“Then I shall persevere in asking till you are sure. It will do you
good, for I have not seen you walking all day.”
“Have you not? Then I will take a turn. Oh, Mr. Forrest, if you knew
what it was to have to live with such people as those.” And then, out of
that, on that evening, there grew up between them something like the
confidence of real friendship. Things were told such as none but friends
do tell to one another, and warm answering words were spoken such as the
sympathy of friendship produces. Alas, they were both foolish; for
friendship and sympathy should have deeper roots.
She told him all her story. She was going out to Peru to be married to a
man who was nearly twenty years her senior. It was a long engagement, of
ten years standing. When first made, it was made as being contingent on
certain circumstances. An option of escaping from it had then been
given to her, but now there was no longer an option. He was rich and she
was penniless. He had even paid her passage-money and her outfit. She
had not at last given way and taken these irrevocable steps till her
only means of support in England had been taken from her. She had lived
the last two years with a relative who was now dead. “And he also is my
cousin,--a distant cousin,--you understand that.”
“And do you love him?”
“Love him! What; as you loved her whom you have lost?--as she loved you
when she clung to you before she went? No; certainly not. I shall never
know anything of that love.”
“And is he good?”
“He is a hard man. Men become hard when they deal in money as he has
done. He was home five years since, and I swore to myself that I would
not marry him. But his letters to me are kind.”
Forrest sat silent for a minute or two, for they were up in the bow
again, seated on the sail that was bound round the bowsprit, and then he
answered her, “A woman should never marry a man unless she loves him.”
“Ah,” says she, “of course you will condemn me. That is the way in which
women are always treated. They have no choice given them, and are then
scolded for choosing wrongly.”
“But you might have refused him.”
“No; I could not. I cannot make you understand the whole,--how it first
came about that the marriage was proposed, and agreed to by me under
certain conditions. Those conditions have come about, and I am now bound
to him. I have taken his money and have no escape. It is easy to say
that a woman should not marry without love, as easy as it is to say that
a man should not starve. But there are men who starve,--starve although
they work hard.”
“I did not mean to judge you, Miss Viner.”
“But I judge myself, and condemn myself so often. Where should I be in
half-an-hour from this if I were to throw myself forward into the sea? I
often long to do it. Don’t you feel tempted sometimes to put an end to
it all?”
“The waters look cool and sweet, but I own I am afraid of the bourne
beyond.”
“So am I, and that fear will keep me from it.”
“We are bound to bear our burden of sorrow. Mine, I know, is heavy
enough.”
“Yours, Mr. Forrest! Have you not all the pleasures of memory to fall
back on, and every hope for the future? What can I remember, or what
can I hope? But, however, it is near eight o’clock, and they have all
been at tea this hour past. What will my Cerberus say to me? I do not
mind the male mouth, if only the two feminine mouths could be stopped.”
Then she rose and went back to the stern of the vessel; but as she slid
into a seat, she saw that Mrs. Grumpy was standing over her.
From thence to St. Thomas the voyage went on in the customary manner.
The sun became very powerful, and the passengers in the lower part of
the ship complained loudly of having their port-holes closed. The
Spaniards sat gambling in the cabin all day, and the ladies prepared for
the general move which was to be made at St. Thomas. The alliance
between Forrest and Miss Viner went on much the same as ever, and Mrs.
Grumpy said very ill-natured things. On one occasion she ventured to
lecture Miss Viner; but that lady knew how to take her own part, and
Mrs. Grumpy did not get the best of it. The dangerous alliance, I have
said, went on the same as ever; but it must not be supposed that either
person in any way committed aught that was wrong. They sat together and
talked together, each now knowing the other’s circumstances; but had it
not been for the prudish caution of some of the ladies there would have
been nothing amiss. As it was there was not much amiss. Few of the
passengers really cared whether or no Miss Viner had found an admirer.
Those who were going down to Panama were mostly Spaniards, and as the
great separation became nearer, people had somewhat else of which to
think.
And then the separation came. They rode into that pretty harbour of St.
Thomas early in the morning, and were ignorant, the most of them, that
they were lying in the very worst centre of yellow fever among all those
plague-spotted islands. St. Thomas is very pretty as seen from the
ships; and when that has been said, all has been said that can be said
in its favour. There was a busy, bustling time of it then. One vessel
after another was brought up alongside of the big ship that had come
from England, and each took its separate freight of passengers and
luggage. First started the boat that ran down the Leeward Islands to
Demerara, taking with her Mr. Grumpy and all his family.
