OUT ON THE WORLD.
She would be no obstacle in his path,—he regretted his marriage; she
would free him from the hated yoke as far as possible; she would hide
herself and her child from the sight of the old man, who hated them
both: in one word, she would go. Whither? She had scarcely a thought
about that. A vague plan floated rapidly through her brain,—go she must;
she could not stay another hour in the house.
Oh that she should have grown fond of him! that bitter words from his
lips were able to cause her such suffering! If she had only waited to
reflect, only stayed till she was a little calmer, till he was calmer
and had the opportunity to explain; for he had uttered the word hastily
and bitterly, and repented it long and sorrowfully; but, just as in
former days—if it had been in her power to do so—she would have thrust
his love from her, so now she would not pause even for a moment, but
tore her love from him, whilst the wild vehement passion raging in her
heart rendered her perfectly incompetent to judge, to think, to do any
single thing, but act.
And that she did very speedily; for, never pausing to reflect for an
instant, she flung a shawl around her, tied on a close cottage bonnet,
snatched up a mantle, in which she enveloped her infant, stole out of
the chamber, down the staircase, and, in less than fifteen minutes, she
was clear of the house and running breathlessly, in the darkness of
night, through the grounds and among the plantations of Paradise.
It was little marvel that, when Colin Saunders arose and opened his
cottage door to admit some one, who knocked lightly on his window pane,
he started back with an exclamation of surprise, to find that the
unwonted visitor was Mrs. Ivraine.
“Gude save us a’!” he ejaculated, in his broadest Scotch accent, to
which he never now gave free vent, save when the very deepest recesses
of his heart were touched, “Gude save us a’! what has happened, Miss
Mina?”
“I want money,” she said; “I know you can lend me some, and I know you
will.”
She had entered the house the moment the door was opened, and now stood
in the centre of the kitchen, her teeth chattering and her frame
trembling with excitement.
“Money!” repeated the Scotchman, whilst the old man’s daughter gazed in
amazement on the lady, “money!”
“Not much,” explained Mina, “not much; but do not waste time, I cannot
stay: I——” she put one hand on her bosom as though some pain stopped her
utterance. “Give me money, Colin,” she added, a moment after; “the child
of Allan Frazer of Glenfiord begs it from the hands of a faithful
friend.”
“Miss Mina,” the old man cried, “for his sake, for the sake of the good
and the dead and the kind and the true, tell me what it’s for.”
“Ask me nothing,” she returned; “I will neither tell you why I am going,
nor where I am going,—give me money: surely,” she continued, holding out
her hand, “surely you will not refuse to give it to her whom you knew
years and years ago, when she was Mina Frazer.”
Colin seized that little palm in his; and the tears coursed down his
furrowed cheeks as he burst forth with,
“Oh! Miss Mina, my dear, dear Miss Mina, listen, for the love of the
great God, to my words _this_ time! Did I not warn ye before? did not I
go down on my bended knees to try to turn you from your notion? did not
I warn you of this place and the people in it? and many an hour since
then ye have thought of what I said that day; I know ye have by the way
ye avoided meeting me, or letting me look in your changed face,—I know
it; and, because you know I spoke truth then, listen to me now. Don’t
leave the place; away back to the house before anybody thinks you are
left it; bear just a wee bit longer: no woman should ever leave her
husband; you, least of all, for he loves you better than I ever thought
an Ivraine could love any one. Don’t go, Miss Mina, don’t! bear all they
can say or do: you took the duty on ye, and ye ought not to shrink
now,—it is right for you to stay beside him always. Never mind Sir
Ernest or his sister; never heed a word they say to you, but try to bear
on for _his_ sake.”
As if the speaker had stung her, Mina snatched away her hand.
“You don’t know what you are talking about, Colin,” she said wildly; “if
you won’t give me the money, I must go without: I know perfectly well
what I am doing, and why I am doing it,—I would not stay now if they
came and asked me;” and she turned as if to leave the house; but
Saunders detained her.
