"THE END CROWNS ALL, AND THAT IS YET TO COME."
And what of Angela Vivian, the elder? Angela, whose heart was said to be
buried in a grave?
After Hugo Luttrell's death, she remained for some time at Netherglen,
sitting a great deal in Mrs. Luttrell's room and trying to resume the
daughter-like ways which had grown so natural to her. But she was driven
slowly to perceive that she was by no means necessary to Mrs. Luttrell's
happiness. Mrs. Luttrell loved her still, but her heart had gone out
vehemently to Brian and Elizabeth; and when either of them was within
call she wanted nothing else. Brian and Elizabeth would gladly have kept
Angela with them for evermore, but it seemed to her that her duty lay
now rather with her brother than with those who were, after all, of no
kith or kin to her. She returned, therefore, to Rupert's house in
Kensington, and lived there until his marriage took place.
She was sorry for one thing--that the friendship between herself and
Percival Heron seemed to be broken. The words which she had spoken to
him before Hugo's death had evidently made a very strong impression upon
Percival's mind. He looked guilty and uncomfortable when he spoke to
her; his manner became unusually abrupt, and at last she noticed that,
if she happened to come into a room which he occupied, he immediately
made an excuse for leaving it. She had very few opportunities of seeing
him at all; but every time she met him, his avoidance of her became so
marked that she was hurt and grieved by it. But she could not do
anything to mend matters; and so she waited and was silent.
She heard, on her return to Kensington, that he had been a great deal to
her brother's house, and had done much for Rupert's comfort. But as soon
as he knew that she intended to stay in London he began to discontinue
his visits. It was very evident that he had determined to see as little
of her as possible. And, by-and-bye, he never came at all. For full
three months before Kitty's engagement to Rupert Percival did not appear
at the pleasant house in Kensington.
Angela was sitting alone, however, one day when he was announced. He
came in, glanced round with a vexed and irritated air, and made some
sort of apology.
"I came to see Rupert. I thought that you were away," he said.
"And, therefore, you came?" she said, with a little smile. "It was very
good of you to come when you thought he would be lonely."
"I did not mean that exactly."
"No? I wish you would come to see him a little oftener, Mr. Heron; he
misses your visits very much."
"He won't miss them long, he will soon get used to doing without me."
"But why should he?"
"Because I am going away."
"Where are you going?" said Angela, turning to look at him.
"To California," he answered grimly.
She paused for a moment, and then said in a tranquil tone, "Oh, no."
"No? Why not?" said Percival, smiling a little in spite of himself.
"I think that if you go you will be back again in six months."
"Ah? You think I have no constancy in me; no resolution; no manliness."
"Indeed, I think nothing so dreadful. But California is not the place
where I can imagine a man of your tastes being happy. Were you so very
happy on the Rocas Reef?"
"That has nothing to do with it. I should have been happy if I had had
enough to do. I want some active work."
"Can you not find that in England?"
"I daresay I might. I hate England. I have nothing to keep me in
England."
"But what has happened?" asked Angela. "You did not talk in this way
when you came from the Rocas Reef."
"Because I did not know what a fool I could make of myself."
She glanced at him with a faint, sweet smile. "You alarm me, Mr. Heron,"
she said, very tranquilly. "What have you been doing?"
Percival started up from the low seat in which he had placed himself,
walked to the window, and then came back to her side and looked at her.
He was standing in one of his most defiant attitudes, with his hands
thrust into his pockets, and a deep dent on his brow.
"I will tell you what I have been doing," he said, in a curiously dogged
tone. "I'll give you my history for the last year or two. It isn't a
creditable one. Will you listen to it or not?"
"I will listen to it," said Angela.
She looked at him with serene, meditative eyes, which calmed him almost
against his will as he proceeded.
"I'll tell you, then," he said. "I nearly wrecked three lives through my
own selfish obstinacy. I almost broke a woman's heart and sacrificed my
honour----"
"Almost? Nearly?" said Angela, gently. "That is possible, but you saw
your mistake in time. You drew back; you did not do these things."
"I'll tell you what I did do!" he exclaimed. "I whined to you, until I
loathe myself, about a woman who never cared a straw for me. Do you call
that manly?"
"I call it very natural," said Angela.
"And after all----"
"Yes, after all?" He hesitated so long that she looked up into his face
and gently repeated the words "After all?"
