All was dark; the stars twinkling ineffectually in the sky, so far off,
like spectators merely, or distant sentinels, not helpers; the trees in
all their winter nakedness rustling overhead, interrupting the vision of
these watchers; the grass soaked with rain and the heavy breath of
winter, slipping below the hurrying feet. There was no sound, but only a
sense of movement in the night as she passed. The most eager gaze could
scarcely have made out what it was--a shadow, the flitting of a cloud, a
thrill of motion among the dark shrubs and bushes, as if a faint breeze
had got up suddenly and was blowing by. At that hour there was very
little chance of meeting anybody in these damp and melancholy glades,
but the passenger avoided all open spaces until she had got to some
distance from the house. Even then, as she hurried across, her muffled
figure was quite unrecognizable. It was enough to raise a popular belief
that the park was haunted, but no more. She went on till she came to a
thick copse about half-way between the house and the village. Then
another figure made a step out of the thick cover to receive her, and
the two together withdrew entirely into its shade.
What was said there, what passed, no one, even though skirting the copse
closely, could have told. The whisperers, hidden in its shade, were not
without an alarm from time to time; for the path to the village was not
far off, and sometimes a messenger from the house would pass at a
distance, whistling to keep his courage up, or talking loudly if there
were two, for the place was supposed to be ghostly. On this occasion the
faint movement among the bare branches would stop, and all be as still
as death. Then a faint thrill of sound, of human breathing, returned.
The conversation was rapid. “At last!” the other said; “do you know I
have waited here for hours these last nights?”
“You knew it was impossible. How could I leave the house in such
circumstances? Even now I have outraged decency by coming. I have gone
against nature--”
“Not for the first time,” was the answer, with a faint laugh.
“If so, you should be the last to reproach me, for it was for you.”
“Ah, for me! that is one way of putting it. Like all those spurious
sacrifices, if one examined a little deeper. You have had the best of
it, anyhow.”
“All this,” she said, with a tone of despair, “has been said so often
before. It was not for this you insisted on my coming. What is it? Tell
me quickly, and let me go before I am found out. Found out! I am found
out already. I dare not ask myself what they think.”
“Whatever they think you may be sure it is not the truth. Nobody could
guess at the truth. It is too unnatural, that I should be lurking here
in wretchedness, and you--”
“But you are comfortable,” she said quickly. “Jane told me--”
“Comfortable according to Jane’s ideas, which are different from mine.
What I want is to know what you are going to do; what is to become of
me? Will you do me justice now, at last?”
“Oh, Edmund, what justice have you made possible? What can I do but
implore you to go? Are not you in danger every day?”
“Less here than anywhere; though I understand there have been inquiries
made; the constable in the village shows a degree of interest--”
“Edmund,” she cried, seizing him by the arm, “for God’s sake, go!”
“And not bring shame upon you, Madam? Why should I mind? If I have gone
wrong, whose fault is it? You must take that responsibility one time or
other. And now that you are free--”
“I cannot defy the law,” she said, with a miserable moan. “I can’t
deliver you from what you have done. God knows, though it had been to
choose between you and everything else, I would have done you justice,
as you say, as soon as it was possible. But to what use now? It would
only direct attention to you--bring the--” She shuddered, and said no
more.
“The police, you mean,” he replied, with a careless laugh. “And no great
harm either, except to you; for of course all my antecedents would be
published. But there are such things as disguises, and I am clever at a
make-up. You might receive me, and no one would be the wiser. The cost
of a new outfit, a new name--you might choose me a nice one. Of all
places in the world, a gentleman’s house in the country is the last
where they would look for me. And then if there was any danger you could
swear I was--”
“Oh, Edmund, Edmund, spare me! I cannot do this--to live in a deception
under my children’s eyes.”
“Your children’s eyes!” he said, and laughed. The keen derision of his
tone went to her very heart.
“I am used to hear everything said to me that can be said to a woman,”
she said quickly, “and if there was anything wanting you make it up. I
have had full measure, heaped up and running over. But there is no time
for argument now. All that might have been possible in other
circumstances; now there is no safety for you but in getting away. You
know this, surely, as well as I do. The anxiety you have kept me in it
is impossible to tell. I have been calmer since he is gone: it matters
less. But for your own sake--”
The other voice said, with a change of tone, “I am lost anyhow. I shall
do nothing for my own sake--”
“Oh, Edmund, Edmund, do not break my heart--at your age! If you will
only set your mind to better ways, everything can be put right again. As
soon as I know you are safe I will take it all in hand. I have not been
able hitherto, and now I am afraid to direct observation upon you. But
only go away; let me know you are safe: and you have my promise I will
pay anything, whatever they ask.”
“Misprision of felony! They won’t do that; they know better. If there is
any paying,” he said, with his careless laugh, “it had much better be to
me.”
“You shall be provided,” she said breathlessly, “if you will only think
of your own safety and go away.”
“Are you sure, then, of having come into your fortune? Has the old
fellow shown so much confidence in you? All the better for me. Your
generosity in that way will always be fully appreciated. But I would not
trouble about Liverpool; they’re used to such losses. It does them no
harm, only makes up for the salaries they ought to pay their clerks, and
don’t.”
“Don’t speak so lightly, Edmund. You cannot feel it. To make up to those
you have--injured--”
“Robbed, if you like, but not injured. That’s quite another matter. I
don’t care a straw for this part of the business. But money,” he said,
“money is always welcome here.”