“Dinna gang off that gait,” he cried, “dinna leave me in anger or think
that I would not be proud to count down money into your hand, though
heart vexed you stand in need of asking it from one like me: no, no! it
was na that, it was na, indeed.”
“I know it,” she answered; “but let me go,—time is more precious to me
than money; let me go: not all you could say,” she added, “not all the
world could say, would turn me from my purpose; let me go, for I am not
to be stopped.”
“Wait, then, only till I get ye what ye will want sore before long,—some
of the gold men risk their souls for;” and he dived hastily into an
inner chamber, whence he returned, bearing a small bottle tightly corked
up in his hand. “Tak’ it,” he cried, forcing it on her; “it’s full,
choke full, and, if ye want more, I have more.”
“Of what?” she demanded.
“Of guineas,” he answered; “It’s a queer purse, but a safe one: and tak’
Jessie with you too, Miss Mina dear,—ye canna travel the world alone:
tak’ her to look after the bairn; she will be no expense to you, and I
can spare her, and feel thankful to think she’s wi’ you; she will serve
you faithfully,—let her go.”
The tears came streaming from Mina’s eyes.
“No, no,” she cried wildly; “I am alone in the world, and I must go out
alone into it,—God bless you, Colin Saunders!” and, without another
word, she sprang out in the blackness beyond, and sped away through the
silence and solitude of night, to seek some remote destination, some
vague uncertain home.
Not alone, however; oh! no: true feet followed her rapid flight, guided
by the unerring instinct of faithful attachment. An honest heart panted
after her in pursuit till she reached the margin of the sluggish river,
along which, for a brief space, he knew her route lay.
There she paused for an instant, as if irresolute; as if the temptation
thus presented were a powerful one; as if the desire to be speedily at
her journey’s end were strong enough to induce her to do even that.
“I won’t speak to her,” muttered Colin when he beheld her stop; “I will
leave her to God and her conscience: they will keep her right; I know
the grandniece of the Laird of Craigmaver, and daughter of my old
master, will never commit that sin—can never go so far wrong; will never
lose sight of heaven a’thegither. Oh! Merciful Father,” he added, “take
the dark thought out of her heart without the interference of man.”
It seemed to the old man’s fervent faith as if his prayer were answered
on the instant, for, uttering a low moan, Mina turned away from the
river’s brink and exclaimed,
“No, no! not even for peace can I do that,—I cannot kill her, or leave
her behind.”
“Or peril your own soul’s welfare, Miss Mina,” added a voice at her
side; “as you turned from that of your own accord, turn home again now
in the same way; ask your own heart if you ought to go; if ye are
keeping your marriage vows; if ye are doing the right thing: think
again: be advised, Miss Mina dear, before it is too late.”
“He who looks into the secrets of all hearts knows I am at last doing as
I ought to do, Colin,” she answered; “I may not turn, I may never cross
the threshold of that house again.”
There are questions which even the most impertinent lips hesitate to
ask; there are sorrows upon which the most common minded fear to
intrude; and there are also griefs into the cause of which even the
nearest and dearest and kindest and most sympathetic dare not inquire
too closely.
The trial which had come to the breast of the young wife, was one of
these; and, in addition to that fact, the generally insurmountable
barrier of difference of station prevented Colin uttering another
syllable of remonstrance, prevented his torturing her with
expostulation, advice, vain regrets, curious speculations, or anything
save silent pity. He quietly, sadly followed her now slower footsteps
till they emerged from the demesne of Paradise and found themselves on
one of the flat Lincolnshire roads, leading—so at least the stranger
always hopelessly fears—nowhere. Then Mina paused.
“Colin, old friend,” she said, “you must turn back now; I am forced to
journey alone: good bye.”
“Oh! Miss Mina,” cried the old man, “can ye no trust me? will ye no put
faith in me? In the days of the persecutions, my grandfather suffered
all that the tyrants could inflict, and never flinched, but died strong
of heart for his faith’s sake, and I could do the same; and, next to my
God and, mayhap, my own children, there is no one comes so near my heart
as you, Miss Mina: I would do far more than die for you; I would do any
single thing in the world but commit a sin to make you happier: and yet
you winna trust me,—you doubt my faith, Miss Mina, and you winna trust
me.”
