loved, so long as his presence could
cheer and console her grief.
After a restless night, and an early visit to Katerfelto's stable, where
it was satisfactory to find the grey horse, fresh and lively, rested
from his hard day, John Garnet presented himself at Carew's door, and
was surprised to be received by Nelly herself, who had not been to bed,
yet looked none the less beautiful for the pale face and weary eyes,
that spoke of some trial even sorer and sadder than the watch in a sick
chamber, than the cruel suspense of hope and fear, when life seems to
hang on a thread, that wears itself slowly away.
He would have caught her in his arms, but she motioned him to keep back
with a scared, wistful look, and a ghastly smile, that chilled him to
the heart.
"He is conscious," she said. "I thought you would wish to know. There is
yet a hope, and God is merciful. Surely I am not to lose all in one day
at one blow!"
"He will get well, sweetheart," answered John Garnet, hopefully, "and
live, I pray, for many a long year to come. In a few weeks he will be
strong enough to leave his bed, and, Nelly, he will be able to give me
the girl I love with his own hand."
The last sentence he whispered in her ear, but she started away from
him, and her face, pale enough before, turned white to the very lips.
"Silence!" she exclaimed, fiercely. "You must never speak to me like
that again!"
But for the pity of it, his blank amazement would have seemed absolutely
ludicrous. It was as though some soft and gentle bird that he loved and
cherished had turned on him, with the gaping beak and battling wings of
an infuriated hawk!
"What mean you?" he gasped. "What is it? Nelly! Sweetheart! What have I
done?"
"To save him from death! To save him from death!" The words seemed
ringing in her brain, or she never could have nerved herself for the
task she had undertaken.
"We have not gone too far to draw back, Master Garnet," she said. "There
is a time for all things. Let there be no more fooling between you and
me!"
She spoke lightly, even flippantly, though she felt her heart breaking.
Surely there is no courage like that of a woman who makes up her mind to
lead a forlorn hope.
"Fooling!" he repeated; "fooling! Do you mean to affirm that you have
been _fooling_ me all the time? Explain yourself, Mistress Carew. Have
you found a new sweetheart, or is this but a sorry jest to try the
temper of the old?"
She bowed her head in assent. If she made him angry, she thought it
would be easier to effect a rupture. And yet, to part from him unkindly!
ah! if she could but fall down then and there, tell him the truth, and
die!
He felt utterly perplexed, astounded, incredulous, yet wounded to the
very heart. It seemed so impossible she should have ceased to care for
him, even while the announcement was on her very lips. Stiffly, and with
an offended air, extremely unlike the frank and kindly bearing that was
one of John Garnet's characteristics, he made a low bow, and observed
quietly:
"No lady need fear persecution from me. Forgive my repeating to you,
Mistress Carew, that I loved you dearly, and believed you cared for me
in return."
"I know it," she said, and but for a choking sensation in her throat
would have added something more.
"I have deceived myself strangely, it seems," he continued, trying to
meet her eyes, which she kept averted from his face. "Nevertheless, I
think I am entitled to demand the cause of this sudden dismissal. I
should not like to lose my _respect_ for you, Mistress Carew, even
though I must try to forget my own unreasonable love."
Still that catching in the throat. She loosened the black velvet band
round her neck, before she could answer.
"Master Garnet," she said, "it is not good for you to be here. You ought
never to have come. I blame myself you have not sooner gone away.
Believe me, the air of Porlock means death. If you--you ever cared for
me, as you say, depart at once, to-day, this very hour, and put the blue
sea between us, for _my_ sake!"
"For _your_ sake?" This was surely a new experience of the sex, thought
John Garnet; was ever woman so incomprehensible? Was ever woman so
lovely, and so beloved?
"For my sake," she repeated, and the blue eyes met his own without
flinching. "Master Garnet, I am going to be married, and your presence
here conduces neither to my happiness nor your own."
"Married? Tell me at least the name of the man you have chosen."
There was no bitterness in his tone. Only a deep sorrow and a kindly
interest that told of unselfish affection, wounded but not destroyed.
"Parson Gale," she answered, speaking very fast and glancing wildly
about her. "Does it surprise you? Is it strange? Does it not seem like a
jest?" She burst into a painful laugh, shrill, harsh, and by no means
suggestive of mirth. He looked anxiously in her face, wondering more and
more.
"Mistress Carew," he said, in a grave earnest voice, "I pray you may be
happy!" and offered his hand.
She caught it in both her own, with a low, sobbing cry, pressed it to
her heart, her lips, her eyes now streaming with tears, flung it from
her in hysteric violence, and rushed out of his presence, leaving John
Garnet utterly bewildered and dismayed.
Even now he could not bring himself to admit that all was over between
them, though wholly unable to account for his sweetheart's inexplicable
conduct, and completely at a loss what to think, and what to believe.
