MAKING PEACE.
Whether Richard's own injuries proved fatal or not was with him a matter
of secondary importance. His anxiety was to prove that they were
received by misadventure; upon the whole, matters promised favorably for
this, and were in other respects as satisfactory as could reasonably be
expected. The blood of Solomon Coe was upon his own head. Richard had no
need even to reproach himself with having struck in self-defense the
blow that killed his enemy; and he did not reflect that he was still to
blame for having, in the first instance, placed him in the mine. He had
at least done his best to extricate him, and his conscience was (perhaps
naturally) not very tender respecting the man who had repaid his attempt
at atonement with such implacable animosity. At all events, Richard's
mind was too much engaged in calculating the consequences of what had
happened to entertain remorse. The question that now monopolized it was,
what conclusion was likely to be arrived at by the coroner's inquest
that would, of course, be held upon the body. The verdict was of the
most paramount importance to him, not because upon it depended his own
safety (for he valued his life but lightly, and, besides, his inward
pain convinced him that it was already forfeited), but all that now made
life worth having--the good regards of Harry and her son. He had no
longer any scruple on his own part with respect to accepting or
returning their affection. His fear was, lest, having been compelled to
take so active a part in the rescue of the unhappy Solomon, something
should arise to implicate him in his incarceration.
Fortunately he was far too ill to be summoned as a witness. His
deposition alone could be taken, and that he framed with the utmost
caution, and as briefly as was possible. His wounded lung defended him
from protracted inquiries. Solomon himself had proposed the idea of a
partnership in Wheal Danes, and his interest in the mine, the knowledge
of which had suggested to Richard the place of his concealment, had
evidently proved fatal to him. That he should have broken his neck just
as Richard had broken his ribs on such a quest was by no means
extraordinary; but how he ever reached the spot where he was found at
all, without the aid of a ladder, was inexplicable. The line of evidence
was smooth enough but for this ugly knot, and it troubled Richard much,
though, as it happened, unnecessarily. Had the place of the calamity
been a gravel-pit at Highgate, it would have been guarded by
constabulary, and all things preserved as they were until after the
official investigation. But Wheal Danes, from having been a deserted
mine, had suddenly become the haunt of the curious and the morbid. There
was nothing more likely than that Solomon's ladder had been carried off,
and perhaps disposed of at a high price per foot as an interesting
relic. The presence of the half-extinguished torch that Richard had
flung away in the second level (and which should by rights have been
found in the third) was still more easily explained: there were a score
of such things now lying about the mine, which had been left there by
visitors. In short, an "active" coroner and an "intelligent" jury could
have come to no other conclusion than that of "accidental death;" and
they came to it accordingly.
Other comforters had arrived to the wounded man, before the receipt of
that good news, in the persons of Harry and her son and Agnes. There was
a reason why all three should be now warmly attracted toward him, which,
while it effectually worked his will in that way, gave him many a
twinge. They looked upon him, as did the rest of the world, as the man
who had lost his life (for his wound was by this time pronounced to be
fatal) to save his friend. He told them that it was not so, and they did
not believe him. He had not the heart to tell them how matters really
stood; but their praise pained him more than the agony of his wound, and
he peremptorily forbade the subject to be alluded to. This command was
not difficult to obey. Solomon's death, although the awful character of
it shocked them much, was, in reality, regretted neither by wife nor
son: such must be the case with every husband and father who has been a
domestic tyrant, no matter how dutifully wife and son may strive to
mourn: his loss was a release, and his memory a burden that they very
willingly put aside; and, in particular, his name was never mentioned
before Agnes without strong necessity.
Mrs. Coe, always at her best and wisest in matters wherein her son was
concerned, had never told this girl of the part which Robert Balfour had
taken against her. It would have wounded her self-love to have learned
that the influence of a comparative stranger had been used, and with
some effect, to estrange her Charley. She would scarcely have made
sufficient allowance for a man of the world's insidious arts,
notwithstanding the circumstances that had so favored them. Thus Harry
had justly reasoned, and kept silence concerning him. Agnes had
therefore set down the gradual cessation of her lover's visits to Soho,
and his growing coldness, solely to the hostility of Solomon. They had
pained her deeply, though she had been too proud to evince aught but
indignation; still she strove to persuade herself it was but natural
that this lad, entirely dependent upon his father for the means of
livelihood, and daily exposed to his menaces or arguments, should
endeavor to steel himself against her; that he really loved her less she
did not in her own faithful heart believe. It was, however, with no
thought of regaining his affection that she had obeyed the widow's hasty
summons on the news of the catastrophe at Wheal Danes, but solely from
sympathy and affection. She had always loved and pitied her, for Harry
had shown her kindness and great good-will; and, notwithstanding the
girl's high spirit, she did not now forget, as many would have done, all
other debts in that obligation so easy of discharge, namely, "what she
owed to herself."