A sigh which was almost a moan forced itself from her breast. “You shall
have what you want,” she said. “But, Edmund, for God’s sake, if you care
either for yourself or me, go away!”
“You would do a great deal better to introduce me here. It would be
safer than Spain. And leave it to me to make my way. A good name--you
can take one out of the first novel that turns up--and a few good suits
of clothes. I might be a long-lost relative come to console you in your
distress. That would suit me admirably. I much prefer it to going away.
You should see how well I would fill the post of comforter--”
“Don’t!” she cried; “don’t!” holding out her hands in an appeal for
mercy.
“Why,” he said, “it is far the most feasible way, and the safest, if you
would but think. Who would look for an absconded clerk at Highcourt, in
the midst of family mourning and all the rest of it? And I have views of
my own-- Come, think it over. In former times I allow it would have been
impossible, but now you are free.”
“I will not,” she said, suddenly raising her head. “I have done much,
but there are some things that are too much. Understand me, I will not.
In no conceivable circumstances, whatever may happen. Rather will I
leave you to your fate.”
“What!” he said, “and bring shame and ruin on yourself?”
“I do not care. I am desperate. Much, much would I do to make up for my
neglect of you, if you can call it neglect; but not this. Listen! I will
not do it. It is not to be mentioned again. I will make any sacrifice,
except of truth--except of truth!”
“Of truth!” he said, with a sneer; but then was silent, evidently
convinced by her tone. He added, after a time, “It is all your fault.
What was to be expected? I have never had a chance. It is just that you
should bear the brunt, for it is your fault.”
“I acknowledge it,” she said; “I have failed in everything; and whatever
I can do to atone I will do. Edmund, oh, listen! Go away. You are not
safe here. You risk everything, even my power to help you. You must go,
you must go,” she added, seizing him firmly by the arm in her vehemence;
“there is no alternative. You shall have money, but go, go! Promise me
that you will go.”
“If you use force--” he said, freeing himself roughly from her grasp.
“Force! what force have I against you? It is you who force me to come
here and risk everything. If I am discovered, God help me! on the eve of
my husband’s funeral, how am I to have the means of doing anything for
you? You will understand that. You shall have the money; but promise me
to go.”
“You are very vehement,” he said. Then, after another pause, “That is
strong, I allow. Bring me the money to-morrow night, and we shall see.”
“I will send Jane.”
“I don’t want Jane. Bring it yourself, or there is not another word to
be said.”
Mrs. Trevanion got back, as she thought, unseen to the house. There was
nobody in the hall when she opened noiselessly the glass door, and flung
down the cloak she had worn among the wraps that were always there. She
went up-stairs with her usual stately step; but when she had safely
reached the shelter of her own room, she fell into the arms of the
anxious Jane, who had been waiting in miserable suspense, fearing
discovery in every sound. She did not faint. Nerves strong and highly
braced to all conclusions, and a brain yet more vigorous, still kept
her vitality unimpaired, and no merciful cloud came over her mind to
soften what she had to bear--there are some to whom unconsciousness is a
thing never accorded, scarcely even in sleep. But for a moment she lay
upon the shoulder of her faithful servant, getting some strength from
the contact of heart with heart. Jane knew everything; she required no
explanation. She held her mistress close, supporting her in arms that
had never failed her, giving the strength of two to the one who was in
deadly peril. After a time Mrs. Trevanion roused herself. She sat down
shivering in the chair which Jane placed for her before the fire. Warmth
has a soothing effect upon misery. There was a sort of restoration in
it, and possibility of calm. She told all that had passed to the
faithful woman who had stood by her in all the passages of her life--her
confidante, her go-between: other and worse names, if worse can be, had
been ere now expended upon Jane.
“Once more,” Madam said, with a long sigh, “once more; and then it is to
be over, or so he says, at least. On the night of my husband’s funeral
day; on the night before-- What could any one think of me, if it were
known? And how can I tell that it is not known?”
“Oh, dear Madam, let us hope for the best,” said Jane. “Besides, who has
any right to find fault now? Whatever you choose to do, you have a right
to do it. The only one that had any right to complain--”
“And the only one,” said Mrs. Trevanion, with sudden energy, “who had no
right to complain.” Then she sank back again into her chair. “I care
nothing for other people,” she said; “it is myself. I feel the misery of
it in myself. This night, of all others, to expose myself--and
to-morrow. I think my punishment is more than any woman should have to
bear.”
“Oh, Madam, do not think of it as a punishment.”
“As what, then--a duty? But one implies the other. God help us! If I
could but hope that after this all would be over, at least for the
time. I have always been afraid of to-morrow; I cannot tell why. Not
because of the grave and the ceremony; but with a kind of dread as if
there were something in it unforeseen, something new. Perhaps it is this
last meeting which has been weighing upon me--this last meeting, which
will be a parting, too, perhaps forever--”
She paused for a moment, and then burst forth into tears. “I ought to be
thankful. That is the only thing to be desired. But when I think of all
that might have been, and of what is--of my life all gone between the
one who has been my tyrant, and the other--the other against whom I have
sinned. And that one has died in anger, and the other--oh, the other!”
It was to Jane’s faithful bosom that she turned again to stifle the sobs
which would not be restrained. Jane stood supporting her, weeping
silently, patting with pathetic helplessness her mistress’s shoulder.
“Oh, Madam,” she said, “who can tell? his heart may be touched at the
last.”