WARNED FOR THE LAST TIME!
My loyalty towards the afflicted man, whose friendly advances I had seen
good reason to return, was in no sense shaken. His undeserved
misfortunes, his manly appeal to me at the spring, his hopeless
attachment to the beautiful girl whose aversion towards him I had
unhappily encouraged, all pleaded with me in his favour. I had accepted
his invitation; and I had no other engagement to claim me: it would have
been an act of meanness amounting to a confession of fear, if I had sent
an excuse. Still, while Cristel's entreaties and Cristel's influence had
failed to shake me, Gloody's strange language and Gloody's
incomprehensible conduct had troubled my mind. I felt vaguely uneasy;
irritated by my own depression of spirits. If I had been a philosopher, I
should have recognized the symptoms of a very common attack of a very
widely-spread moral malady. The meanest of all human infirmities is also
the most universal; and the name of it is Self-esteem.
It is perhaps only right to add that my patience had been tried by the
progress of domestic events, which affected Lady Lena and myself--viewed
as victims.
Calling, with my stepmother, at Lord Uppercliff's house later in the day,
I perceived that Lady Rachel and Mrs. Roylake found (or made) an
opportunity of talking together confidentially in a corner; and, once or
twice, I caught them looking at Lady Lena and at me. Even Lord Uppercliff
(perhaps not yet taken into their confidence) noticed the proceedings of
the two ladies, and seemed to be at a loss to understand them.
When Mrs. Roylake and I were together again, on our way home, I was
prepared to hear the praise of Lady Lena, followed by a delicate
examination into the state of my heart. Neither of these anticipations
was realized. Once more, my clever stepmother had puzzled me.
Mrs. Roylake talked as fluently as ever; exhausting one common-place
subject after another, without the slightest allusion to my lord's
daughter, to my matrimonial prospects, or to my visits at the mill. I was
secretly annoyed, feeling that my stepmother's singular indifference to
domestic interests of paramount importance, at other times, must have
some object in view, entirely beyond the reach of my penetration. If I
had dared to commit such an act of rudeness, I should have jumped out of
the carriage, and have told Mrs. Roylake that I meant to walk home.
The day was Sunday. I loitered about the garden, listening to the distant
church-bell ringing for the afternoon service. Without any cause that I
knew of to account for it, I was so restless that nothing I could do
attracted me or quieted me.
Returning to the house, I tried to occupy myself with my collection of
insects, sadly neglected of late. Useless! My own moths failed to
interest me.
I went back to the garden. Passing the open window of one of the lower
rooms which looked out on the terrace, I saw Mrs. Roylake reading a book
in sad-colored binding. She was yawning over it fearfully, when she
discovered that I was looking at her. Equal to any emergency, this
remarkable woman instantly handed to me a second and similar volume. "The
most precious sermons, Gerard, that have been written in our time." I
looked at the book; I opened the book; I recovered my presence of mind,
and handed it back. If a female humbug was on one side of the window, a
male humbug was on the other. "Please keep it for me till the evening," I
said; "I am going for a walk."
Which way did I turn my steps?
Men will wonder what possessed me--women will think it a proceeding that
did me credit--I took the familiar road which led to the gloomy wood and
the guilty river. The longing in me to see Cristel again, was more than I
could resist. Not because I was in love with her; only because I had left
her in distress.
Beyond the spring, and within a short distance of the river, I saw a lady
advancing towards me on the path which led from the mill.
Brisk, smiling, tripping along like a young girl, behold the
mock-republican, known in our neighborhood as Lady Rachel! She held out
both hands to me. But for her petticoats, I should have thought I had met
with a jolly young man.
"I have been wandering in your glorious wood, Mr. Roylake. Anything to
escape the respectable classes on Sunday, patronizing piety on the way to
afternoon church. I must positively make a sketch of the cottage by the
mill--I mean, of course, the picturesque side of it. That fine girl of
Toller's was standing at the door. She is really handsomer than ever. Are
you going to see her, you wicked man? Which do you admire--that gypsy
complexion, or Lena's lovely skin? Both, I have no doubt, at your age.
Good-bye."
When we had left each other, I thought of the absent Captain in the Navy
who was Lady Rachel's husband. He was a perfect stranger--but I put
myself in his place, and felt that I too should have gone to sea.
Old Toller was alone in his kitchen, evidently annoyed and angry.