There was a quiver in his voice, and, by the light of the moon, which
had just come peeping out of the east, Mina saw how, as he pronounced
the last words, his face grew pale and his lips trembled. He had uttered
the above sentence, as he always did any sentence which was spoken more
by the heart than the tongue, in his broadest Scotch accent; and there
was something about that harsh familiar tone, that voice from the moors
addressing her thus amidst the desolate fens, which touched every
feeling of the lonely being’s heart: it was a breath from _home_. Home!
we make many for ourselves on the face of this wide earth, but we
always, in the end, confess that, after all, there was only a single
real one amongst them,—that which was created for us by others in the
days of childhood; and the memory of it comes gently stealing over our
souls in all subsequent times, like mournful music breathing over the
waters of a deep unfathomable gulf, that gulf separating the present
from the past, which none ever are permitted to recross, save in dreams;
which few ever would recross in reality, were the power to do so
vouchsafed unto them.
Mina Ivraine would not have retraced one step of the weary road she had
trod; yet the accent of that true Scotch tongue and the memories of days
that had long lain mouldering in the dusty past, awakened thereby, moved
her inexpressibly.
“Trust you, Colin!” she said earnestly; “see! if I were dying this
minute, there are just two in the world in whose care I could leave my
darling without a thought of fear, and you are one of them.”
“Then let me carry her for you now, Miss Mina, for, light as she is, she
is still too much for you,” he replied, and tenderly and gently he
lifted the infant from Mrs. Ivraine’s arms, and took the burden of it on
himself. Thus Mina left home and husband and hope and everything behind
her; thus sorrowful, sick-hearted, weary, and dispirited, she passed
forth from Paradise, accompanied, some portion of the way, by one true
humble friend,—thus she went.
Meanwhile, matters progressed anything rather than agreeably at the
house. During the altercation betwixt Mina and her father-in-law, Mrs.
Close had gathered up the scattered contents of the box, and managed to
carry it away (nobody ever knew how she found strength to do it) to her
own room; and, almost immediately after his wife had passed out from his
sight, Ernest was peremptorily ordered by the baronet to leave his
presence, a mandate he instantly obeyed, retreating to the gloomy
dining-hall and striving to obtain peace of mind by kicking a
smouldering log of wood with the heel of his coarse thick shoe. But this
performance apparently failed to produce the desired result; for, after
a few minutes thus spent, he sprang from his chair and commenced
striding up and down the apartment like one possessed.
“Repent!” he murmured, striking his clenched hand upon his forehead,
“repent! Heaven knows I do; and, if I thought you loved me now, or ever
had loved me, Mina, I would go to you and tell you why I mourn with so
unavailing a sorrow for the misery I have brought upon you; but, as you
married me for money, as you took all my love, knowing you could never
give any in return, as you concealed from me the fact that your
heart—the only thing I asked for, or cared for, or desired—could never
be given to me, you deserve to be wretched also. Fool that I was,” he
added, “to dream that a young girl could care for such a melancholy,
plain, stern creature as I am,—one so unlike _him_, that confounded
woman’s handsome husband. I understand it all now: she fancied, as I was
a baronet’s son, she would be a grand lady: and I deceived her too, as
she deceived me, by saying nothing. Oh! if I had subjected her then to
that test, if I had told her all and left her free to choose, what a
difference it would have made,—she would not then have been my wife; but
I—I loved her so much, that I could not tell her for fear; and I do love
her still so much, that I will now go to her and tell her, if she will
only try to care for me, only strive to be happy, I will take her away
for ever from this place, renounce all I have striven and waited and
hoped for for years—all I wanted, first for my own sake and then for
hers: I will take her away, do anything, if she will only promise that
little thing—so little to her, so much to me—to try to love me.”
And, as he concluded his broken sentence, he hurriedly advanced towards
the door.
