JANE HARDIE had found Albion Villa in the miserable state that precedes
an auction: the house raw, its contents higgledy-piggledy. The stair
carpets, and drawing-room carpets, were up, and in rolls in the
dining-room; the bulk of the furniture was there too; the auction was to
be in that room. The hall was clogged with great packages, and littered
with small, all awaiting the railway carts; and Edward, dusty and
deliquescent, was cording, strapping, and nailing them at the gallop, in
his shirt sleeves.
Jane's heart sank at the visible signs of his departure. She sighed;
and then, partly to divert his attention, told him hastily there was a
letter from Alfred. On this he ran upstairs and told Mrs. Dodd; and she
came downstairs, and after a conversation took Jane up softly to her
friend's room.
They opened the door gently, and Jane saw the grief she was come to
console--or to embitter.
Such a change! instead of the bright, elastic, impetuous young beauty,
there sat a pale, languid girl, with “weary of the world” written on
every part of her eloquent body; her right hand dangled by her side, and
on the ground beneath it lay a piece of work she had been attempting;
but it had escaped from those listless fingers: her left arm was
stretched at full length on the table with an unspeakable abandon, and
her brow laid wearily on it above the elbow. So lies the wounded bird,
so droops the broken lily.
She did not move for Jane's light foot. She often sat thus, a drooping
statue, and let the people come and go unheeded.
Jane's heart yearned for her. She came softly and laid a little hand
lightly on her shoulder, and true to her creed that we must look upward
for consolation, said in her ear, and in solemn silvery tones, “Our
light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more
exceeding and eternal weight of glory.”
Julia turned at this and flung her arms round Jane's neck, and panted
heavily.
Jane kissed her, and with tears in her eyes, proceeded to pour out, from
a memory richly stored with Scripture, those blessed words it is full
of, words that in our hours of ease or biblical criticism pass over
the mind like some drowsy chime but in the bitter day of anguish and
bereavement, when the body is racked, the soul darkened, shine out like
stars to the mariner; seem then first to swell to their real size and
meaning, and come to writhing mortals like pitying seraphim, divinity on
their faces and healing on their wings.
Julia sighed heavily: “Ah,” she said, “these are sweet words. But I am
not ripe for them. You show me the true path of happiness: but I don't
_want_ to be happy; it's _him_ I want to be happy. If the angels came
for me and took me to heaven this moment, I should be miserable there,
if I thought _he_ was in eternal torment. Ay, I should be as miserable
there as I am here. Oh, Jane, when God means to comfort me, He will show
me _he_ is alive; till then words are wasted on me, even Bible words.”
“Tell her your news, my dear,” said Mrs. Dodd quietly. She was one of
those who take human nature as it is, and make the best of it.
“Julia dear,” said Jane, “your fears are extravagant; indeed: Alfred is
alive, we know.”
Julia trembled, but said nothing.
“He has written to-day.”
“Ah! To you?”
“No, to papa.”
“I don't believe it. Why to him?”
“But I saw the letter, dear; I had it my hand.”
“Did you read it?” asked Julia, trembling now like an aspen, and
fluttering like a bird.
“No, but I read the address, and the date inside, and I saw the
handwriting; and I was offered the letter, but papa told me it was full
of abuse of him, so I declined* to read it; however, I will get it for
_you._”
* This was one of those involuntary inaccuracies which creep
into mortal statements.
Mrs. Dodd thanked her warmly; but asked her if she could not in the
meantime give some idea of the contents.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Dodd: papa read me out a great deal of it. He was in
Paris, but just starting for London: and he demanded his money and his
accounts. You know papa is one of his trustees.”
“Well, but,” said Mrs. Dodd, “there was nothing--nothing about----?”
“Oh yes, there was,” said Jane, “only I--well then, for dear Julia's
sake--the letter said, 'What wonder the son of a sharper should prove a
traitor? _You_ have stolen her money and _I_ her affections, and'--oh, I
can't, I can't.” And Jane Hardie began to cry.
Mrs. Dodd embraced her like a mother, and entered into her filial
feelings: Mrs. Dodd had never seen her so weak, and, therefore, never
thought her so amiable. Thus occupied they did not at first observe how
these tidings were changing Julia.
But presently looking up, they saw her standing at her full height on
fire with wrath and insulted pride.
“Ah, you have brought me comfort,” she cried. “Mamma, I shall hate
and scorn this man some day, as much as I hate and scorn myself now for
every tear I have shed for him.”
