_WHAT THE STORM BROUGHT._
I said that I was dying. God is good:
The heavens grow darker as they grow the purer;
And both as we do near them; so near death
The soul grows darker and diviner hourly.
The storm that had looked so wild among the streets and terraces of
London broke in absolute fury over the northern ocean. The waves
were lashed into violence under the fierce rushing of the winds, the
great yellow clouds sent out vivid flashes that lit up the desolate
scene, and ever and anon came the sullen crash of thunder through the
darkness.
The sun had gone down, the twilight had passed into the storm-darkness;
it was about the time when Adèle and Arthur had been discussing the
mental effects produced by tempest in the closely-curtained library,
and sending out the warm compassion of their young souls to the world's
great army of mourners. Margaret Grey sat beside her parlor-window
looking out upon the storm. She looked very desolate in the silent,
half-dark room, with its white curtains and ghostly holland draperies.
Her hands were folded listlessly, her eyes were full of sadness. She
had been much happier and far more hopeful since Arthur's visit, but
on this evening, she could not have told why, the deep depression from
which his presence and her own strenuous exertions had aroused her
seemed to be settling down upon her once more.
She felt so absolutely alone and uncared-for in the dreary tumult upon
which she gazed that she began to feel as if it were impossible for
anything but this to be her lot. Every sweet human tie that had once
rejoiced her had been loosened, and she told herself she only was to
blame, and therefore they might never, never be reknit. It was a curse
upon her, and she could not believe it would be removed.
She bowed her head upon her hands as she thought of the past--as she
felt within herself the rich, boundless capabilities of loving--as she
looked out upon her own desolation.
And while she was brooding the darkness gathered. In the distance the
white foam of the waves gleamed through it, and from time to time it
was disturbed by the lightning; but for that it was deep indeed. A
dark night has terrors for the imaginative: Margaret looked out with a
shudder.
"It was into such a darkness that he went out," she murmured. "Oh, my
darling! my darling!"
And then she turned, and began to feel with a certain creeping sense of
uneasiness that the house was very still. She drew down the blind with
a hasty impulse. The outside world made her think too painfully of that
wanderer in his first desolation. Alas! he would have recovered from
that--perhaps he was even rejoicing in his liberty. The thought was too
bitter. She felt her overstrained mind must have relief. A book might
bring it, so she rose to ring for lights.
But before she could reach the bell-handle the door opened slowly,
stealthily, as if ashamed of its own creaking, and a figure that in the
half darkness she did not recognize crossed to the window, and taking
a seat gazed at her across the interval of shadow. There was something
defiant in the action, and for a moment Margaret was frightened. Who
was this that had dared to intrude upon her?
But she and her landlady were alone in the house. Her fears, she told
herself, were puerile; crossing the dark room, she looked her intruder
in the face. By the faint light which still struggled through the
window-blind she recognized Jane Rodgers. But could she be right? Was
not this rather a distorted creature of her own imagination that had
taken the landlady's face and features to mock her? This being was
very unlike the quiet and eminently respectable landlady, for the
face was so livid that it seemed to gleam out of the darkness, the
eyes were wild and lurid, and the lips and tongue seemed to be moving
convulsively, as though the woman were agitated with burning thirst.
Margaret started back in momentary alarm; but she was naturally
brave--she would assure herself that this was no dream conjured up by a
diseased imagination, but actual, living flesh and blood. She put her
hand on her landlady's shoulder. "Jane," she said, "is this you? My
good woman, what is wrong? Has the storm alarmed you?"
Her touch was flung off with such violence that she staggered and
nearly fell, for the torrent of this woman's wrath and hatred had been
so long suppressed that now no bounds would hold it. "Leave me alone!"
she cried. "How dare you put a finger on me? No," with a wild laugh as
Margaret retreated quietly to the door. She thought the woman was mad,
and so Jane was in a sense. "I've turned the key. We're alone together,
at last, my fine lady; you shall hear me out; you shall know what's in
my power--what I'll do, by ----! It's a fine night, dark as pitch; a
body could be easily put out of the way--made quiet and then tossed out
there!"
