MR. CARMEL TAKES HIS LEAVE.
About this time there was a sort of fete at Golden Friars. Three very
pretty fountains were built by Sir Richard Mardykes and Sir Harry, at
the upper end of the town, in which they both have property; and the
opening of these was a sort of gala.
I did not care to go. Sir Harry Rokestone and Mr. Blount, were, of
course, there; Mr. Marston went, instead, to his farm, at the other
side; and I took a whim to go out on the lake, in a row-boat, in the
direction of Golden Friars. My boatmen rowed me near enough to hear the
music, which was very pretty; but we remained sufficiently far out, to
prevent becoming mixed up with the other boats which lay near the shore.
It was a pleasant, clear day, with no wind stirring, and although we
were now fairly in winter, the air was not too sharp, and with just a
rug about one's feet, the weather was very pleasant. My journal speaks
of this evening as follows:
"It was, I think, near four o'clock, when I told the men to row towards
Dorracleugh. Before we reached it, the filmy haze of a winter's evening
began to steal over the landscape, and a red sunset streamed through the
break in the fells above the town with so lovely an effect that I told
the men to slacken their speed. So we moved, with only a dip of the oar,
now and then; and I looked up the mere, enjoying the magical effect.
"A boat had been coming, a little in our wake, along the shore. I had
observed it, but without the slightest curiosity; not even with a
conjecture that Sir Harry and Mr. Blount might be returning in it, for I
knew that it was arranged that they were to come back together in the
carriage.
"Voices from this boat caught my ear; and one suddenly that startled me,
just as it neared us. It glided up. I fancy about thirty yards were
between the sides of the two boats; and the men, like those in my boat,
had been ordered merely to dip their oars, and were now moving abreast
of ours; the drips from their oars sparkled like drops of molten metal.
What I heard--the only thing I now heard--was the harsh nasal voice of
Monsieur Droqville.
"There he was, in his black dress, standing in the stern of the boat,
looking round on the landscape, from point to point. The light, as he
looked this way and that, touched his energetic bronzed features, the
folds of his dress, and the wet planks of the boat, with a fire that
contrasted with the grey shadows behind and about.
"I heard him say, pointing with his outstretched arm, 'And is that
Dorracleugh?' To which, one of the people in the boat made him an
answer.
"I can't think of that question without terror. What has brought that
man down here? What interest can he have in seeking out Dorracleugh,
except that it happens to be my present place of abode?
"I am sure he did not see me. When he looked in my direction, the sun
was in his eyes, and my face in shadow; I don't think he can have seen
me. But that matters nothing if he has come down for any purpose
connected with me."
A sure instinct told me that Monsieur Droqville would be directed
inflexibly by the interests of his order, to consult which, at all
times, unawed by consequences to himself or others, was his stern and
narrow duty.
Here, in this beautiful and sequestered corner of the world, how far,
after all, I had been from quiet. Well might I cry with Campbell's
exile--
"Ah! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace where no perils can chase me?"
My terrors hung upon a secret I dared not disclose. There was no one to
help me; for I could consult no one.
The next day I was really ill. I remained in my room. I thought Monsieur
Droqville would come to claim an interview; and perhaps would seek, by
the power he possessed, to force me to become an instrument in
forwarding some of his plans, affecting either the faith or the property
of others. I was in an agony of suspense and fear.
Days passed; a week; and no sign of Monsieur Droqville. I began to
breathe. He was not a man, I knew, to waste weeks, or even days, in
search of the picturesque, in a semi-barbarous region like Golden
Friars.
At length I summoned courage to speak to Rebecca Torkill. I told her I
had seen Monsieur Droqville, and that I wanted her, without telling the
servants at Dorracleugh, to make inquiry at the "George and Dragon,"
whether a person answering that description had been there. No such
person was there. So I might assume he was gone. He had come with Sir
Richard Mardykes, I conjectured, from Carsbrook, where he often was. But
such a man was not likely to make even a pleasure excursion without an
eye to business. He had, I supposed, made inquiries; possibly, he had
set a watch upon me. Under the eye of such a master of strategy as
Monsieur Droqville I could not feel quite at ease.
Nevertheless, in a little time, such serenity as I had enjoyed at
Dorracleugh gradually returned; and I enjoyed a routine life, the
dulness of which would have been in another state of my spirits
insupportable, with very real pleasure.
We were now deep in winter, and in its snowy shroud how beautiful the
landscape looked! Cold, but stimulating and pleasant was the clear, dry
air; and our frost-bound world sparkled in the wintry sun.
Old Sir Harry Rokestone, a keen sportsman, proof as granite against
cold, was out by moonlight on the grey down with his old-fashioned
duck-guns, and, when the lake was not frozen over, with two hardy men
manoeuvring his boat for him. Town-bred, Mr. Blount contented himself
with his brisk walk, stick in hand, and a couple of the dogs for
companions to the town; and Mr. Marston was away upon some mission, on
which his uncle had sent him, Mr. Blount said, to try whether he was
"capable of business and steady."