They tried to calm her, but in vain; a new gust of passion possessed the
ardent young creature and would have vent. She reddened from bosom
to brow, and the scalding tears ran down her flaming cheeks, and she
repeated between her clenched teeth, “My veins are not filled with
skim-milk, I can tell you: you have seen how I can love, you shall see
how I can hate.” And with this she went haughtily out of the room, not
to expose the passion which overpowered her.
Mrs. Dodd took advantage of her absence to thank Jane for her kindness,
and told her she had also received some letters by this morning's post,
and thought it would be neither kind on her part nor just to conceal
their purport from her. She then read her a letter from Mrs. Beresford,
and another from Mr. Grey, in answer to queries about the L. 14,000.
Sharpe, I may as well observe, was at sea; Bayliss drowned.
Mrs. Beresford knew nothing about the matter.
Mr. Grey was positive Captain Dodd, when in command, had several
thousand pounds in his cabin; Mrs. Beresford's Indian servant had been
detected trying to steal it, and put in irons: believed the lady had not
been told the cause--out of delicacy! and Captain Roberts had liberated
him. As to whether the money had escaped the wreck--if on Captain Dodd's
person, it might have been saved; but if not, it was certainly lost: for
Captain Dodd to his knowledge had run on deck from the passenger's cabin
the moment the ship struck, and had remained there till she went to
pieces; and everything was washed out of her.
“Our own opinion,” said Mrs. Dodd, “I mean Edward's and mine, is now,
that the money was lost in the ship; and you can tell your papa so if
you like.”
Jane thanked her, and said she thought so too: and what a sad thing it
was.
Soon after this Julia returned, pale and calm as a statue, and sat down
humbly beside Jane. “Oh, pray with me,” she said: “pray that I may not
hate, for to hate is to be wicked; and pray that I may not love, for to
love is to be miserable.”
Mrs. Dodd retired, with her usual tact and self-denial.
Then Jane Hardie, being alone with her friend, and full of sorrow,
sympathy, and faith, found words of eloquence almost divine to raise
her.
With these pious consolations Julia's pride and self-respect now
co-operated. Relieved of her great terror, she felt her insult to her
fingers' ends: “I'll never degrade myself so far as to pine for another
lady's lover,” she said. “I'll resume my duties in another sphere, and
try to face the world by degrees. I am not quite alone in it; I have my
mother still--and my Redeemer.”
Some tears forced their way at these brave, gentle words. Jane gave her
time.
Then she said: “Begin by putting on your bonnet, and visiting with me.
Come with one who is herself thwarted in the carnal affections; come
with her and see how sick some are, and we two in health; how racked
with pain some are, and we two at ease; how hungry some, and we have
abundance; and, above all, in what spiritual deserts some lie, while we
walk in the Gospel light.”
“Oh that I had the strength,” said Julia; “I'll try.”
She put on her bonnet, and went down with her friend; but at the street
door the strange feeling of shame overpowered her; she blushed and
trembled, and begged to substitute the garden for the road. Jane
consented, and said everything must have a beginning.
The fresh air, the bursting buds, and all the face of nature, did Julia
good, and she felt it. “You little angel,” said she, with something of
her old impetuosity, “you have saved me. I was making myself worse by
shutting myself up in that one miserable room.”
They walked hand in hand for a good half hour, and then Jane said she
must go; papa would miss her. Julia was sorry to part with her, and
almost without thinking, accompanied her through the house to the front
gate; and that was another point gained. “I never was so sorry to
part with you, love,” said she. “When will you come again? We leave
to-morrow. I am selfish to detain you; but it seems as if my guardian
angel was leaving me.”
Jane smiled. “I must go,” said she, “but I'll leave better angels than
I am behind me. I leave you this: 'Humble yourself under the mighty
hand of God!' When it seems most harsh, then it is most loving. Pray for
faith to say with me, 'Lead us by a way that we know not.'”
They kissed one another, and Julia stood at the gate and looked lovingly
after her, with the tears standing thick in her own violet eyes.
Now Maxley was coming down the road, all grizzly and bloodshot, baited
by the boys, who had gradually swelled in number as he drew nearer the
town.
Jane was shocked at their heathenish cruelty, and went off the path to
remonstrate with them.
On this, Maxley fell upon her, and began beating her about the head and
shoulders with his heavy stick.
The miserable boys uttered yells of dismay, but did nothing.
Julia uttered a violent scream, but flew to her friend's aid, and
crying, “Oh you wretch! you wretch!” actually caught the man by the
throat and shook him violently. He took his hand off Jane Hardie, who
instantly sank moaning on the ground, and he cowered like a cur at the
voice and the purple gleaming eyes of the excited girl.