She lifted the blind, and even as she did so came a lurid flash. It
showed the outside tumult, the black, restless waves, seeming in their
unrest to hunger for a victim, and for one moment it showed in bold
relief what was more dreadful still, a dark human face distorted with
hideous passion. The eyes of the landlady seemed to be starting from
their sockets, her strong sinewy hands were clenched, her body was
stooping forward; the attitude was that of a cat about to spring upon
its prey. Margaret saw and shrank back in sudden terror, the sight was
so repulsive. But she recovered herself. They were woman to woman.
Why should she fear? Again she touched the landlady on the shoulder.
"Jane," she said in a low voice that trembled in spite of her strong
effort to be calm, "you must be mad or dreaming. What does all this
mean?"
"It means ----." The woman hissed _one_ word into her ear, and then
for the first time Margaret realized her position. She had not much
physical strength, for the severe mental struggles through which she
had been passing had slowly but surely sapped at the springs of her
life. Alone! She had thought of it with sadness only a few moments
since; now she felt herself alone, and in the power of a hatred
rendered strong and brutal by human passion. In the presence of the
dark reality her small remnant of strength deserted her. She felt weak
and faint with sheer terror of what might be before her.
In one moment it all seemed to flash upon her--the horror, the mystery,
the sickening details. She closed her eyes and instinctively cried out
for help to the one Presence that alone was near her in this awful
moment. The lightning flashed in again upon the strange scene. It
showed her kneeling, with clasped hands and calm face and eyes raised
up to heaven.
Heaven! God! We think of them little in our hours of peace and
gladness, but in the storm-sounds, in the terrors of darkness, in
physical weakness brought home to our souls, perhaps we are all
somewhat alike. Weak women and strong, self-dependent men instinctively
look up, involuntarily call on the awful name. How often, how often,
the Name has proved a Power! Even in this case it seemed for a moment
effectual.
The woman with the deadly purpose in her eyes shrank back, awed by the
secret witness evoked by prayer. But darkness hid the calm, resolute
face, and the cruel heart was steeled once more. "What's the use of
praying?" she cried in a transport of fury; "them as prays should
practice--that's _my_ creed; and, look you here! if there's a heaven
and hell, as the pious says, you've killed my soul, for I was never
wicked till _you_ came our way; and _curse_ you for it, I say, with
your milk-white face and your smooth ways and your pride! But I'll
do for you yet. I didn't intend it," she continued, her voice rising
almost to a shriek, "leastways, not to-night; but the look of you, the
feel of you, makes me _mad_." She had seized Margaret's delicate wrists
and was holding them in a vice-like grasp as she glared into her eyes.
"Your fine young gentleman suspects me--you haven't that confidence. I
was insolent, was I? but not nothing to be afraid of. Perhaps you'll
cry another cry now, if I let you cry at all."
She laughed a savage laugh that made Margaret shiver, but she had not
lost all her power; with a sudden wrench she threw off the woman's
grasp, and springing to the window unloosened and opened it. It was
on the ground floor, but even a fall would have been better than this
life-and-death struggle in the darkness. The cool, keen night-air was
refreshing. She drew a long breath and threw herself forward. It was in
vain.
Jane had recovered from the momentary paralysis which Margaret's
unexpected effort had caused her. She caught her round the waist, and
dragging her back into the room threw her down upon the ground.
Then for a moment Margaret's consciousness deserted her. With a deep
sigh she closed her eyes, but not even her weakness would come to her
relief. Horror kept her senses alert. She opened her eyes to feel the
cool night-air bathing her face, and to see the face of her enemy very
close to her own.
Jane's knees were on Margaret's chest, her hand was uplifted to strike,
but her victim opened her eyes and the hand fell. "You're not quite
gone," she said--"only a sham, like t'other night. No more shams for
you, fine lady; but, listen! a big one for me, and it'll help your
last moments to hear it. You've destroyed yourself is to be my story
to-morrow when the neighbors inquire--went out in the storm unbeknown
to me--wasn't heard of no more."
