LOOKING TO THE FUTURE.
The story which Richard Thornton had told Eleanor Vane was the simple
record of an unhappy truth. The gay and thoughtless spendthrift, the
man about town, who had outlived his age and spent three fortunes, had
ended his life, by his own desperate hand, in an obscure café near the
Barrière Saint Antoine.
Amongst other habits of the age in which George Vane had lived,
gambling was pretty prevalent. Mr. Vane’s sanguine nature was the very
nature which leads a man to the gaming-table, and holds him there under
the demoniac fascination of the fatal green cloth, hoping against hope,
until his pockets are empty, and he must needs crawl dispirited away,
having no more money to lose.
This was the one vice of George Vane’s life. He had tried to redeem his
every-day extravagances by the gamester’s frenzied speculations, the
gamester’s subtle combinations; which are so infallible in theory, so
ruinous in practice. Eleanor had never known this. If her father stayed
out late at night, and she had to wait and watch for him through long
weary hours of suspense and anxiety, she never knew why he stayed, or
why he was often so broken down and wretched when he came home. Other
people could guess the reason of the old man’s midnight absences from
his shabby lodging, but they were too merciful to tell his little girl
the truth. In Paris, in a strange city, where his acquaintance were
few, the old vice grew stronger, and George Vane spent his nights in
gambling for pitiful stakes in any low haunts to which his disreputable
associates deluded him. He picked up strange acquaintance in these days
of his decadence, as poor people very often do: young men who were
wandering about the world, penniless adventurers, professionless young
reprobates, getting a very doubtful living by the exercise of their
wits; men who were content to flatter and pay court to the old beau so
long as they could win a few francs from him to pay for the evening’s
diversion.
With such men George Vane had associated for a long time. They won
pitiful sums of him, and cheated him without scruple; but his life was
a very dull one, remember; he had lived for the world, and society
of some kind or other was absolutely necessary to him. He clung,
therefore, to these men, and was fain to accept their homage in the
hour of his decline; and it was with such men as these he had spent the
night before his death. It was such men as these who had robbed him of
the money which, but for an unhappy accident, would have been safely
handed over to the schoolmistress in the Bois de Boulogne.
The old man’s death caused very little excitement in Paris. Public
gambling-houses had been abolished by the order of the Government
long before; and it was no longer a common thing for desperate men to
scatter their brains upon the table on which they had just squandered
their money; but still people knew very well that there was plenty of
card-playing, and dice throwing, and billiard-playing, always going on
here and there in the brilliant city, and the suicide of a gambler more
or less was not a thing to make any disturbance.
Mrs. Bannister wrote a stiffly-worded letter in reply to that in which
Richard Thornton told her of her father’s death, enclosing an order on
Messrs. Blount for the sum she considered sufficient to pay for the old
man’s funeral, and to support Eleanor for a few weeks.
“I should advise her early return to England,” the stockbroker’s widow
wrote, “and I will endeavour to find her some decent situation—as
nursery governess or milliner’s apprentice, perhaps—but she must
remember that I expect her to support herself, and that she must not
look to me for any further assistance. I have performed my duty to my
father at a considerable loss to myself, but with his death all claim
upon me ceases.”
George Vane had been buried during the early days of his youngest
daughter’s illness. They placed him amongst a cluster of neglected
graves, in a patch of ground upon the outskirts of Père la Chaise, a
burial place for heretics and suicides, and Richard Thornton ordered
a roughly-hewn cross from one of the stonemasons near the cemetery.
So, far away from the lofty monuments of the Russian princes and the
marshals of the First Empire; far away from Abelard and Heloise, and
all the marble chapels in which devoted survivors pray for the souls
of the beloved dead; in a desolate and unhallowed patch of weedy
turf, where the bones of the departed were only suffered to rest
peaceably for a given number of years, and were stirred up out of their
coffins periodically to make room for new-comers, George Vane slept
the last sleep. He might have been buried as a nameless suicide, but
for the chance which had taken Richard Thornton to the Morgue, where
he recognized Eleanor’s father in the unknown man who had been last
brought to that gloomy shelter; for he had had no papers which could
give any clue to his identity about him at the time of his death.