Later in the day, wandering restlessly to and fro, unwilling to leave
its vicinity, he observed Parson Gale ride through the village of
Porlock, dismount at old Carew's door, tie his horse there by the
bridle, and enter the house without farther ceremony. Then, for the
first time in his life, he felt that keen pang of jealousy, which is at
once the test, and the punishment of love.
The Parson, notwithstanding certain misgivings, smothered in his own
breast, that his wooing, although successful, was attended by many
hindrances and drawbacks, had attired himself, as became his new
character, with unusual care and splendour. The rusty old riding suit
was replaced by a glossy black coat and waistcoat. His boots were clean,
his spurs bright, and a new steel buckle shone in the band of his hat.
More than one acquaintance whom he met in his ride, grinned admiringly,
and asked himself, in his own vernacular, "Wot the dickens Payson wur up
to now?"
But Abner Gale, like the rest of mankind, was doomed to learn, that, in
a love chase, as in a stag hunt, checks, disappointments, falls, and
other casualties must be encountered and endured. He had bought his
pearl at a great price, no less than the loss of his revenge, and it
seemed there should be nothing to do now, but to stretch out his hand
and place the jewel in his breast. He felt sore and angry, like a man
defrauded of his rights, or overreached in a bargain, to find himself
kept waiting nearly an hour in old Carew's parlour, and greeted at last
by Nelly, with a pale, serious face, and eyes full of tears.
He was a brisk suitor enough, to do him justice, entertaining no very
exalted notions of women's coyness and delicacy, but holding rather to
certain old-fashioned maxims inculcating promptitude and decision,
protesting that "faint heart never won fair lady," and always impatient
to "strike while the iron was hot." Yet even Parson Gale felt abashed to
meet that serious, heart-broken gaze, and he could no more have offered
to kiss her cheek than if she had been a queen on the throne.
Coldly, quietly, as though there were nothing more between them than the
intercourse of common acquaintance, she informed him of her
grandfather's illness, and her own fears for its result, adding that he
required constant attendance; and Master Gale must not think her uncivil
or inhospitable if she could spare him only a few minutes of her company
in this climax of sorrow and distress.
Perhaps she never thought so well of him as when he released her hand
with that respect which real misery commands from the roughest of
natures, while he bade her, in a tone of unfeigned sympathy, "Keep her
heart up, and never say die; for while there's life there's hope!"
"Not for _me_, Master Gale!" answered poor Nelly, now breaking down
completely. "Oh! grandfather, grandfather! I had but _you_ in the
world!" Then she hid her face in her hands, and he saw by the action of
her shoulders that she was sobbing as if her heart would break.--He
dashed a tear from his own rough cheek.
"I'll take my leave now, Mistress Nelly," said he, "only wishing I could
be of service to you, or do you good. Is there _nothing_ you can think
of? I'd go fasting and bare-foot from here to--to Jerusalem!" declared
the Parson, who had not an idea where it was, "if I thought I could take
the weight of a feather off the burden you have to bear!"
She only waved him away with one hand, keeping her tear-stained face
buried in the other. He had already reached the door, when a bright
thought suggested itself, and he turned back.
"Mistress Nelly!" he exclaimed, "if there's a doctor in England can cure
good Master Carew, I know where he is to be found. I'll wager a gallon I
bring him to this house within four hours of the present time." The
familiar expression denoted that Parson Gale was thoroughly in earnest.
Nelly looked up through her tears. "God bless you for your kindness, at
anyrate," she sobbed. "What is he? Who is he? Send for him at once!"
He turned, with his hand on the door. "The man is in hiding," he
answered, "and may be afraid to come, for there is a price on his head.
But this is a case of life and death, and if he refuses, I'll tie him
hand and foot, by George, bundle him on to a horse, and carry him with
me at a gallop across the moor!"
With this valorous promise, Abner Gale swung himself into the saddle,
and in a few seconds was clattering up the stony lane from Porlock at
his utmost speed. Regardless of his new clothes and the lustre of his
boots, he pursued his way at the same headlong pace, through deep
coombes and shallow streams, miry swamps, and tufted banks of heather,
till he gained the open moor, and only drew bridle when he reached that
lone and sequestered valley in which the gipsies had pitched their camp.
Through it he rode like a madman, scattering the swarthy little
half-naked children to right and left beneath his horse's feet. At the
door of a brown weather-stained tent, sat Fin Cooper mending a kettle,
and here the Parson halted with a jerk.
"Where's the priest?" said he. "I want him this instant. 'Tis to save a
man's life!"
"What priest?" asked Fin, looking lazily up from his work.
"Katerfelto," explained Gale.
"Katerfelto," repeated the gipsy. "He would not thank you for calling
him by his name!"