Margaret closed her eyes again, but no cry for mercy came from her
lips.
Jane Rodgers waited. It would have been a triumph to have heard the
passionate prayers for which she had prepared herself to answer with
mocking reference to former times. She stooped down. "Have you nothing
to say?" she asked.
Still not a word, only the dark eyes opened, and the pure spirit seemed
to look out calmly on the passionate, sin-stained mortal.
And still Jane waited. It seemed almost as if an invisible power had
held back her hand.
In the moment given her Margaret was preparing to die. She looked
her position calmly in the face. She could not struggle. All her
strength seemed to have gone out of her in that last effort. Nothing
was left but submission. It was hard. For the sake of others, for the
sake of the future which was beginning to take fairer colors, she
would have wished to live; and then in this kind of death there was
something so revolting. To be put out of sight, to be cast like a dog
into the waters, to leave behind her as a memory either the stain of
self-destruction or the horrible nine days' wonder of a sickening
murder. But would not words be thrown away? and strength she had none.
She could only pray with passionate intensity for help. With the prayer
came calmness, and after it a strange thought that utterly absorbed her.
For the moment Margaret Grey forgot herself, forgot even the horror of
her situation. She looked up into the haggard, desperate face bending
over her, and her very soul was filled with a deep, boundless pity. Her
thought was no more to save herself; it was to save this woman from the
commission of a crime. A sudden sense of responsibility seemed to crush
her down, a feeling that if this woman's soul were lost she would be to
blame. It was a madness, a noble madness, but it gave her strength.
With an irresistible force she threw off the knees that were pressing
out her life, and rising to her feet looked in her turn into the eyes
of her bitter foe--a look that so astonished Jane as to render her for
the moment helpless, for she saw her mistress's face as the face of
an angel. Through the semi-darkness of the room those kind, sad eyes
looked into hers, and seemed to draw away half her venom.
Then Margaret spoke in a soft, low tone that contrasted strangely with
the fierce, savage words to which she had been forced to listen: "Poor
foolish woman! why do you hate me so?"
Her words fell clear and unanswered in the silence. She went on gently,
"If I have suspected you wrongfully, if I have caused you any kind of
evil, I am heartily sorry; but oh, for your own sake, for the sake
of all you hold dear, pause now before you do a deed that can never,
through all eternity, be undone."
She paused a moment to gather strength: "I did not intend to ask
you to spare me, but as I lay there helpless it came into my mind
that if I suffered this deed to be done your blood-guiltiness would
be on my head. You cannot hurt me much," she continued with a noble
truthfulness, "for what is death? I have looked it in the face more
than once--a bitter pang, no doubt, but a short one. I plead not for
_my_ sake, but for yours--for your poor soul, which is perishing this
night. In God's name I beseech you to spare it. Be wise in time, or at
least--for the long night is before us--take an hour to consider. I
will not escape--I will sit here in your sight. You were mad for the
moment--these feelings of hatred had taken possession of you--God would
not suffer--" She broke off suddenly, "Hark! what is that?"
"A knocking at the gate," said Jane, turning very pale. "Now's your
time. You have gained time with your false tongue. I sha'n't be able to
escape. You will have your revenge."
"Stop," said Margaret, holding her back, and there was heavenly
forgiveness in her face. "Believe that I wish you no ill. Look at me,
Jane. Do you see hatred or vengeance in my face? Forget these few awful
moments. I will forgive, and we shall both thank God for ever for
having saved as from an unspeakable horror. This is His hand; go down
an your knees and thank Him."
"It is--it is!" said Jane, shivering, for her superstitious nature had
been touched by the strange coincidence. Governed by a stronger will
than her own, she knelt, while the tears rained down her face.
But the knocking began to grow desperate.
"You had better go," said Margaret quietly; "our visitor is impatient."
