“So he will not do anything for me?”
“Nothing, my poor boy!”
“And you asked him--pressed him very much?”
“Don’t speak of it! I actually stooped to implore him; I did my duty by
you thoroughly; I kept down my rebellious heart, though it throbbed
as if it would burst. I told him of your youth, your penitence, and I
entreated him to befriend you.”
“And he still refused?”
“He said money was ‘tight’ in the city, and that he had none to waste on
an ungrateful boy who did not know its value.”
“I am not likely to learn it practically now, unless by trying how I
can live without it. I have just five shillings left; though as I am in
debt, I cannot honestly call those my own,” was the bitter reply. There
was a pause; then suddenly raising his head, Frederick asked abruptly,
“Kate, have you got any money?”
“Never was anything so unfortunate!” was Kate’s answer; “I have been
at a good deal of expense lately in assisting a distressed family; and
yesterday, just before you came, I received a letter from mamma, telling
me she was pressed for money in consequence of poor papa’s illness, and,
excepting five pounds, I sent her every farthing I had.”
As she thus destroyed his last hope, her brother sprang to his feet,
and began to pace the room with hurried strides. At length he exclaimed,
“I’ll not stay here to beg or starve--I’ll enlist in a cavalry regiment;
I’m quite six feet now, and ride under nine stone; I should not wonder
if they’d take me in the Lifeguards or the Blues.”
Kate’s only reply was by a mournful and dissentient shake of the head,
and Frederick continued--
“What! you don’t think it gentlemanly to enlist as a private? Well, it
_would_ be a bore, having to associate with the Common men--not that
I’ve any false pride about me, but a gentleman can’t help being a
gentleman, and I own I should feel out of my element. I have it--I’ll
work my way out as a sailor to Australia, and go to the gold-fields--eh?
Gold is what I want you know. I’ll dig up enough to pay my debts, and
keep a decent coat on my back for a year or two, and then I’ll come
home, and be a credit to you yet--why won’t that do?”
“Think of our poor mother, Fred; it would break her heart! She is so
wrapped up in you--has always loved you the best of all her children;
think of all she has upon her now--you would not add to her distress! Oh
no, you must give up all such wild thoughts, it would be too cruel!”
As she spoke the boy paused in his impetuous walk, and murmuring, “I
shall break her heart any way, miserable wretch that I am!” he flung
himself on the sofa, and gave vent to an outburst of mingled shame and
contrition.
Kate’s unhappiness at witnessing his grief--which she could soothe,
indeed, but of which she was powerless to remove the cause--may readily
be imagined. Having after a time succeeded in subduing his extreme
sorrow, of which unavailing self-reproach formed the sharpest sting,
Kate gave him three out of her five pounds, to provide for his immediate
necessities, and dismissed him, promising to take advantage of any
symptoms of relenting which Mr. Crane might evince, again to press her
suit; and the poor boy departed, in some degree re-assured by hopes
of which, even as she expatiated upon them, she perceived the probable
fallacy.
As soon as he had quitted her, she sat down and fell into a train of
gloomy and bitter reflections. This wealth that surrounded her, of what
use was it in her trouble? None! She could not convert it into money to
save her brother; and its possession had hardened the heart of him to
whom she should naturally turn for assistance--her husband! And as she
pronounced the name, an involuntary shudder came over her. She had sold
herself to a man she despised, for the good of her family; sold herself
to save them from the curse of poverty; and now, at her utmost need, her
self-sacrifice proved unavailing--the money she required was denied
her--her earnest pleadings were disregarded,--the evil she dreaded had come
upon her in its bitterest form, and she was powerless to avert it. Was
it for this, then, that she had stifled the voice of affection in her
heart--was it for this she had thrown aside the priceless love of Arthur
Hazlehurst, and embittered his life and her own by so doing? And now the
harrowing doubt which, from the first hour in which she had conceived
the project of marrying Mr. Crane, to this moment in which the
conviction of its fruitlessness was forced upon her, had never ceased to
haunt her, recurred with redoubled vigour. In so acting, had she indeed
deceived herself?--had she, instead of performing an act of generous
self-sacrifice, committed a sin against her better nature, for which she
had no justification, and of which she was now paying the bitter
penalty? As she thought it over, the conviction forced itself upon
her, more and more strongly, that she had rebelled against the decrees
of Providence, and sought to free herself and her family from the cross
He had seen fit to lay upon them, by unlawful means; that, blinded by
the proud and haughty spirit which precedes a fall, she had done evil
that good might come: she had sown the wind--what wonder that she should
reap the whirlwind! It was a cruel discovery to make now, when it was
too late to remedy the evil; but, fortunately, Kate had a strong brave
spirit for good, as well as for evil; and though this new aspect in
which she regarded her past conduct occasioned her the deepest remorse,
though it displayed her faults of pride and overweening self-confidence
in their worst and most repulsive aspect, yet she did not shrink from
the scrutiny, but honestly sat in judgment on herself; and where,
weighing herself in the balance, she was found wanting, she recognised
the deficiency, and unhesitatingly acknowledged her transgression. Yes!
she saw it clearly, now it was too late--in the deep, earnest, tender
affection of Arthur Hazlehurst, Heaven had bestowed upon her an
inestimable blessing, which she had no right to cast from her. By so
doing she had inflicted the bitterest wound man can receive, on him who
thus had given her his all of love--a wound which time indeed may heal
superficially, but which continues to throb and bleed internally while
life remains;--that death-blow to hope which the heart receives, when
the conviction is forced upon it that the idol enshrined in its inmost
recesses is unworthy of such holy sanctuary.