“Oh! sir,” exclaimed Janet, flinging it abruptly open in his face, ere
he had time to carry his design into execution, “oh! sir, where is Mrs.
Ivraine? Mrs. Close has taken such a turn, and she wants to see her.
Would you please go to your aunt, sir, till I find Mrs. Ivraine? she
ought not to be left alone;” and, having delivered herself of this
breathless sentence, the woman departed in quest of her young mistress,
who was already far away from the place, far, far away.
There was something about Janet’s tone and manner, the latter
particularly, which induced Mr. Ivraine to repair instantly to his
aunt’s chamber. Entering without ceremony, he strode across the room to
the side of an antique chair, in which the miser’s sister reclined,
panting painfully; there was a frightful expression in her face,—the
features were distorted and the muscles contracted horribly. Death! the
word was written as legibly on her forehead as though it had been traced
there in letters of fire, and Ernest read it.
“Aunt!” he exclaimed, “aunt! what is the matter?”
She strove to answer, but an indistinct murmur alone escaped her lips;
and her mouth became twisted and contorted, as if with the endeavour:
with the violence of the will contending against the obstinacy of the
body. Her glazed eyes turned towards the door, and her nephew
interpreted the look aright.
“Mina?” he said, and the dying wretch made a feeble gesture of assent.
He ran into the passage to quicken his wife’s arrival: he forgot
everything at the moment, save the presence of the great visitor, who
comes sooner or later to all.
He called “Mina! Mina!” and, from afar, Janet answered him,
“I am looking for her, sir.”
“Be quick, then,” he answered, and was hesitating whether to go and seek
his wife himself, when a sort of noise, hardly a moan, yet a little
louder than a sigh, reaching his ear from the sick chamber, induced him
to re-enter it.
His aunt was sitting bolt upright in the chair, and made a sign for him
to come near her.
“I want—to—give—Mina something; I should like to give——” she mumbled
indistinctly, laying her hand on a box at her side and striving to raise
the lid, but her strength was not equal to the task. Ernest made a
movement to assist; but, with a look of fear and distrust, she dropped
her arms upon the coffer, as if determined to protect her treasure to
the last. Then, after one half-despairing, half-imploring look in his
face, her head fell forward on the top of that golden hoard. For a
moment Ernest stood appalled before the withered, wasted, sordid
skeleton; for the miser’s sister, hiding her face upon the hard cold
surface of the thing she loved best and valued most in life, had passed
from earth for ever: she was gone to render a strict account, in another
world, of the talents she had buried in this; she was gone without
giving Mina anything, though it was still a redeeming trait that the
wish to do so had found an entrance into her soul ere it went away from
that emaciated body, on its long last journey home.
But where was Mina? why did she tarry? She could be of no use now; still
Ernest felt annoyed, alarmed perhaps, at this delay. He raised the
corpse in his arms, laid it on the wretched bed, and then, feeling his
presence there was unnecessary, he was hurrying from the apartment, when
Janet met him on the threshold.
“Where is she? where is my wife?” he demanded, a sort of sickness
stealing over him.
“I cannot find her,” replied the woman. Ernest made but one bound back
across the room to the table, where a candle, long unsnuffed, burned
dimly; he snatched it up, and passing the woman, who offered some
remonstrance, with the answer,
“The dead need no light,” he left her, to commence and pursue his
useless search through the whole of that large dreary interminable
mansion.
“Mina!” he cried softly in the lower apartments,—in a voice which, had
she been within reach of its sound, would have drawn her forth from the
securest hiding-place, sobbing and thankful.
“Mina!” he called, through the old lumber rooms; and “Mina! for heaven’s
sake, answer me!” echoed along the desolate corridors, and ascended the
remoter staircases, even before his rapid foot had traversed them.
“Mina, my wife!” he almost groaned; and thus, from chamber to chamber,
from story to story, from basement to garret, he rushed like one in a
frenzy; then, when thoroughly satisfied she had left the house, he
darted from it like a maniac.