"We are all at sixes and sevens, Mr. Gerard. I've had another row with
that deaf-devil--my new name for him, and I think it's rather clever. He
swears, sir, that he won't go at the end of his week's notice. Says, if I
think I'm likely to get rid of him before he has married Cristy, I'm
mistaken. Threatens, if any man attempts to take her away, he'll shoot
her, and shoot the man, and shoot himself. Aha! old as I am, if he
believes he's going to have it all his own way, he's mistaken. I'll be
even with him. You mark my words: I'll be even with him."
That old Toller--the most exasperating of men, judged by a quick
temper--had irritated my friend into speaking rashly was plain enough.
Nevertheless, I felt some anxiety (jealous anxiety, I am afraid) about
Cristel. After looking round the kitchen again, I asked where she was.
"Sitting forlorn in her bedroom, crying," her father told me. "I went out
for a walk by the river, and I sat down, and (being Sunday) I fell
asleep. When I woke, and got home again just now, that was how I found
her. I don't like to hear my girl crying; she's as good as gold and
better. No, sir; our deaf-devil is not to blame for this. He has given
Cristy no reason to complain of him. She says so herself--and she never
told a lie yet."
"But, Mr. Toller," I objected, "something must have happened to distress
her. Has she not told you what it is?"
"Not she! Obstinate about it. Leaves me to guess. It's clear to my mind,
Mr. Gerard, that somebody has got at her in my absence, and said
something to upset her. You will ask me who the person is. I can't say I
have found that out yet."
"But you mean to try?"
"Yes; I mean to try."
He answered me with little of the energy which generally distinguished
him. Perhaps he was fatigued, or perhaps he had something else to think
of. I offered a suggestion.
"When we are in want of help," I said, "we sometimes find it, nearer than
we had ventured to expect--at our own doors."
The ancient miller rose at that hint like a fish at a fly.
"Gloody!" he cried.
"Find him at once, Mr. Toller."
He hobbled to the door--and looked round at me. "I've got burdens on my
mind," he explained, "or I should have thought of it too." Having done
justice to his own abilities, he bustled out. In less than a minute, he
was back again in a state of breathless triumph. "Gloody has seen the
person," he announced; "and (what do you think, sir?) it's a woman!"
I beckoned to Gloody, waiting modestly at the door, to come in, and tell
me what he had discovered.
"I saw her outside, sir--rapping at the door here, with her parasol."
That was the servant's report.
Her parasol? Not being acquainted with the development of dress among
female servants in England, I asked if she was a lady. There seemed to be
no doubt of it in the man's mind. She was also, as Gloody supposed, a
person whom he had never seen before.
"How is it you are not sure of that?" I said.
"Well, sir, she was waiting to be let in; and I was behind her, coming
out of the wood."
"Who let her in?"
"Miss Cristel." His face brightened with an expression of interest when
he mentioned the miller's daughter. He went on with his story without
wanting questions to help him. "Miss Cristel looked like a person
surprised at seeing a stranger--what _I_ should call a free and easy
stranger. She walked in, sir, as if the place belonged to her."
I am not suspicious by nature, as I hope and believe. But I began to be
reminded of Lady Rachel already.
"Did you notice the lady's dress?" I asked.
A woman who had seen her would have been able to describe every morsel of
her dress from head to foot. The man had only observed her hat; and all
he could say was that he thought it "a smartish one."
"Any particular color?" I went on.
"Not that I know of. Dark green, I think."
"Any ornament in it?"
"Yes! A purple feather."
The hat I had seen on the head of that hateful woman was now sufficiently
described--for a man. Sly old Toller, leaving Gloody unnoticed, and
keeping his eye on me, saw the signs of conviction in my face, and said
with his customary audacity: "Who is she?"
I followed, at my humble distance, the example of Sir Walter Scott, when
inquisitive people asked him if he was the author of the Waverley Novels.
In plain English, I denied all knowledge of the stranger wearing the
green hat. But, I was naturally desirous of discovering next what Lady
Rachel had said; and I asked to speak with Cristel. Her far-seeing father
might or might not have perceived a chance of listening to our
conversation. He led me to the door of his daughter's room; and stood
close by, when I knocked softly, and begged that she would come out.
The tone of the poor girl's voice--answering, "Forgive me, sir; I can't
do it"--convicted the she-socialist (as I thought) of merciless conduct
of some sort. Assuming this conclusion to be the right one, I determined,
then and there, that Lady Rachel should not pass the doors of Trimley
Deen again. If her bosom-friend resented that wise act of severity by
leaving the house, I should submit with resignation, and should remember
the circumstance with pleasure.