Well, she had chosen her lot, and must abide by it; repining was worse
than useless; all chance of happiness she had forfeited by her own act;
but there still remained to her the possibility of resignation, which,
persevered in, might produce contentment. Could she gain that, and the
self-approval of her own conscience, life might become endurable after
all. But, to obtain this, one path alone was open to her--the rigid path
of duty. She had done Mr. Crane sufficient wrong in marrying him without
affection, and for the sake of expediency: if she could not love and
honour him--as at God’s holy altar she had falsely sworn to do--she
could at least obey him, and strive to render his life as easy and
comfortable as in her lay: she would alter her cold manner towards him;
she would refrain from the covert sarcasm which lurked under every
word she had hitherto addressed to him, and which so thinly veiled the
contempt she felt for him, that occasionally even his dull perception
penetrated it. Oh, how as the clearer light in which she now regarded
her past behaviour fell upon each separate fault and error, did she
abhor herself! with what bitter tears of unavailing contrition did
she bewail the thoughts, words, and actions, which could never be
recalled!--unavailing contrition! yes, unavailing as regards the
irrevocable past, but the past only, for there was One who witnessed her
true penitence, who has declared, in His gracious mercy, that “a broken
and contrite heart He will not despise.”
How long she thus sat, reviewing and grieving over her past errors, and
forming good resolutions for the future, and imploring strength from
above to enable her to carry them into effect, Kate Crane knew not; but
she was startled from her reverie by a knock at the house-door; and ere
she had time to banish the traces of her late emotion, a light footstep
bounded up the stairs, and Horace D’Almayne entered. Assuming as
composed a manner as she was able, she began--
“You are an early visitor to-day, Mr. D’Almayne; so early, indeed, that
Mr. Crane has not yet returned from the city.”
“I am aware of that fact already, my dear Mrs. Crane, having parted
from my good friend scarcely an hour since, when I left him engaged at
Lloyd’s, going into the details of his losses on the unfortunate
East Indiaman. I was on my way to visit a friend in Belgravia, when a
circumstance occurred which induced me to alter my destination, and take
the chance of finding you disengaged; in which case I ventured to hope
you would allow me a few minutes’ conversation.”
Rather surprised at his mysterious manner, though by no means so much so
as if she had been unacquainted with his habit of making a mountain of
any molehill he might happen to stumble upon, Kate motioned to him to be
seated, resumed her own chair, and wondered what was to come next.
Probably reading as much in her expression, D’Almayne began--
“You will at once understand why I have thus presumed upon my privilege
as an old friend, when I tell you that I have just met, and had a long,
and I hope not entirely profitless, conversation with your brother.”
“With Fred!” exclaimed Kate, colouring with mingled surprise and
annoyance, for D’Almayne was about the last person to whom she desired
to confide her family troubles.
D’Almayne read her thoughts.
“Your brother,” he said, in a tone expressive of wounded feeling, “your
brother, entertaining no unkind suspicions of my friendly interest,
unhesitatingly confided to me the dilemma in which his inexperience has
placed him, and which his want of knowledge of the world has magnified
into something much more alarming than it really is. So I obtained his
permission to speak to you on the subject, promising, if he would allow
me to do so, that between us we should very soon devise means to relieve
him from his difficulties.”
“I’m afraid then you have only prepared a fresh disappointment for
the poor boy,” returned Kate. “Did he not tell you that he had already
applied to me, and that I was so unfortunate as to be unable to render
him any effectual assistance?”
“Surely a word from you to Mr. Crane would remove all difficulty?
Believe me, you are the only person who could for a moment doubt the
effect of such an appeal;” and, as he spoke, D’Almayne fixed his dark,
piercing eyes upon her, as though he would read her very soul.
For a moment Kate looked down in confusion and annoyance; then her
spirit rose, and calmly returning his glance, she replied--
“My brother, no doubt, wished to spare me pain, by concealing from you
that I have already applied to Mr. Crane; but that, irritated against
poor Fred, and vexed by the loss of this ship, my husband refused my
request.”
Smarting under Mr. Crane’s unkindness, anxious and unhappy about her
brother, provoked at Fred’s imprudence in admitting Horace D’Almayne to
his confidence, yet clinging to the hope that her companion’s tact and
knowledge of life might devise some means of extricating her brother
from his difficulties, Kate forgot her usual caution, and spoke eagerly
and hastily.