Her presence, notwithstanding the sad occasion of it, at once reawakened
Charley's slumbering passion, and the coldness with which she received
its advances only made it burn more brightly, like fire in frost. He
felt that he had not even deserved the friendship she now offered him in
place of her former love, and was patient and submissive under his just
punishment. He hoped in time to re-establish himself in her affections;
but at present, somewhat to Mrs. Coe's indignation, she had showed no
sign of yielding. He did in reality occupy the same position in her
heart as of old; but now that he was rich, and his own master (for his
mother was his slave), she was not inclined to confess it. Had he been
poor and dependent, she would have forgiven him readily enough; nor are
such natures unparalleled in her sex, notwithstanding the pictures which
are nowadays presented to us as types of girlhood.
Such, then, was the mutual relation in which these two young people
stood, who ministered by turns (for Harry was always with him) to the
wants of the dying Balfour. The feelings with which he was regarded by
all three were in curious contrast with their former ones. What those of
Harry were now toward him we can easily guess; her hate and fear had
vanished to make room for love--not the love of old times, indeed, but a
deeper and a purer passion; it could never bear fruit, she knew--it was
but a prolonged farewell. To-morrow, or the next day, Death would
interpose between them; but in the mean time they were together, and she
clung to him.
Charley, on the other hand, with whom Balfour had once been such a
favorite, felt, though attentive to his needs, by no means cordially
toward him. Gratitude for the fancied service he had done to his late
father compelled him to give Richard his company; but it was not
accorded willingly, as heretofore. He could not but set down to the
account of his companionship the present frigidity of Agnes, and at
first he had even seen him a material obstacle to his hopes. This
audacious man of the world, who had at one time so excited his
admiration, had suddenly become in his eyes an impudent _roué_, who even
on his sick-bed was only too likely to make their past adventures
together the subject of his talk. True, his mother had told him that Mr.
Balfour was now an altered man; but the young gentleman had entertained
some reasonable doubts of this conversion. His manner to the sick man
was so reserved and cool, indeed, that it seemed to all but Richard (who
guessed the cause of it, and yet felt its effect more bitterly than all)
unkind. This behavior on the part of his former ally did not injure
Balfour in the regards of Agnes; she resented Charley's conduct, and did
her best to redress it by manifesting her own good-will; she had herself
had experience of his shifting moods and causeless changes of demeanor,
and perhaps she was willing to show what small importance she attached
to his capricious humors. Thus it happened that Richard and herself "got
on" together much better (as well, of course, as much more speedily)
than the former could have hoped for; for indeed he had, with reason,
expected to find a bitter enemy in Agnes. He improved this advantage to
the utmost by taking occasion, in Charley's absence, to praise the lad,
under whose displeasure he manifestly lay. She answered that he had not,
at least from Mr. Balfour's lips, deserved such praise.
"Nay, nay," said Richard, gently; "it is I who have not deserved the
lad's good-will; and you, my dear young lady, ought to be the last to
pity me, as I see you do."
"How so?" asked she, in surprise.
"Because," answered he, gravely, "I once strove to keep him from you."
She looked annoyed, and cast a hurried glance toward the place where
Mrs. Coe had been sitting; but there was now only an empty chair there.
The widow had purposely withdrawn herself, in accordance with Richard's
wish. Agnes could scarcely leave the sick man without attendance.
"When I say, 'keep him from you,'" continued Richard, "I mean that,
being lonely and friendless (as you see I am but for you three), the
society of this bright boy was very dear to me, and I selfishly strove
to secure it when he would fain have been elsewhere. I needed, as you
may well imagine, authority to back me in such efforts, but, unhappily
for him, I possessed its aid. He now resents, and very naturally, the
restraint which my companionship once imposed upon him, and sets down to
my account the estrangement which he so bitterly rues. An old man's
friendship is of no great worth at any time; but weighed in the balance
against a woman's love--"
"Sir!" interrupted Agnes, with indignation.
"Pardon me," continued Richard, gently; "I see you do not love him. I am
deeply grieved, for the sake of this poor lad, who is as devoted to you
as ever, to find it so, and to feel that it was in part my fault. I will
ask him to forgive me if he can."
"Nay, Mr. Balfour, I beseech you, don't do that," cried Agnes, with
crimson cheeks.
"As you please," murmured he, gravely. "But, remember, a few days hence,
or perhaps a few hours, and I may be beyond his forgiveness. It will
then rest with you, young lady, to clear my memory. You are not angry
with me--you can not be vexed with a dying man."
"No, no." She was sobbing violently; her heart was touched, not only by
his own condition, as she would have had him believe, but by these
confidences respecting Charley. There is nothing more dear to a young
girl than the testimony of another man to her lover's fealty; the
witness himself is even guerdoned with some payment of the rich store he
bears; and from that moment Balfour was not only forgiven by Agnes, but
even beloved by her.