One night, at this time, as I sat alone in the drawing-room, I was a
little surprised to see old Rebecca Torkill come in with her bonnet and
cloak on, looking mysterious and important. Shutting the door, she
peeped cautiously round.
"What do you think, miss? Wait--listen," she all but whispered, with her
hand raised as she trotted up to my side. "Who do you think I saw, not
three minutes ago, at the lime-trees, near the lake?"
I was staring in her face, filled with shapeless alarms.
"I was coming home from Farmer Shenstone's, where I went with some tea
for that poor little boy that's ailing, and just as I got over the
stile, who should I see, as plain as I see you now, but Mr. Carmel, just
that minute got out of his boat, and making as if he was going to walk
up to the house. He knew me the minute he saw me--it is a very bright
moon--and he asked me how I was; and then how you were, most particular;
and he said he was only for a few hours in Golden Friars, and took a
boat on the chance of seeing you for a minute, but that he did not know
whether you would like it, and he begged of me to find out and bring him
word. If you do, he's waiting down there, Miss Ethel, and what shall I
say?"
"Come with me," I said, getting up quickly; and, putting on in a moment
my seal-skin jacket and my hat, without another thought or word, much to
Rebecca's amazement, I sallied out into the still night air. Turning the
corner of the old building, at the end of the court-yard, I found myself
treading with rapid steps the crisp grass, under a dazzling moon, and
before me the view of the distant fells, throwing their snowy speaks
high into the air, with the solemn darkness of the lake, and its silvery
gleams below, and the shadowy gorge and great lime-trees in the
foreground. Down the gentle slope I walked swiftly, leaving Rebecca
Torkill a long way behind.
I was now under the towering lime-trees. I paused: with a throbbing
heart I held my breath. I heard hollow steps coming up on the other
side of the file of gigantic stems. I passed between, and saw Mr. Carmel
walking slowly towards me. In a moment he was close to me, and took my
hand in his old kindly way.
"This is very kind; how can I thank you, Miss Ware? I had hardly hoped
to be allowed to call at the house; I am going a long journey, and have
not been quite so well as I used to be, and I thought that if I lost
this opportunity, in this uncertain world, I might never see my pupil
again. I could hardly bear that, without just saying good-bye."
"And you are going?" I said, wringing his hand.
"Yes, indeed; the ocean will be between us soon, and half the world, and
I am not to return."
All his kindness rose up before me--his thoughtful goodness, his
fidelity--and I felt for a moment on the point of crying.
He was muffled in furs, and was looking thin and ill, and in the light
of the moon the lines of his handsome face were marked as if carved in
ivory.
"You and your old tutor have had a great many quarrels, and always made
it up again; and now at last we part, I am sure, good friends."
"You are going, and you're ill," was all I could say; but I was
conscious there was something of that wild tone that real sorrow gives
in my voice.
"How often I have thought of you, Miss Ethel--how often I shall think of
you, be my days many or few. How often!"
"I am so sorry, Mr. Carmel--so awfully sorry!" I repeated. I had not
unclasped my hand; I was looking in his thin, pale, smiling face with
the saddest augury.
"I want you to remember me; it is folly, I know, but it is a harmless
folly; all human nature shares in it, and"--there was a little tremble,
and a momentary interruption--"and your old tutor, the sage who lectured
you so wisely, is, after all, no less a fool than the rest. Will you
keep this little cross? It belonged to my mother, and is, by permission
of my superiors, my own, so you may accept it with a clear conscience."
He smiled. "If you wear it, or even let it lie on your table, it will
sometimes"--the same momentary interruption occurred again--"it may
perhaps remind you of one who took a deep interest in you."
It was a beautiful little gold cross, with five brilliants in it.
"And oh, Ethel! let me look at you once again."
He led me--it was only a step or two--out of the shadow of the tree into
the bright moonlight, and, still holding my hand, looked at me intently
for a little time with a smile, to me, the saddest that ever mortal face
wore.
"And now, here she stands, my wayward, generous, clever Ethel! How proud
I was of my pupil! The heart knoweth its own bitterness," he said
gently. "And oh! in the day when our Redeemer makes up his jewels, may
you be precious among them! I have seen you; farewell!"
Suddenly he raised my hand, and kissed it gently, twice. Then he turned,
and walked rapidly down to the water's edge, and stepped into the boat.
The men dipped their oars, and the water rose like diamonds from the
touch. I saw his dark figure standing, with arm extended, for a moment,
in the stern, in his black cloak, pointing towards Golden Friars. The
boat was now three lengths away; twenty--fifty; out on the bosom of the
stirless water. The tears that I had restrained burst forth, and sobbing
as if my heart would break I ran down to the margin of the lake, and
stood upon the broad, flat stone, and waved my hand wildly and unseen
towards my friend, whom I knew I was never to see again.
I stood there watching, till the shape of the boat and the sound of the
oars were quite lost in the grey distance.