"I am afraid you are ill, Cristel?" was all I could find to say, under
the double disadvantage of speaking through a door, and having a father
listening at my side.
"Oh no, Mr. Gerard, not ill. A little low in my mind, that's all. I don't
mean to be rude, sir--pray be kinder to me than ever! pray let me be!"
I said I would return on the next day; and left the room with a sore
heart.
Old Toller highly approved of my conduct. He rubbed his fleshless hands,
and whispered: "You'll get it out of Cristy to-morrow, and I'll help
you."
I found Gloody waiting for me outside the cottage. He was anxious about
Miss Cristel; his only excuse, he told me, being the fear that she might
be ill. Having set him at ease, in that particular, I said: "You seem to
be interested in Miss Cristel."
His answer raised him a step higher in my estimation.
"How can I help it, sir?"
An odd man, with a personal appearance that might excite a prejudice
against him, in some minds. I failed to see it myself in that light. It
struck me, as I walked home, that Cristel might have made many a worse
friend than the retired prize-fighter.
A change in my manner was of course remarked by Mrs. Roylake's ready
observation. I told her that I had been annoyed, and offered no other
explanation. Wonderful to relate, she showed no curiosity and no
surprise. More wonderful still, at every fair opportunity that offered,
she kept out of my way.
My next day's engagement being for seven o'clock in the evening, I put
Mrs. Roylake's self-control to a new test. With prefatory excuses, I
informed her that I should not be able to dine at home as usual.
Impossible as it was that she could have been prepared to hear this, her
presence of mind was equal to the occasion. I left the house, followed by
my stepmother's best wishes for a pleasant evening.
Hoping to speak with Cristel alone, I had arranged to reach the cottage
before seven o'clock.
On the river-margin of the wood, I was confronted by a wild gleam of
beauty in the familiar view, for which previous experience had not
prepared me. Am I wrong in believing that all scenery, no matter how
magnificent or how homely it may be, derives a splendor not its own from
favouring conditions of light and shade? Our gloomy trees and our
repellent river presented an aspect superbly transfigured, under the
shadows of the towering clouds, the fantastic wreaths of the mist, and
the lurid reddening of the sun as it stooped to its setting. Lovely
interfusions of sobered color rested, faded, returned again, on the upper
leaves of the foliage as they lightly moved. The mist, rolling
capriciously over the waters, revealed the grandly deliberate course of
the flowing current, while it dimmed the turbid earthy yellow that
discolored and degraded the stream under the full glare of day. While my
eyes followed the successive transformations of the view, as the hour
advanced, tender and solemn influences breathed their balm over my mind.
Days, happy days that were past, revived. Again, I walked hand in hand
with my mother, among the scenes that were round me, and learnt from her
to be grateful for the beauty of the earth, with a heart that felt it. We
were tracing our way along our favorite woodland path; and we found a
companion of tender years, hiding from us. She showed herself; blushing,
hesitating, offering a nosegay of wild flowers. My mother whispered to
me--I thanked the little mill-girl, and gave her a kiss. Did I feel the
child's breath, in my day-dream, still fluttering on my cheek? Was I
conscious of her touch? I started, trembled, returned reluctantly to my
present self. A visible hand touched my arm. As I turned suddenly, a
living breath played on my face. The child had faded into a vanishing
shade: the perfected woman who had grown from her had stolen on me
unawares, and was asking me to pardon her. "Mr. Gerard, you were lost in
your thoughts; I spoke, and you never heard me."
I looked at her in silence.
Was this the dear Cristel so well known to me? Or was it a mockery of her
that had taken her place?
"I hope I have not offended you?" she said.
"You have surprised me," I answered. "Something must have happened, since
I saw you last. What is it?"
"Nothing."
I advanced a step, and drew her closer to me. A dark flush discolored her
face. An overpowering brilliancy flashed from her eyes; there was an
hysterical defiance in her manner. "Are you excited? are you angry? are
you trying to startle me by acting a part?" I urged those questions on
her, one after another; and I was loudly and confidently answered.
"I dare say I am excited, Mr. Gerard, by the honor that has been done me.
You are going to keep your engagement, of course? Well, your friend, your
favorite friend, has invited me to meet you. No! that's not quite true. I
invited myself--the deaf gentleman submitted."
"Why did you invite yourself?"
"Because a tea-party is not complete without a woman."