The air filled with cries, and Edward ran out of the house to see what
was the matter; but on the spot nobody was game enough to come between
the furious man and the fiery girl. The consequence was, her impetuous
courage began to flag and her eye to waver; the demented man found
this out by some half animal instinct, and instantly caught her by the
shoulder and whirled her down on her knees; then raised his staff high
to destroy her.
She screamed, and was just putting up her hands, womanlike, not to see
her death as well as feel it, when something dark came past her like a
rushing wind--a blow, that sounded exactly like that of a paving ram,
caught Maxley on the jaw: and there was Edward Dodd blowing like a
grampus with rage, and Maxley on his back in the road. But men under
cerebral excitement are not easily stunned, and know no pain: he bounded
off the ground, and came at Edward like a Spanish bull. Edward slipped
aside, and caught him another ponderous blow that sent him staggering,
and his bludgeon flew out of his hand, and Edward caught it. Lo! the
maniac flew at him again more fiercely than ever; but the young Hercules
had seen Jane bleeding on the ground: he dealt her assailant in full
career such a murderous stroke with the bludgeon, that the people, who
were running from all quarters, shrieked with dismay--not for Jane, but
for Maxley; and well they might; that awful stroke laid him senseless,
motionless and mute, in a pool of his own blood.
“Don't kill him, sir; don't kill the man,” was the cry.
“Why not?” said Edward sternly. He then kneeled over his sweetheart and
lifted her in his arms like a child. Her bonnet was all broken, her eyes
were turned upwards and set, and a little blood trickled down her cheek;
and that cheek seemed streaked white and red.
He was terrified, agonised; yet he gasped out, “You are safe, dear;
don't be frightened.”
She knew the voice.
“Oh, Edward!” she said piteously and tenderly, and then moaned a little
on his broad bosom. He carried her into the house out of the crowd.
Poor old doctor Phillips, coming in to end his days in the almshouse,
had seen it all: he got out of his cart and hobbled up. He had been in
the army, and had both experience and skill. He got her bonnet off, and
at sight of her head looked very grave.
In a minute a bed was laid in the drawing-room, and all the windows and
doors open: and Edward, trembling now in every limb, ran to Musgrove
Cottage, while Mrs. Dodd and Julia loosened the poor girl's dress, and
bathed her wounds with tepid water (the doctor would not allow cold),
and put wine carefully to her lips with a teaspoon.
“Wanted at your house, pray what for?” said Mr. Hardie superciliously.
“Oh, sir,” said Edward, “such a calamity. Pray come directly. A ruffian
has struck her, has hurt her terribly, terribly.”
“Her! Who?” asked Mr. Hardie, beginning to be uneasy.
“Who! why Jane, your daughter, man; and there you sit chattering,
instead of coming at once.”
Mr. Hardie rose hurriedly and put on his hat, and accompanied him, half
confused.
Soon Edward's mute agitation communicated itself to him, and he went
striding and trembling by his side.
The crowd had gone with insensible Maxley to the hospital, but the
traces of the terrible combat were there. Where Maxley fell the last
time, a bullock seemed to have been slaughtered at the least.
The miserable father came on this, and gave a great scream like a woman,
and staggered back white as a sheet.
Edward laid his hand on him, for he seemed scarce able to stand.
“No, no, no,” he cried, comprehending the mistake at last; “that is not
hers--Heaven forbid! That is the madman's who did it; I knocked him down
with his own cudgel.”
“God bless you! you've killed him, I hope.”
“Oh, sir, be more merciful, and then perhaps He will be merciful to us,
and not take this angel from us.”
“No! no! you are right; good young man. I little thought I had such a
friend in your house.”
“Don't deceive yourself, sir,” said Edward; “it's not you I care for:”
then, with a great cry of anguish, _“I love her._”
At this blunt declaration, so new and so offensive to him, Mr. Hardie
winced, and stopped bewildered.
But they were at the gate, and Edward hurried him on. At the house door
he drew back once more; for he felt a shiver of repugnance at entering
this hateful house, of whose happiness he was the destroyer.
But enter it he must; it was his fate.
The wife of the poor Captain he had driven mad met him in the passage,
her motherly eyes full of tears for him, and both hands held out to him
like a pitying angel. “Oh, Mr. Hardie,” she said in a broken voice, and
took him, and led him, wonder-struck, stupefied, shivering with dark
fears, to the room where his crushed daughter lay.