The rain had ceased and the night was far advanced, and the moon shining
high up in heaven, when Colin Saunders, walking sorrowfully home, met a
tall dark figure wandering distractedly along the banks of that sluggish
river: the same idea had evidently occurred to all three—to wife,
husband, and humble friend.
“She stopped just where we are now, sir,” said Colin, blocking up the
narrow path, and forcing Mr. Ivraine to make a halt, whether he would or
not; “just where we are now; through the darkness I saw her, and she
thought then of doing what you fancy she has done. And I stood back a
wee bit, and I never spoke a word; and I left her to the care of the
guid God; and I let her think, knowing she would never commit that great
sin; and, after a while, she turned away and passed on, for the dark
thought was conquered and she was saved.”
“And where is she now?” demanded Ernest, choking with suppressed
emotions.
“She is gone!” responded Colin; “gone with her infant in her arms.”
“Do you mean,” asked Mr. Ivraine, “that she is safe, that she is alive;
that she has voluntarily left her husband, my protection, and this
place,—gone to seek another home for herself; do you mean that?”
“Whether voluntarily or no I canna say,” answered the man; “but she has
gone away alive from here: with a breaking heart, with a crushed spirit,
out into the world.”
The miser’s son did not ask another question; he turned on his heel and
walked back along the path to the house, as though by that simple act he
could cut her off for ever; as though ceasing to search could erase her
memory from his soul; as if seeking no further information could give
peace to his tortured breast; as though by saying, “I will have nought
more to do with her,” he could undo the fact of their marriage, of her
misery, of his love: he spoke no syllable; he made no comment; he
demanded no explanation; he uttered no complaint: but strode gloomily
back to his desolate home, rendered none the less desolate by the
mighty, all-pervading presence of that giant spectre men call death.
They buried her quietly one drizzling February morning, when Sir Ernest,
who would not go to the expense of mourning coaches for the funeral, got
wet to the skin following the coffin on foot to the churchyard at
Lorton; but he was so much occupied for several days after the
interment, in looking out for various amounts of hidden treasure, in
arranging papers and inspecting title deeds, and taking possession of
his late sister’s effects (for she died intestate), that he had no
leisure to think about a severe cold he caught on the day they laid her
to sleep with her ancestors; besides which, he had a very pretty
hornet’s nest to deal with in the shape of any number of
claimants—Closes and Ivraines—who all fancied they were entitled to a
share of the spoil that death had cast in the way of Sir Ernest Ivraine.
There was much contention, great ill-will, legal threatenings, Chancery
murmurs, hints of fraud, proposals for an equitable settlement, for some
fifteen days, and then a sort of lull ensued: a mighty change came o’er
the spirit of their dream, for rumours began to be circulated that Sir
Ernest was dangerously ill; that Mrs. Ivraine had left the house; that
Henry, though about to revisit England, had not yet returned; that
Ernest was in disgrace; that fortunes were to be made and lands won by
the most fortunate adventurer. No sooner, then, was it actually
ascertained that Sir Ernest was confined to bed, than carriages,
chaises, horsemen, and pedestrians besieged the gates of Paradise. If it
had been heaven they were trying to win they could not have grown more
pertinacious in the clamours for admittance; and Ernest, heartsick and
weary, merely looked out on the storming party, and then, without
thinking of resistance, surrendered unconditionally, and let the legion
of fresh devils come and take possession of the house, in order to see
if they could drive the old ones out of it. Alas! no; the last state
thereof was worse than the first.
It was a dreadful place, that misnamed Paradise, where a man lay sick,
and where all his kindred, from far and near, thronged to see if their
hopes had not deceived them, whether he would die; a home unbrightened
by love, unsanctified by religion, unblessed by friendship, unredeemed
by virtue or truth, filled with sons and daughters of the horse-leech,
who came with greedy, avaricious eyes from east, west, north and
south,—a frightful tribe of mercenary wretches, of heartless legacy
hunters, to watch the old man’s last moments on earth—to see the miser
die.
Ernest was now only one amongst many; but does the fact of such numbers
running over the earth barefoot render the crime of waiting for dead
men’s shoes the less in one solitary instance?