“Good-bye, Miss Viner,” said Mrs. Grumpy. “I hope you’ll get quite
safely to the end of your voyage; but do take care.”
“I’m sure I hope everything will be right,” said Amelia, as she
absolutely kissed her enemy. It is astonishing how well young women can
hate each other, and yet kiss at parting.
“As to everything being right,” said Miss Viner, “that is too much to
hope. But I do not know that anything is going especially
wrong.--Good-bye, Sir,” and then she put out her hand to Mr. Grumpy. He
was at the moment leaving the ship laden with umbrellas, sticks, and
coats, and was forced to put them down in order to free his hand.
“Well, good-bye,” he said. “I hope you’ll do, till you meet your friends
at the isthmus.”
“I hope I shall, Sir,” she replied; and so they parted.
Then the Jamaica packet started.
“I dare say we shall never see each other again,” said Morris, as he
shook his friend’s hand heartily. “One never does. Don’t interfere with
the rights of that gentleman in Peru, or he might run a knife into you.”
“I feel no inclination to injure him on that point.”
“That’s well; and now good-bye.” And thus they also were parted. On the
following morning the branch ship was despatched to Mexico; and then, on
the afternoon of the third day, that for Colon--as we Englishmen call
the town on this side of the Isthmus of Panama. Into that vessel Miss
Viner and Mr. Forrest moved themselves and their effects; and now that
the three-headed Cerberus was gone, she had no longer hesitated in
allowing him to do for her all those little things which it is well that
men should do for women when they are travelling. A woman without
assistance under such circumstances is very forlorn, very apt to go to
the wall, very ill able to assert her rights as to accommodation; and I
think that few can blame Miss Viner for putting herself and her
belongings under the care of the only person who was disposed to be kind
to her.
Late in the evening the vessel steamed out of St. Thomas’ harbour, and
as she went Ralph Forrest and Emily Viner were standing together at the
stern of the boat looking at the retreating lights of the Danish town.
If there be a place on the earth’s surface odious to me, it is that
little Danish isle to which so many of our young seamen are sent to
die,--there being no good cause whatever for such sending. But the
question is one which cannot well be argued here.
“I have five more days of self and liberty left me,” said Miss Viner.
“That is my life’s allowance.”
“For Heaven’s sake do not say words that are so horrible.”
“But am I to lie for Heaven’s sake, and say words that are false; or
shall I be silent for Heaven’s sake, and say nothing during these last
hours that are allowed to me for speaking? It is so. To you I can say
that it is so, and why should you begrudge me the speech?”
“I would begrudge you nothing that I could do for you.”
“No, you should not. Now that my incubus has gone to Barbadoes, let me
be free for a day or two. What chance is there, I wonder, that the
ship’s machinery should all go wrong, and that we should be tossed about
in the seas here for the next six months? I suppose it would be very
wicked to wish it?”
“We should all be starved; that’s all.”
“What, with a cow on board, and a dozen live sheep, and thousands of
cocks and hens! But we are to touch at Santa Martha and Cartagena. What
would happen to me if I were to run away at Santa Martha?”
“I suppose I should be bound to run with you.”
“Oh, of course. And therefore, as I would not wish to destroy you, I
won’t do it. But it would not hurt you much to be shipwrecked, and wait
for the next packet.”
“Miss Viner,” he said after a pause,--and in the meantime he had drawn
nearer to her, too near to her considering all things--“in the name of
all that is good, and true, and womanly, go back to England. With your
feelings, if I may judge of them by words which are spoken half in
jest----”
“Mr. Forrest, there is no jest.”
“With your feelings a poorhouse in England would be better than a palace
in Peru.”
“An English workhouse would be better, but an English poorhouse is not
open to me. You do not know what it is to have friends--no, not friends,
but people belonging to you--just so near as to make your respectability
a matter of interest to them, but not so near that they should care for
your happiness. Emily Viner married to Mr. Gorloch in Peru is put out of
the way respectably. She will cause no further trouble, but her name may
be mentioned in family circles without annoyance. The fact is, Mr.
Forrest, that there are people who have no business to live at all.”
“I would go back to England,” he added, after another pause. “When you
talk to me with such bitterness of five more days of living liberty you
scare my very soul. Return, Miss Viner, and brave the worst. He is to
meet you at Panama. Remain on this side of the isthmus, and send him
word that you must return. I will be the bearer of the message.”
“And shall I walk back to England?” said Miss Viner.
“I had not quite forgotten all that,” he replied, very gently. “There
are moments when a man may venture to propose that which under ordinary
circumstances would be a liberty. Money, in a small moderate way, is not
greatly an object to me. As a return for my valiant defence of you
against your West Indian Cerberus, you shall allow me to arrange that
with the agent at Colon.”