"After all," he went on at last, with a sort of groan, "I love--someone
else."
They were both silent. He threw himself into a chair, and looked at her
expectantly.
"Don't you despise me?" he said, presently.
"Why should I, Mr. Heron?"
"Why? Because you are so constant, so changeless, that you cannot be
expected to sympathise with a man who loves a second time," cried
Percival, in an exasperated tone. "And yet this love is as sunlight to
candlelight, as wine to water! But you will never understand that, you,
with your heart given to one man--buried in a grave."
He stopped short; she had half-risen, and made a gesture as if she would
have bidden him be silent.
"There!" he said, vehemently. "I am doing it again. I am hurting you,
grieving you, as I did once before, when I forgot your great sorrow; and
you did right to reprove me then. I know you have hated me ever since. I
know you cannot forgive me for the pain I inflicted. It's, of course, of
no use to say I am sorry; that is an utterly futile thing to do; but as
far as any such feeble reparation is in my power, I am quite prepared to
offer it to you. Sorry? I have cursed myself and my own folly ever
since."
"You are making a mistake, Mr. Heron," said Angela. She felt as if she
could say nothing more.
"How am I making a mistake?" he asked.
"At the time you refer to," she said, in a hurried yet stumbling sort of
way, "when you said what you did, I thought it careless, inconsiderate
of you; but I have not remembered it in the way that you seem to think;
I have not been angry. I have not hated you. There is no need for you to
tell me that you are sorry."
"I think there is every need," he said. "Do you suppose that I am going
away into the Western wilds without even an apology?"
"It is needless," she murmured.
There was a pause, and then he leaned forward and said in a deeper
tone:--
"You would not say that it was needless if you felt now as you did just
then."
She looked at him helplessly, but did not speak.
"It is three years since he died. I don't ask you to forget him, only I
ask whether you could not love someone else--as well?"
"Oh, Mr. Heron, don't ask me," she said, tremblingly. And then she
covered her face with her hands; her cheeks were crimson.
"I will ask nothing," said Percival. "I will only tell you what my
feelings have been, and then I will go away. It's a selfish indulgence,
I know; but I beg of you to grant it. When I had spoken those
inconsiderate words of mine I was ashamed of myself. I saw how much I
had grieved you, and I vowed that I would never come into your presence
again. I went away, and I kept away. You have seen for yourself how I
have tried to avoid you, have you not?"
"Yes," she said, gently. "I have seen it."
"You know the reason now. I could not bear to see you and feel what you
must be thinking of me. And then--then--I found that it was misery to be
without you. I found that I missed you inexpressibly. I did not know
till then how dear you had grown to me."
She did not move, she did not speak, she only sat and listened, with her
eyes fixed upon her folded hands. But there was nothing forbidding in
her silence. He felt that he might go on.
"It comes to this with me," he said, "that I cannot bear to meet you as
I meet an ordinary friend or acquaintance. I would rather know that I
shall never see you again. Either you must be all to me--or nothing. I
know that it must be nothing, and so--I am going to California."
"Do not go," she said, without looking up. She spoke coldly, he thought,
but sweetly, too.
"I must," he answered. "I must--in spite of the joy that it is to me to
be even in your presence, and to hear your voice--I must go. I cannot
bear it. I love you too well. It is a greater pain than I can bear, to
look at you and to know that I can bring you no comfort, no solace; that
your heart is buried with Richard Luttrell in a grave."
"You are mistaken," she said again. Then, in a faltering voice, "you can
bring me comfort. I shall be sorry if you are away."
He caught his breath. "Do you mean it, Angela?" he cried, eagerly.
"Think what you are saying, do not tell me to stay unless--unless--you
can give me a little hope. Is it possible that you do not forbid me to
love you? Do you think that in time--in time--I might win your love?"
"Not in time," she murmured, "but now--now."
He could hardly believe his ears. He knelt down beside her, and took her
hands in his. "Now, Angela?" he said. "Can you love me now? Oh, my love,
my love! tell me the truth! Have you forgiven me?"
Her eyes were swimming in tears, but she gave him a glance of so much
tenderness and trust, that he never again doubted her entire
forgiveness. She might never forget Richard Luttrell, but her heart,
with all its wealth of love, was given to the man who knelt before her,
not buried in a grave.