Obedient as a child, the woman who but a few moments before had been
foaming with rage got up and went out. The cause of the noise was
soon explained. A chaise was standing at the gate, the sound of whose
approach had been unheard in the tumult of the night: an elderly woman
had dismounted.
"Sae ye're not all deed and buried," she said briskly as the landlady
showed her scared face at the gate. "I was rating the laddie here
for misguiding o' an auld wife that micht hae bin his mither, for,
thinks I to myself, sure and certain there's not a soul within, and a
awfu' nicht it is to keep a body outside"--the old woman spoke quite
reproachfully--"but noo I think on't," she continued, "ye're not living
here your lane. One Mrs. Grey is lodgin' wi' you, for, as I tak it,
you're the landleddy."
Jane was scarcely able to speak, but as silence gives consent the old
woman proceeded to pay the boy, to gather up her parcels and to walk
rapidly along the garden-path.
"An' here _is_ Mrs. Grey her ainsel', as I canna doobt," she continued
cheerfully, for Margaret had lighted the hall-lamp and was standing
underneath it.
The old Scotchwoman looked round her scrutinizingly as she passed
into the lighted hall. There was a certain appearance of repressed
excitement about both Margaret and the landlady that did not escape
her shrewd old eyes. "Bless me, how wild they look!" was her mental
ejaculation, but she refrained from all expression of her feelings.
Mrs. Foster understood her manners. She prided herself on this, that
she knew a lady the moment she set her eyes upon her. Whatever Mrs.
Grey might turn out to be, old Martha was satisfied at once that
she was a lady, and she acted accordingly. She dropped a little
old-fashioned curtsey, and the excitement of her first arrival having
in a measure passed, brought forward her best English to do honor to
the occasion:
"You'll be astonished, madam, and with reason, to see an old woman drop
down from the skies, as we may say, and at this hour of the night, too.
But I've brought my credentials with me, and, like mony anither, my
young gentleman likes to do everything in a hurry. Here's the letter
which will explain a sight better than I can."
"Come in, come in," said Margaret; then to Jane, who was looking at her
in a strange scrutinizing manner, "Bring the candles into the parlor,
Jane; then come in and consider how we are to provide for our guest. I
am sure she is heartily welcome, for I see Mr. Forrest has sent her."
Margaret's words had the desired effect. They set Jane's mind at rest.
She saw it was not her mistress's intention to make any revelation
about the scene that had preceded the old woman's arrival. Bewildered
and dazed, she found her way to the kitchen, mechanically did as she
was told, and returned to the parlor to find the old woman quietly
divesting herself of bonnet and shawl and looking round with the air of
one who had taken possession.
Old Martha seemed in fact to be the only capable person in the house,
for Margaret had fallen back on the sofa white and trembling. Up to
the moment of the old woman's arrival she had been sustained by her
overpowering excitement. In the pleasant, warm security she began to
feel a certain reaction, a sudden collapse of power.
And the landlady, notwithstanding her vigorous efforts to recover her
self-possession, looked rather scared. It was such a contrast--from the
horror and darkness to the light and pleasant security. But our life
is strange; the common things seize and silence the dramatic crises,
and we drop naturally into the old channels. The first access of
alarm over, Jane Rodgers put on her apron, smoothed back her hair and
set about the common tasks of relighting the kitchen fire, preparing
tea and airing sheets for the old woman's bed, just as if that awful
night's experience had never been. And Margaret swallowed a glass
of wine, fought down her longing for tears, and found herself in a
few moments looking with tranquil pleasure at her old treasures, the
rings and bracelets which Martha Foster had returned, and listening
quietly to the old woman's lively description of Mr. Arthur's babyhood
and early youth. Martha never imagined this could be anything but
interesting, and to have begun so soon on her pet subject was a high
mark of the old woman's favor.
Margaret believed she had conquered Jane Rodgers's fierce hatred--for
the moment at least--yet it was with a feeling of devout thankfulness
that she noticed how, of her own accord, the landlady had arranged
for Martha Foster to sleep in the little closet which opened from her
bedroom.
They all retired early, and the stormy evening closed in peace.