D’Almayne glanced at her as, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, she
owned her vain appeal to her husband’s liberality--never had he seen her
look so lovely; he had always admitted her statuesque grace, but now the
statue had become animated, and her beauty appeared to his fascinated
vision enthralling, entrancing; while the absence of the reserve she
usually maintained towards him misled him and threw him off his guard.
Thus, utterly sceptical as to the existence of female virtue, urged by
the impulses of his warm southern blood, and deceived by his experiences
of foreign society, he conceived the moment for which he had so long
waited and schemed had arrived; gamester-like, he resolved to stake
all on the hazard of a die; and, turning towards her, while his voice
trembled with an emotion which for once was not feigned, he exclaimed
passionately--
“I have witnessed long and silently, though that silence has proceeded
from an effort of the strongest self-control, the mean-spirited and
selfish conduct of the cold-hearted, witless _imbécille_ to whom it is
your misfortune to be allied; I have seen also, with sentiments of the
warmest and most vivid admiration, the heroic endurance with which
you have borne his insults--the gentle tenderness with which you have
striven to conceal his faults--the noble generosity with which you have
impoverished yourself to atone for his selfish parsimony. I have seen
all this with feelings of the deepest indignation towards him--of the
warmest, the most devoted admiration towards you. I have perceived
the low, sordid spirit of the one--the beautiful angelic nature of
the other; and I have afflicted myself with a vain remorse when the
reflection that I was a weak, blind instrument in bringing about this
incongruous, this most abhorred union, forced itself upon me--night
after night have I lain sleepless, indulging in these sombre
reflections. At length a thought, an idea, an inspiration, as it were,
flashed across my brain, like lightning through the darkness that
overwhelmed me. The laws of man change, it said; they are weak, vain,
frivolous; a breath can make, a breath can alter them; but the laws of
Heaven are immutable--written on human hearts, whence death alone can
efface them. In the stillness of night a voice said, ‘Look within; read
your own heart; what do you find written there? Is it not that a
strange, sweet, yet mysterious sympathy attracts you towards her--links
you to her? Does not an intuition teach you her every thought and wish?
When she smiles, does not an ecstatic joy pervade your frame? When she
suffers, do you not suffer also?’ I recognised the truth, delightful yet
exquisitely painful; but I put it away from me. I said, ‘Our paths in
life diverge--the joy of such soul-communion is not for me--I am alone
in life!’ But I watched you; I saw your unhappiness increase; you
required a friend--again the voice addressed me; it said, ‘Be that
friend;’ and I came, and did the little I was able to aid you. I was of
use to you, and for the time I was happy. Once more, this day, when your
brother confided in me, the voice spoke, ‘Go, Horace,’ it exclaimed,
‘she requires you.’ It had not deceived me; I found you pale, dejected,
traces of tears on your silken lashes, sorrow marked in every line of
your speaking countenance--in every _pose_ of your graceful figure; and
with flashing eyes and burning cheeks you tell me of your wrongs. Again,
at this moment, the voice addresses me: ‘It is in vain to strive.’ it
cries, ‘you cannot silence the utterances of the heart; they may be
repressed for a time, but they will make themselves heard. Listen to
their dictates now. She who is part of your soul is unhappy: she seeks
affection, and is repelled with insensate coldness; she requires a mind
capable of appreciating and reciprocating her own, and is met by feeble
incapacity; she asks for common justice--common courtesy, and encounters
sordid illiberality, fretful churlishness. Oppressed by her dismal fate,
she sits alone and weeps. And shall this continue?--no! break through
the trammels of dull conventionality, and let heart speak to heart; tell
her of your ardent sympathy--of your tender devotion; ask her to permit
your boundless love to compensate for the effete indifference of her
despicable partner.’”
Up to this point Kate had been so entirely taken by surprise, and so
carried away by the vehemence of D’Almayne’s address, that she could
scarcely collect her ideas sufficiently either to comprehend his meaning
or to attempt to check him; when, however, encouraged by her silence, he
exchanged his German sentimentalism for the plain speaking contained in
his last sentence, Kate’s indignation could no longer be restrained, and
she cut him short by exclaiming--
“Do not further degrade yourself or insult me, Mr. D’Almayne, by
continuing to address to me language which I should have thought you had
known me sufficiently to feel sure could excite in me no other feelings
than those of contempt and disgust. Leave me, sir! I am disappointed in
you; I believed you were too much of a gentleman to have presumed upon
Mr. Crane’s mistaken confidence in you, and dared thus to insult me!
I shall now, however, feel it my duty to enlighten him as to the true
character of the man he has so injudiciously trusted.”
As Kate thus reproached him, a look of fiend-like malignity, compounded
of disappointed passion, baffled rage, and an eager thirsting for
revenge, passed across D’Almayne’s usually unmoved countenance; it came
and went in an instant, but not so quickly as to escape Kate’s keen
glance; and, from that time forth, she know that he was a man to be
feared, as well as to be disliked.