Her manner was as strangely altered as her looks. That she was beside
herself for the moment, I clearly saw. That she had answered me
unreservedly, it was impossible to believe. I began to feel angry, when I
ought to have made allowances for her.
"Is this Lady Rachel's doing?" I said.
"What do you know of Lady Rachel, sir?"
"I know that she has visited you, and spoken to you."
"Do you know what she has said?"
"I can guess."
"Mr. Gerard, don't abuse that good and kind lady. She deserves your
gratitude as well as mine."
Her manner had become quieter; her face was more composed; her expression
almost recovered its natural charm while she spoke of Lady Rachel. I was
stupefied.
"Try, sir, to forget it and forgive it," she resumed gently, "if I have
misbehaved myself. I don't rightly know what I am saying or doing."
I pointed to the new side of the cottage, behind us.
"Is the cause there?" I asked.
"No! no indeed! I have not seen him; I have not heard from him. His
servant often brings me messages. Not one message to-day."
"Have you seen Gloody to-day?"
"Oh, yes! There's one thing, if I may make so bold, I should like to
know. Mr. Gloody is as good to me as good can be; we see each other
continually, living in the same place. But you are different; and he
tells me himself he has only seen you twice. What have you done, Mr.
Gerard, to make him like you so well, in that short time?"
I told her that he had been found in my garden, looking at the flowers.
"As he had done no harm," I said, "I wouldn't allow the servant to turn
him out; and I walked round the flower-beds with him. Little enough to
deserve such gratitude as the poor fellow expressed--and felt, I don't
doubt it."
I had intended to say no more than this. But the remembrance of Gloody's
mysterious prevarication, and of the uneasiness which I had undoubtedly
felt when I thought of it afterwards, led me (I cannot pretend to say
how) into associating Cristel's agitation with something which this man
might have said to her. I was on the point of putting the question, when
she held up her hand, and said, "Hush!"
The wind was blowing towards us from the river-side village, to which I
have already alluded. I am not sure whether I have mentioned that the
name of the place was Kylam. It was situated behind a promontory of the
river-bank, clothed thickly with trees, and was not visible from the
mill. In the present direction of the wind, we could hear the striking of
the church clock. Cristel counted the strokes.
"Seven," she said. "Are you determined to keep your engagement?"
She had repeated--in an unsteady voice, and with a sudden change in her
color to paleness--the strange question put to me by Gloody. In his case
I had failed to trace the motive. I tried to discover it now.
"Tell me why I ought to break my engagement," I said.
"Remember what I told you at the spring," she answered. "You are deceived
by a false friend who lies to you and hates you."
The man she was speaking of turned the corner of the new cottage. He
waved his hand gaily, and approached us along the road.
"Go!" she said. "Your guardian angel has forgotten you. It's too late
now."
Instead of letting me precede her, as I had anticipated, she ran on
before me--made a sign to the deaf man, as she passed him, not to stop
her--and disappeared through the open door of her father's side of the
cottage.
I was left to decide for myself. What should I have done, if I had been
twenty years older?
Say that my moral courage would have risen superior to the poorest of all
fears, the fear of appearing to be afraid, and that I should have made my
excuses to my host of the evening--how would my moral courage have
answered him, if he had asked for an explanation? Useless to speculate on
it! Had I possessed the wisdom of middle life, his book of leaves would
not have told him, in my own handwriting, that I believed in his better
nature, and accepted his friendly letter in the spirit in which he had
written.
Explain it who can--I knew that I was going to drink tea with him, and
yet I was unwilling to advance a few steps, and meet him on the road!
"I find a new bond of union between us," he said, as he joined me. "We
both feel _that._" He pointed to the grandly darkening view. "The two men
who could have painted the mystery of those growing shadows and fading
lights, lie in the graves of Rembrandt and Turner. Shall we go to tea?"
On our way to his room we stopped at the miller's door.
"Will _you_ inquire," he said, "if Miss Cristel is ready?"
I went in. Old Toller was in the kitchen, smoking his pipe without
appearing to enjoy it.
"What's come to my girl?" he asked, the moment he saw me. "Yesterday she
was in her room, crying. To-day she's in her room, praying."
The warnings which I had neglected rose in judgment against me. I was
silent; I was awed. Before I recovered myself, Cristel entered the
kitchen. Her father whispered, "Look at her!"
Of the excitement which had disturbed--I had almost said, profaned--her
beautiful face, not a vestige remained. Pale, composed, resolute, she
said, "I am ready," and led the way out.
The man whom she hated offered his arm. She took it!