THE DAWN.
"The clock of Kylmington church, which was as much behind any other
public timekeeper I had ever encountered as the town of Kylmington was
behind any other town I had ever explored, struck eight as I opened the
little wooden gate of the churchyard, and went into the shade of an
avenue of stunted sycamores, which was supposed to be the chief glory
of Kylmington.
"It was twenty minutes past eight by London time, and the summer sun
had gone down, leaving all the low western sky bathed in vivid yellow
light, which deepened into crimson as I watched it.
"I had been more than an hour and a half in Kylmington. I had taken
some slight refreshment at the principal hotel—a queer, old-fashioned
place, with a ruinous, weedy appearance pervading it, and the impress
of incurable melancholy stamped on the face of every scrap of rickety
furniture and lopsided window-blind. I had taken some slight
refreshment—to this hour I don't know _what_ it was I ate upon that
balmy summer evening, so entirely was my mind absorbed by that bright
hope, which was growing brighter and brighter every moment. I had been
to the stationer's shop, which still bore above its window the faded
letters of the name 'Jakins,' though the last of the Jakinses had long
left Kylmington. I had been to this shop, and from a good-natured but
pensive matron I had heard tidings that made my bright hope a still
brighter certainty.
"I began business by asking if there was any lady in Kylmington who
gave lessons in music and singing.
"'Yes,' Mr. Jakins's successor told me, 'there were two
music-mistresses in the town—one was Madame Carinda, who taught at
Grove House, the fashionable ladies' school; the other was Miss Wilson,
whose terms were lower than Madame Carinda's—though Madame wasn't a bit
a foreigner except by name—and who was much respected in the town.
Likewise her papa, which had been quite the gentleman, attending church
twice every Sunday as regular as the day came round, and being quite a
picture of respectability, with his venerable pious-looking grey hair.'
"I gave a little start as I heard this.
"'Miss Wilson lived with her papa, did she?' I asked.
"'Yes,' the woman told me; 'Miss Wilson had lived with her papa till
the poor old gentleman's death.'
"'Oh, he was dead, then?'
"'Yes, Mr. Wilson had died in the previous December, of a kind of
decline, fading away like, almost unbeknown; and being, oh, so
faithfully nursed and cared for by that blessed daughter of his. And
people did say that he had once been very wealthy, and had lost his
money in some speculation; and the loss of it had preyed upon his mind,
and he had fallen into a settled melancholy like, and was never seen to
smile.'
"The woman opened a drawer as she talked to me, and, after turning over
some papers, took out a card—a card with embossed edges, fly-spotted,
and dusty, and with a little faded blue ribbon attached to it—a card on
which there was written, in the hand I knew so well, an announcement
that Miss Wilson, of the Hermitage, would give instruction in music and
singing for a guinea a quarter.
"I had been about to ask for a description of the young music-mistress,
but I had no need to do so now.
"'Miss Wilson _is_ the young lady I wish to see,' I said. 'Will you
direct me to the Hermitage? I will call there early to-morrow morning.'
"The proprietress of Jakins's, who was, I dare say, something of a
matchmaker, after the manner of all good-natured matrons, smiled
significantly.
"'I know where you could see Miss Wilson, nearer than the Hermitage,'
she said, 'and sooner than to-morrow morning. She works very hard all
day,—poor, dear, delicate-looking young thing; but every evening when
it's tolerably fine, she goes to the churchyard. It's the only walk
I've ever seen her take since her father's death. She goes past my
window regular every night, just about when I'm shutting up, and from
my door I can see her open the gate and go into the churchyard. It's a
doleful walk to take alone at that time of the evening, to be sure,
though some folks think it's the pleasantest walk in all Kylmington.'
"It was in consequence of this conversation that I found myself under
the shadow of the trees while the Kylmington clock was striking eight.
"The churchyard was a square flat, surrounded on all sides by a low
stone wall, beyond which the fields sloped down to the mouth of a river
that widened into the sea at a little distance from Kylmington, but
which hereabouts had a very dingy melancholy look when the tide was
out, as it was to-night.
"There was no living creature except myself in the churchyard as I came
out of the shadow of the trees on to the flat, where the grass grew
long among the unpretending headstones.
"I looked at all the newest stones till I came at last to one standing
in the obscurest corner of the churchyard, almost hidden by the low
wall.
"There was a very brief inscription on this modest headstone; but it
was enough to tell me whose ashes lay buried under the spot on which I
stood.
_"To the Memory of J. W. Who died December 19, 1853. 'Lord have mercy
upon me, a sinner!'_
"I was still looking at this brief memorial, when I heard a woman's
dress rustling upon the long rank grass, and turning suddenly, saw my
darling coming towards me, very pale, very pensive, but with a kind of
seraphic resignation upon her face which made her seem to me more
beautiful than I had ever seen her before.