* * * * *
Of course he did not go to California. The project was an utterly
unsuitable one, and nobody scouted it more disdainfully than did he as
soon as the mood of discontent was past. If a crowning touch were needed
to the happiness of Brian and Elizabeth, it was given by this marriage.
The sting of remorse which had troubled them at times when they looked
at Percival's gloomy face was quite withdrawn. Percival's face was
seldom gloomy now. Angela seemed to have found the secret of soothing
his irritable nerves, of calming his impatience. Her sweet serenity was
never ruffled by his violence; and for her sake he learned to subdue his
temper, and to smooth his tongue as well as his brow. She led the lion
in a leash of silk, and he was actually proud to be so led.
They took a house in the unfashionable precincts of Russell-square,
where Percival could be near his work. They were not rich, by any manner
of means; but they were able to live in a very comfortable fashion, and
soon found themselves surrounded by a circle of friends, who were quite
as much attracted by Angela's tranquil grace and tenderness as by
Percival's fitful brilliancy. Percival would never be very popular; but
it was soon admitted on every hand that his intellect had seldom been so
clear, his insight so great, nor his wit so free from bitterness, as in
the days that succeeded his marriage with Angela. There is every reason
to suppose that he will yet be a thoroughly prosperous and successful
man.
The one drop of bitterness in their cup is the absence of children. No
little feet have come to patter up and down the wide staircase of that
roomy house in Russell-square, no little voices re-echo along the
passages and in the lofty rooms. But Angela's heart is perhaps only the
more ready to bestow its tenderness upon the many who come to her for
help--the weak, the sickly, the sinful and the weary, for whom she
spends herself and is not spent in vain.
* * * * *
Little more than two years after Brian's marriage, Mrs. Luttrell died.
She died with her hand fast clasped in that of the man who had been
indeed a son to her, she died with his name upon her lips. And when she
was laid to rest beside her husband and her eldest son, Brian and
Elizabeth were free to carry out a project which had been for some time
very near their hearts. They went together to San Stefano.
It was then that Elizabeth first heard the whole story of her husband's
sojourn at the monastery. She had never known more than the bare facts
before; and she listened with a new comprehension of his character, as
he told her of the days of listless anguish spent after his illness at
San Stefano, and of the hopelessness from which her own words and looks
aroused him. He spoke much, also, of Dino and of Padre Cristoforo and
the kindly monks: and in the sunny stillness of an early Italian morning
they went to the churchyard to look for Dino's grave.
They would not have found it but for the help of a monk who chanced to
be in the neighbourhood. He led them courteously to the spot. It was
unmarked by any stone, but a wreath of flowers had been laid upon it
that morning, and the grassy mound showed signs of constant care. Brian
and Elizabeth stood silently beside it; they did not move until the monk
addressed them. And then Brian saw that Father Cristoforo was standing
at their side.
"He sleeps well," he said. "You need not mourn for him."
"Yes, he sleeps," answered Brian, a little bitterly. "But we have lost
him."
"Do I not know that as well as you? Do I not grieve for him?" said the
old man, with a deep sigh. "I have more reason to grieve than you. I
have never yet told you how he died. Come with me and I will let you
hear."
They followed him to the guest-room of the monastery, and there, whilst
they waited for him to speak, he threw back his cowl and fixed his eyes
on Elizabeth's fair face.
"It was for your sake," he said, "for your sake, in part, that Dino left
his duty to the Church undone. It was your face, signora, that came, as
he told me, between him and his prayers. I am glad that I have seen you
before I die."
He spoke mournfully, yet meditatively--more as if he was talking to
himself than to her. Elizabeth shrank back a little, and Brian uttered a
quick exclamation.
"Her face?" he said. "Father, what does this mean?"
The monk gave a start, and seemed to rouse himself from a dream.
"Pardon me," he said, gently; "I am growing an old man, and I have had
much to bear. I spoke without thought. Let me tell you the story of
Dino's death."
As far as he knew it, as far as he guessed it, he told the story. And
when Brian uttered some strong ejaculation of anger and grief at its
details, Father Cristoforo bowed his head upon his breast, folded his
hands, and sighed.
"I was wrong," he said. "You do well to rebuke me, my son; for I was
wrong."
"You were hard, you were cruel," said Brian, vehemently.
"Yes, I was hard; I was cruel. But I am punished. The light of my eyes
has been taken from me. I have lost the son that I loved."