Upon the morning after that quiet September afternoon on which
Eleanor Vane had learned the true story of her father’s death, Signora
Picirillo for the first time spoke seriously of the future. In the
intensity of her first great grief, Eleanor Vane had never once thought
of the desolation of her position, nor yet of the sacrifices which the
Signora and Richard were making for her sake. She never remembered
that they were both lingering in Paris solely on her account: she
only knew that they were there, and that she saw them daily, and that
the sight of them, good and kind as they were, was pain and weariness
to her, like the sight of everything else in the world. She had been
singularly quiet since the revelation made to her. After the first
burst of passionate vehemence which had succeeded her perusal of her
dead father’s letter, her manner had grown almost unnaturally calm. She
had sat all the evening apart near the window, and Richard had tried
in vain to beguile her attention even for a moment. She kept silence,
brooding upon the scrap of paper which lay in her bosom.
This morning she sat in a listless attitude, with her head resting on
her hand. She took no heed of the Signora’s busy movements from room to
room. She made no effort to give her old friend any assistance in all
the little household arrangements which took so long to complete, and
when at last the music-mistress brought her needlework to the window,
and sat down opposite the invalid, Eleanor looked up at her with a dull
gaze that struck despair to the good creature’s heart.
“Nelly, my dear,” the Signora said, briskly, “I want to have a little
serious conversation with you.”
“About what, dear Signora?”
“About the future, my love.”
“The future!” Eleanor Vane uttered the word almost as if it had been
meaningless to her.
“Yes, my dear. You see even I can talk hopefully of the future, though
I am an old woman; but you, who are only fifteen, have a long life
before you, and it is time you began to look forward to it.”
“I do look forward,” Eleanor said, with a gloomy expression upon her
face. “I do look forward to the future; and to meeting that man, the
man who caused my father’s death. How am I to find him, Signora? Help
me in that. You have been kind to me in everything else. Only help me
to do that, and I will love you better than ever I have loved you yet.”
The Signora shook her head. She was a light-hearted, energetic
creature, who had borne very heavy burdens through a long life; but the
burdens had not been able to crush her. Perhaps her unselfishness had
upheld her throughout all her trials. She had thought and cared so much
for other people, that she had had little time left for thinking of
herself.
“My dear Eleanor,” she said, gravely; “this will never do. You must not
be influenced by that fatal letter. Your poor father had no right to
lay the responsibility of his own act upon another man. If he chose to
stake this unfortunate money upon the hazard of a pack of cards, and
lost it, he had no right to charge this man with the consequences of
his own folly.”
“But the man cheated him!”
“As your father thought. People are very apt to fancy themselves
cheated when they lose money.”
“Papa would never have written so positively, if he had not _known_
that the man cheated him. Besides, Richard says they were heard at high
words; that was no doubt when my poor dear father accused this wretch
of being a cheat. He and his companion were wicked, scheming men, who
had good reason to hide their names. They were pitiless wretches, who
had no compassion upon the poor old man who trusted them and believed
in their honour. Are _you_ going to defend them, Signora Picirillo?”
“Defend them, Eleanor? no: they were bad men, I have no doubt. But, my
darling child, you must not begin life with hatred and vengeance in
your heart.”
“Not hate the man who caused my father’s death?” cried Eleanor Vane.
“Do you think I shall ever cease to hate him, Signora? Do you think
that I shall ever forget to pray that the day may come when he and
I will stand face to face, and that he may be as helpless and as
dependent upon my mercy as my father was on his? Heaven help him on
that day! But I don’t want to talk of this, Signora: what is the use of
talking? I may be an old woman, perhaps, before I meet this man; but
surely, surely I shall meet him, sooner or later. If I only knew his
name—if I only knew his name, I think I could trace him from one end of
the earth to the other. Robert Lan—Lan—what?”
Her head sank forward on her breast, and her eyes fixed themselves
dreamily on the sunlit street below the open window. The French poodle,
Fido, lay at her feet, and lifted up his head every now and then to
lick her hand. The animal had missed his master, and had wandered about
the little rooms, sniffing on the thresholds of closed doors, and
moaning dismally for several days after Mr. Vane’s disappearance.