"She started at seeing me, but did not faint. She only grew paler than
she had been before, and pressed her two hands on her breast, as if to
still the sudden tumult of her heart.
"I made her take my arm and lean upon it, and we walked up and down the
narrow path talking until the last low line of light faded out of the
dusky sky.
"All that I could say to her was scarcely enough to shake her
resolution—to uproot her conviction that her father's guilt was an
insurmountable barrier between us. But when I told her of my broken
life—when, in the earnestness of my pleading, she perceived the proof
of a constancy that no time could shake, I could see that she wavered.
"'I only want you to be happy, Clement,' she said. 'My former life has
been such an unhappy one, that I tremble at the thought of linking it
to yours. The shame, Clement—think of _that_. How will you answer
people when they ask you the name of your wife?'
"'I will tell them that she has no name, but that which she has
honoured by accepting from me. I will tell them that she is the noblest
and dearest of women, and that her history is a story of unparalleled
virtue and devotion!'
"I sent a telegraphic message to my mother early the next morning; and
in the afternoon the dear soul arrived at Kylmington to embrace her
future daughter. We sat late in the little parlour of the Hermitage; a
dreary cottage, looking out on the flat shore, half sand, half mud, and
the low water lying in greenish pools. Margaret told us of her father's
penitence.
"'No repentance was ever more sincere, Clement,' she said, for she
seemed afraid we should doubt the possibility of penitence in such a
criminal as Joseph Wilmot. 'My poor father—my poor wronged, unhappy
father!—yes, wronged, Clement, you must not forget that; you must never
forget that in the first instance he was wronged, and deeply wronged,
by the man who was murdered. When first we came here, his mind brooded
upon that, and he seemed to look upon what he had done as an ignorant
savage would look upon the vengeance which his heathenish creed had
taught him to consider a justifiable act of retaliation. Little by
little I won my poor father away from such thoughts as these: till
by-and-by he grew to think of Henry Dunbar as he was when they were
young men together, linked by a kind of friendship, before the forging
of the bills, and all the trouble that followed. He thought of his old
master as he knew him first, and his heart was softened towards the
dead man's memory; and from that time his penitence began. He was sorry
for what he had done. No words can describe that sorrow, Clement: and
may you never have to watch, as I have watched, the anguish of a guilty
soul! Heaven is very merciful. If my father had failed to escape, and
had been hung, he would have died hardened and impenitent. God had
compassion on him, and gave him time to repent.'"
_(The end of the story.)_
THE EPILOGUE:
ADDED BY CLEMENT AUSTIN SEVEN YEARS AFTERWARDS.
"My wife and I hear sometimes, through my old friend Arthur Lovell, of
the new master and mistress of Maudesley Abbey, Sir Philip and Lady
Jocelyn, who oscillate between the Rock and the Abbey when they are in
Warwickshire. Lady Jocelyn is a beautiful woman, frank, generous,
noble-hearted, beloved by every creature within twenty miles' radius of
her home, and idolized by her husband. The sad history of her father's
death has been softened by the hand of Time; and she is happy with her
children and her husband in the grand old home that was so long
overshadowed by the sinister presence of the false Henry Dunbar.
"We are very happy. No prying eye would ever read in Margaret's bright
face the sad story of her early life. A new existence has begun for her
as wife and mother. She has little time to think of that miserable
past; but I think that, sound Protestant though she may be in every
other article of faith, amidst all her prayers those are not the least
fervent which she offers up for the guilty soul of her wretched father.
"We are very happy. The secret of my wife's history is hidden in our
own breasts—a dark chapter in the criminal romance of life, never to be
revealed upon earth. The Winchester murder is forgotten amongst the
many other guilty mysteries which are never entirely solved. If Joseph
Wilmot's name is ever mentioned, people suggest that he went to
America; indeed, there are people who go farther, and say they have
seen him in America.
"My mother keeps house for us; and in very nearly seven years'
experience we have never found any disunion to arise from this
arrangement. The pretty Clapham villa is gay with the sound of
children's voices, and the shrill carol of singing birds, and the
joyous barking of Skye terriers. We have added a nursery wing already
to one side of the house, and have balanced it on the other by a
vinery, built after the model of those which adorn the mansion of my
senior. The Misses Balderby have taken what they call a 'great fancy'
to my wife, and they swarm over our drawing-room carpets in blue or
pink flounces very often, on what they call 'social evenings for a
little music.' I find that a little music is only a synonym with the
Misses Balderby for a great deal of noise.
"I love my wife's playing best, though they are kind enough to perform
twenty-page compositions by Bach and Mendelssohn for my amusement: and
I am never happier than on those dusky summer evenings when we sit
alone together in the shadowy drawing-room, and talk to each other,
while Margaret's skilful fingers glide softly over the keys in
wandering snatches of melody that melt and die away like the low breath
of the summer wind."