"You will see him again," said Elizabeth, softly. "You will go to him
some day."
"The saints grant it. I fear that I may not be worthy. To him the high
places will be given; to me--to me----But he will pray for me."
Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears as she looked at him. The old man's
form was bent; his face was shrunken, his eyes were dim. As she rightly
guessed, it was the sorrow of Dino's death that had aged him in this
way.
Brian spoke next.
"Tell me," he said, "tell me for the last time, father, what you believe
to have been the truth of the story. Did Vincenza change the children,
or did she not?"
"My son," said the old monk, "a few months--nay, a few weeks ago, I said
to myself that I would never answer that question. But life is slipping
away from me; and I cannot leave the world with even the shadow of a lie
upon my lips. When I sent Dino to England, I believed that Vincenza had
done this thing. When Dino returned to us, I still believed that he was
Mrs. Luttrell's son. But since our Dino's death, I have had a message--a
solemn message--from the persons who saw Vincenza die. She had charged
them with her last breath to tell me that the story was false--that the
children were never changed at all. It was Mrs. Luttrell's delusion that
suggested the plan to her. She hoped that she might make money by
declaring that you were her son, and Dino, Mrs. Luttrell's. She swore on
her death-bed that Dino was her child, and that it was Lippo Vasari who
was buried in the churchyard of San Stefano."
"Which story are we to believe?" said Brian, almost doubtingly.
"The evidence is pretty evenly balanced," replied the Prior. "Believe
the one that suits you best."
Brian did not answer; he stood for a moment with his head bent and his
eyes fixed on the ground. "To think," he said at last, "of the misery
that we have suffered through--a lie!" Then he looked up, and met
Elizabeth's eyes. "You are right," he said, as if answering some
unspoken comment, "I have no reason to complain. I found Dino--and I
found you; a friend and a wife--I thank God for them both."
He took her hand in his, and his face was lit up with the look of love
that was henceforth, as hitherto, to make the happiness of his life and
hers.
And when they went forth from the monastery doors it seemed to them a
good omen that the last words echoing in their ears were those of the
old monk's farewell salutation:--
"Go in peace!"
THE END.
BOOKS TO READ.
CANADIAN COPYRIGHT SERIES.
15. Little Lord Fauntleroy. By Frances H. Burnett
16. The Frozen Pirate. By W. Clark Russell
17. Jo's Boys, and How They Turned Out. By Louisa M. Alcott
18. Saddle and Sabre. By Hawley Smart
19. A Prince of the Blood. By James Payn
20. An Algonquin Maiden. By G. Mercer Adam and A. Ethelwyn Wetherald
21. One Traveller Returns. By David Christie Murray and H. Hermann
22. Stained Pages; The Story of Anthony Grace. By G. Manville Fenn
23. Lieutenant Barnabas. By Frank Barrett
24. The Nun's Curse. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell
25. The Twin Soul. By Charles Mackay
26. One Maid's Mischief. By G. M. Fenn
27. A Modern Magician. By J. F. Molloy
28. A House of Tears. By E. Downey
29. Sara Crewe and Editha's Burglar. By Frances H. Burnett
30. The Abbey Murder. By Joseph Hatton
31. The Argonauts of North Liberty. By Bret Harte
32. Cradled in a Storm. By T. A. Sharp
33. A Woman's Face. By Florence Warden
34. Miracle Gold. By Richard Dowling
35. Molloy's Story. By Frank Merryfield
36. The Fortunes of Philippa Fairfax. By Frances H. Burnett
37. The Silent Shore, or The Mystery of St James' Park. By John
Bloundelle-Burton
38. Eve. By S. Baring Gould
39. Doctor Glennie's Daughter. By B. L. Farjeon
40. The Case of Doctor Plemen. By Rene de Pont-Jest
41. Bewitching Iza. By Alexis Bouvier
42. A Wily Widow. By Alexis Bouvier
43. Diana Barrington. By Mrs. John Croker
44. The Ironmaster, or Love and Pride. By Georges Ohnet
45. A Mere Child. By L. B. Walford
46. Black Blood. By Geo. M. Fenn
47. The Dream. By Emile Zola
48. A Strange Message. By Dora Russell
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
The original book does not have a Table of Contents. One was
added for the reader's convenience.