The Signora sighed as she watched Eleanor. What was she to do with this
girl, who had taken a horrible vendetta upon herself at fifteen years
of age, and who seemed as gloomily absorbed in her scheme of vengeance
as any Corsican chieftain?
“My dear,” the music-mistress said presently, with rather a sharp
accent, “do you know that Richard and I will be compelled to leave
Paris to-morrow?”
“Leave Paris to-morrow, Signora!”
“Yes. The Phœnix opens early in October, and our Dick will have all the
scenes to paint for the new piece. Besides, there are my pupils; you
know, my love, they cannot be kept together for ever unless I go back
to them.”
Eleanor Vane looked up with almost a bewildered expression, as if she
had been trying to comprehend all that Signora Picirillo had said; then
suddenly a light seemed to dawn upon her, and she rose from her chair
and flung herself upon a hassock at the feet of her friend.
“Dear Signora,” she said, clasping the music-mistress’s hand in both
her own, “how wicked and ungrateful I have been all this time! I forget
everything but myself and my own trouble. You came over to Paris on
my account. You told me so when I was ill, but I had forgotten, I had
forgotten. And Richard has stopped in Paris because of me. Oh! what can
I do to repay you both—what can I do?”
Eleanor hid her face upon the Signora’s lap, and wept silently. Those
tears did her good; they beguiled her for a little while, at least,
from the one absorbing thought of her father’s melancholy fate.
Signora Picirillo tenderly smoothed the soft ripples of auburn hair
lying on her lap.
“My dear Eleanor, shall I tell you what you can do to make us both very
happy, and to pay us tenfold for any little sacrifice we may have made
on your account?”
“Yes, yes; tell me.”
“You have to choose your pathway in life, Nelly, and to choose it
quickly. In all the world you have only your half-sisters and brothers
to whom you can appeal for assistance. You have some claim upon them,
you know, dear; but I sometimes think you are too proud to avail
yourself of that claim.”
Eleanor Vane lifted her head with a gesture of superb defiance.
“I would starve rather than accept a penny from Mrs. Bannister, or from
her sister or brothers. If they had been different, my father would
never have died as he did. He was deserted and abandoned by all the
world, except his helpless child, who could do nothing to save him.”
“But if you don’t mean to apply to Mrs. Bannister, what will you do,
Nelly?”
Eleanor Vane shook her head hopelessly. The whole fabric of the future
had been shattered by her father’s desperate act. The simple dream of a
life in which she was to have worked for that beloved father was over,
and it seemed to Eleanor as if the future existed no longer; there was
only the sad, desolate present,—a dreary spot in the great desert of
life, bounded by a yawning grave.
“Why do you ask me what I mean to do, Signora?” she said, piteously.
“How does it matter what I do? Nothing I can do will bring my father
back. I will stay in Paris, and get my living how I can, and look for
the man who murdered my father.”
“Eleanor,” cried the Signora, “are you mad? How could you stay in
Paris, when you don’t know a single creature in the whole city? How, in
mercy’s name, could you get your living in this strange place?”
“I could be a nursery-governess; or a nursery-maid; anything! What do I
care how low I sink, if I can only stay here, where I am likely to meet
that man?”
“Eleanor, my dear! For pity’s sake do not delude yourself in this
manner. The man you want to find is an adventurer, no doubt. In Paris
one day, in London another, or away in America perhaps, or at the
farthest extremity of the globe. Do you hope to find this man by
walking about the streets of Paris?”
“I don’t know.”
“How do you expect to meet him?”
“I don’t know.”
“But, Eleanor, be reasonable. It is utterly impossible that you
can remain in Paris. If Mrs. Bannister does not claim the right of
exercising some authority over you, I claim it as your oldest friend.
My dear, you will not refuse to listen to me, will you?”
