_IN THE OAK PARLOUR_
So it was vain: I was trapped, and all was over.
I stood before him on the step, the white moon shining on my face. I was
trembling so that I wonder I could stand, my helpless hands raised towards
him, and I looked up in his face. A long shuddering moan--'Oh--oh--oh!' was
all I uttered.
The man, still holding my arm, looked, I thought frightened, into my white
dumb face.
Suddenly he said, in a wild, fierce whisper--
'Never say another word' (I had not uttered one). 'They shan't hurt ye,
Miss; git ye in; I don't care a damn!'
It was an uncouth speech. To me it was the voice of an angel. With a burst
of gratitude that sounded in my own ears like a laugh, I thanked God for
those blessed words.
In a moment more he had placed me in the carriage, and almost instantly we
were in motion--very cautiously while crossing the court, until he had got
the wheels upon the grass, and then at a rapid pace, improving his speed as
the distance increased. He drove along the side of the back-approach to the
house, keeping on the grass; so that our progress, though swaying like that
of a ship in a swell, was very nearly as noiseless.
The gate had been left unlocked--he swung it open, and remounted the box.
And we were now beyond the spell of Bartram-Haugh, thundering--Heaven be
praised!--along the Queen's highway, right in the route to Elverston. It
was literally a gallop. Through the chariot windows I saw Tom stand as he
drove, and every now and then throw an awful glance over his shoulder. Were
we pursued? Never was agony of prayer like mine, as with clasped hands and
wild stare I gazed through the windows on the road, whose trees and hedges
and gabled cottages were chasing one another backward at so giddy a speed.
We were now ascending that identical steep, with the giant ash-trees at the
right and the stile between, which my vision of Meg Hawkes had presented
all that night, when my excited eye detected a running figure within the
hedge. I saw the head of some one crossing the stile in pursuit, and I
heard Brice's name shrieked.
'Drive on--on--on!' I screamed.
But Brice pulled up. I was on my knees on the floor of the carriage, with
clasped hands, expecting capture, when the door opened, and Meg Hawkes,
pale as death, her cloak drawn over her black tresses, looked in.
'Oh!--ho!--ho!--thank God!' she screamed. 'Shake hands, lass. Tom, yer a
good un! He's a good lad, Tom.'
'Come in, Meg--you must sit by me,' I said, recovering all at once.
Meg made no demur. 'Take my hand,' I said offering mine to her disengaged
one.
'I can't, Miss--my arm's broke.'
And so it was, poor thing! She had been espied and overtaken in her errand
of mercy for me, and her ruffian father had felled her with his cudgel, and
then locked her into the cottage, whence, however, she had contrived to
escape, and was now flying to Elverston, having tried in vain to get a
hearing in Feltram, whose people had been for hours in bed.
The door being shut upon Meg, the steaming horses were instantly at a
gallop again.
Tom was still watching as before, with many an anxious glance to rearward,
for pursuit. Again he pulled up, and came to the window.
'Oh, what is it?' cried I.
''Bout that letter, Miss; I couldn't help. 'Twas Dickon, he found it in my
pocket. That's a'.'
'Oh yes!--no matter--thank you--thank Heaven! Are we near Elverston?'
''Twill be a mile, Miss: and please'm to mind I had no finger in't.'
'Thanks--thank you--you're very good--I shall _always_ thank you, Tom, as
long as I live!'
At length we entered Elverston. I think I was half wild. I don't know how I
got into the hall. I was in the oak-parlour, I believe, when I saw cousin
Monica. I was standing, my arms extended. I could not speak; but I ran with
a loud long scream into her arms. I forget a great deal after that.
CONCLUSION
Oh, my beloved cousin Monica! Thank Heaven, you are living still, and
younger, I think, than I in all things but in years.
And Milly, my dear companion, she is now the happy wife of that good little
clergyman, Sprigge Biddlepen. It has been in my power to be of use to them,
and he shall have the next presentation to Dawling.
Meg Hawkes, proud and wayward, and the most affectionate creature on earth,
was married to Tom Brice a few months after these events; and, as both
wished to emigrate, I furnished them with the capital, and I am told they
are likely to be rich. I hear from my kind Meg often, and she seems very
happy.
My dear old friends, Mary Quince and Mrs. Rusk, are, alas! growing old, but
living with me, and very happy. And after long solicitation, I persuaded
Doctor Bryerly, the best and truest of ministers, with my dearest friend's
concurrence, to undertake the management of the Derbyshire estates. In this
I have been most fortunate. He is the very person for such a charge--so
punctual, so laborious, so kind, and so shrewd.
In compliance with medical advice, cousin Monica hurried me away to the
Continent, where she would never permit me to allude to the terrific scenes
which remain branded so awfully on my brain. It needed no constraint. It is
a sort of agony to me even now to think of them.
The plan was craftily devised. Neither old Wyat nor Giles, the butler, had
a suspicion that I had returned to Bartram. Had I been put to death, the
secret of my fate would have been deposited in the keeping of four persons
only--the two Ruthyns, Hawkes, and ultimately Madame. My dear cousin Monica
had been artfully led to believe in my departure for France, and prepared
for my silence. Suspicion might not have been excited for a year after my
death, and then would never, in all probability, have pointed to Bartram as
the scene of the crime. The weeds would have grown over me, and I should
have lain in that deep grave where the corpse of Madame de la Rougierre was
unearthed in the darksome quadrangle of Bartram-Haugh.
It was more than two years after that I heard what had befallen at Bartram
after my flight. Old Wyat, who went early to Uncle Silas's room, to her
surprise--for he had told her that he was that night to accompany his son,
who had to meet the mailtrain to Derby at five o'clock in the morning--saw
her old master lying on the sofa, much in his usual position.