“No, no, dear Signora. If you think I mustn’t stay in Paris, I’ll go
back to England, to the Miss Bennetts. They’ll give me fifteen pounds a
year as junior teacher. I may as well live with them, if I mustn’t stay
here. I must earn some money, I suppose, before I can even try to find
the man who caused my father’s death. How long it will be before I can
earn anything worth speaking of!”
She sighed wearily, and fell again into a gloomy silence, from which
the poodle vainly tried to arouse her by many affectionate devices.
“Then we may consider it settled, Nelly, my dear,” the Signora said,
cheerfully. “You will leave Paris to-morrow morning, with Richard
and me. You can stay with us, my dear, till you’ve made up your mind
what to do. We’ve a little spare room, which is only used now as a
receptacle for empty boxes and Richard’s painting litter. We’ll fit it
up for you, my darling, and make you as comfortable as we can.”
“Dear, dear Signora!” said Eleanor, kneeling by her friend’s chair.
“How good you are to me! But while I have been ill there must have been
a great deal of money spent: for the doctor, and the jelly, and fruit,
and lemonade you have given me—who found the money, Signora?”
“Your sister, Mrs. Bannister, my dear; she sent some money in answer to
a letter from Richard.”
Eleanor’s face crimsoned suddenly, and the music-mistress understood
the meaning of that angry flush.
“Richard didn’t ask for any money, my love. He only wrote to tell your
sister what had happened. She sent money for all necessary expenses. It
is not all gone yet, Nelly; there will be enough to pay your journey
back to England; and even then something left. I have kept an account
of all that has been spent, and will give it to you when you like.”
Eleanor looked down at her white morning-gown.
“Is there enough left to buy a black frock?” she asked, in a low voice.
“Yes, my darling. I have thought of that. I have had mourning made for
you. The dressmaker took one of your muslin frocks for a pattern, so
there was no occasion to trouble you about the business.”
“How good you are to me, how very, very good!”
Eleanor Vane could only say this. As yet she only dimly felt how
much she owed to these people, who were bound to her by no tie of
relationship, and who yet stepped aside from their own difficult
pathway to do her service in her sorrow. She could not learn to cling
to them, and depend upon them yet. She had loved them long ago, in her
father’s lifetime; but now that he was dead, every link that had bound
her to life, and love, and happiness, seemed suddenly severed, and she
stood alone, groping blindly in the thick darkness of a new and dreary
world, with only one light shining far away at the end of a wearisome
and obscure pathway; and that a lurid and fatal star, which beckoned
her onward to some unknown deed of hate and vengeance.
Heaven knows what vague scheme of retribution she cherished in her
childish ignorance of the world. Perhaps she formed her ideas of life
from the numerous novels she had read, in which the villain was always
confounded in the last chapter, however triumphant he might be through
two volumes and three-quarters of successful iniquity.
George Vane’s sanguine and romantic visions of wealth and grandeur,
of retaliation upon those who had neglected and forgotten him, had
not been without effect upon the mind of his youngest daughter. That
plastic mind had been entirely in the old man’s hands, to mould in
what form he pleased. Himself the slave of impulse, it was not to
be supposed that he could teach his daughter those sound principles
without which man, like a rudderless vessel, floats hither and thither
before every current on the sea of life. He suffered Eleanor’s
impulsive nature to have full away; he put no curb upon the sanguine
temperament which took everything in the extreme. As blindly as the
girl loved her father, so blindly she was ready to hate those whom he
called his enemies. To investigate the nature of the wrongs they had
done him would have been to take their side in the quarrel. Reason and
Love could not go hand-in-hand in Eleanor’s creed; for the questions
which Reason might ask would be so many treacheries against Love.
It is not to be wondered, then, that she held the few broken sentences
written by her father on the threshold of a shameful death, as a solemn
and sacred trust, not to be violated or lost sight of, though her
future life should be sacrificed to the fulfilment of one purpose.
Such thoughts as these—indistinct, ignorant, and childish, perhaps,
but not the less absorbing—filled her mind. It may be that this new
purpose of revenge enabled her the better to endure her loss. She had
something to live for, at least. There was a light far away athwart the
long gloomy pathway through an unknown world; and, however lurid that
guiding star might be, it was better than total darkness.