'There was nout much strange about him,' old Wyat said, 'but that his
scent-bottle was spilt on its side over on the table, and he dead.'
She thought he was not quite cold when she found him, and she sent the old
butler for Doctor Jolks, who said he died of too much 'loddlum.'
Of my wretched uncle's religion what am I to say? Was it utter hypocrisy,
or had it at any time a vein of sincerity in it? I cannot say. I don't
believe that he had any heart left for religion, which is the highest form
of affection, to take hold of. Perhaps he was a sceptic with misgivings
about the future, but past the time for finding anything reliable in it.
The devil approached the citadel of his heart by stealth, with many zigzags
and parallels. The idea of marrying me to his son by fair means, then by
foul, and, when that wicked chance was gone, then the design of seizing all
by murder, supervened. I dare say that Uncle Silas thought for a while that
he was a righteous man. He wished to have heaven and to escape hell, if
there were such places. But there were other things whose existence was
not speculative, of which some he coveted, and some he dreaded more, and
temptation came. 'Now if any man build upon this foundation, gold, silver,
precious stones, wood, hay, stubble, every man's work shall be made
manifest; for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by
fire; and the fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is.' There
comes with old age a time when the heart is no longer fusible or malleable,
and must retain the form in which it has cooled down. 'He that is unjust,
let him be unjust still; he which is filthy, let him be filthy still.'
Dudley had disappeared; but in one of her letters, Meg, writing from her
Australian farm, says: 'There's a fella in toon as calls hisself Colbroke,
wi' a good hoose o' wood, 15 foot length, and as by 'bout as silling o' the
pearler o' Bartram--only lots o' rats, they do say, my lady--a bying and
sellin' of goold back and forred wi' the diggin foke and the marchants. His
chick and mouth be wry wi' scar o' burns or vitterel, an' no wiskers, bless
you; but my Tom ee toll him he knowed him for Master Doodley. I ant seed
him; but he sade ad shute Tom soon is look at 'im, an' denide it, wi'
mouthful o' curses and oaf. Tom baint right shure; if I seed un wons i'd no
for sartin; but 'appen,'twil best be let be.' This was all.
Old Hawkes stood his ground, relying on the profound cunning with which
their actual proceedings had been concealed, even from the suspicions of
the two inmates of the house, and on the mystery that habitually shrouded
Bartram-Haugh and all its belongings from the eyes of the outer world.
Strangely enough, he fancied that I had made my escape long before the room
was entered; and, even if he were arrested, there was no evidence, he was
certain, to connect _him_ with the murder, all knowledge of which he would
stoutly deny.
There was an inquest on the body of my uncle, and Dr. Jolks was the chief
witness. They found that his death was caused by 'an excessive dose of
laudanum, accidentally administered by himself.'
It was not until nearly a year after the dreadful occurrences at Bartram
that Dickon Hawkes was arrested on a very awful charge, and placed in gaol.
It was an old crime, committed in Lancashire, that had found him out.
After his conviction, as a last chance, he tried a disclosure of all the
circumstances of the unsuspected death of the Frenchwoman. Her body was
discovered buried where he indicated, in the inner court of Bartram-Haugh,
and, after due legal enquiry, was interred in the churchyard of Feltram.
Thus I escaped the horrors of the witness-box, or the far worse torture of
a dreadful secret.
Doctor Bryerly, shortly after Lady Knollys had described to him the manner
in which Dudley entered my room, visited the house of Bartram-Haugh, and
minutely examined the windows of the room in which Mr. Charke had slept on
the night of his murder. One of these he found provided with powerful steel
hinges, very craftily sunk and concealed in the timber of the window-frame,
which was secured by an iron pin outside, and swung open on its removal.
This was the room in which they had placed me, and this the contrivance
by means of which the room had been entered. The problem of Mr. Charke's
murder was solved.
* * * * *
I have penned it. I sit for a moment breathless. My hands are cold and
damp. I rise with a great sigh, and look out on the sweet green landscape
and pastoral hills, and see the flowers and birds and the waving boughs of
glorious trees--all images of liberty and safety; and as the tremendous
nightmare of my youth melts into air, I lift my eyes in boundless gratitude
to the God of all comfort, whose mighty hand and outstretched arm delivered
me. When I lower my eyes and unclasp my hands, my cheeks are wet with
tears. A tiny voice is calling me 'Mamma!' and a beloved smiling face, with
his dear father's silken brown tresses, peeps in.
'Yes, darling, our walk. Come away!'
I am Lady Ilbury, happy in the affection of a beloved and noblehearted
husband. The shy useless girl you have known is now a mother--trying to be
a good one; and this, the last pledge, has lived.
I am not going to tell of sorrows--how brief has been my pride of early
maternity, or how beloved were those whom the Lord gave and the Lord has
taken away. But sometimes as, smiling on my little boy, the tears gather
in my eyes, and he wonders, I can see, why they come, I am thinking--and
trembling while I smile--to think, how strong is love, how frail is life;
and rejoicing while I tremble that, in the deathless love of those who
mourn, the Lord of Life, who never gave a pang in vain, conveys the sweet
and ennobling promise of a compensation by eternal reunion. So, through
my sorrows, I have heard a voice from heaven say, 'Write, from hencefore
blessed are the dead that die in the Lord!'
This world is a parable--the habitation of symbols--the phantoms of
spiritual things immortal shown in material shape. May the blessed
second-sight be mine--to recognise under these beautiful forms of earth the
ANGELS who wear them; for I am sure we may walk with them if we will, and
hear them speak!