“I do so love plain English, Mr. Forrest. You are proposing I think, to
give me something about fifty guineas.”
“Well, call it so if you will,” said he, “if you will have plain English
that is what I mean.”
“So that by my journey out here, I should rob and deceive the man I do
know, and also rob the man I don’t know. I am afraid of that bourne
beyond the waters of which we spoke; but I would rather face that than
act as you suggest.”
“Of the feelings between him and you, I can of course be no judge.”
“No, no; you cannot. But what a beast I am not to thank you! I do thank
you. That which it would be mean in me to take, it is noble, very noble,
in you to offer. It is a pleasure to me--I cannot tell why--but it is a
pleasure to me to have had the offer. But think of me as a sister, and
you will feel that it would not be accepted;--could not be accepted, I
mean, even if I could bring myself to betray that other man.”
Thus they ran across the Carribbean Sea, renewing very often such
conversations as that just given. They touched at Santa Martha and
Cartagena on the coast of the Spanish main, and at both places he went
with her on shore. He found that she was fairly well educated, and
anxious to see and to learn all that might be seen and learned in the
course of her travels. On the last day, as they neared the isthmus, she
became more tranquil and quiet in the expression of her feelings than
before, and spoke with less of gloom than she had done.
“After all ought I not to love him?” she said. “He is coming all the way
up from Callao merely to meet me. What man would go from London to
Moscow to pick up a wife?”
“I would--and thence round the world to Moscow again--if she were the
wife I wanted.”
“Yes; but a wife who has never said that she loved you! It is purely a
matter of convenience. Well; I have locked my big box, and I shall give
the key to him before it is ever again unlocked. He has a right to it,
for he has paid for nearly all that it holds.”
“You look at things from such a mundane point of view.”
“A woman should, or she will always be getting into difficulty. Mind, I
shall introduce you to him, and tell him all that you have done for me.
How you braved Cerberus and the rest of it.”
“I shall certainly be glad to meet him.”
“But I shall not tell him of your offer;--not yet at least. If he be
good and gentle with me, I shall tell him that too after a time. I am
very bad at keeping secrets,--as no doubt you have perceived. We go
across the isthmus at once; do we not?”
“So the captain says.”
“Look!”--and she handed him back his own field-glass. “I can see the men
on the wooden platform. Yes; and I can see the smoke of an engine.” And
then, in little more than an hour from that time the ship had swung
round on her anchor.
Colon, or Aspinwall as it should be called, is a place in itself as
detestable as St. Thomas. It is not so odious to an Englishman, for it
is not used by Englishmen more than is necessary. We have no great dépôt
of traffic there, which we might with advantage move elsewhere.
Taken, however, on its own merits, Aspinwall is not a detestable place.
Luckily, however, travellers across the isthmus to the Pacific are never
doomed to remain there long. If they arrive early in the day, the
railway thence to Panama takes them on at once. If it be not so, they
remain on board ship till the next morning. Of course it will be
understood that the transit line chiefly affects Americans, as it is the
highroad from New York to California.
In less than an hour from their landing, their baggage had been examined
by the Custom House officers of New Grenada, and they were on the
railway cars, crossing the isthmus. The officials in those
out-of-the-way places always seem like apes imitating the doings of men.
The officers at Aspinwall open and look at the trunks just as monkeys
might do, having clearly no idea of any duty to be performed, nor any
conception that goods of this or that class should not be allowed to
pass. It is the thing in Europe to examine luggage going into a new
country; and why should not they be as good as Europeans?
“I wonder whether he will be at the station?” she said, when the three
hours of the journey had nearly passed. Forrest could perceive that her
voice trembled as she spoke, and that she was becoming nervous.
“If he has already reached Panama, he will be there. As far as I could
learn the arrival up from Peru had not been telegraphed.”
“Then I have another day,--perhaps two. We cannot say how many. I wish
he were there. Nothing is so intolerable as suspense.”
“And the box must be opened again.”
When they reached the station at Panama they found that the vessel from
the South American coast was in the roads, but that the passengers were
not yet on shore. Forrest, therefore, took Miss Viner down to the hotel,
and there remained with her, sitting next to her in the common
drawing-room of the house, when she had come back from her own bed-room.
It would be necessary that they should remain there four or five days,
and Forrest had been quick in securing a room for her. He had assisted
in taking up her luggage, had helped her in placing her big box, and had
thus been recognised by the crowd in the hotel as her friend. Then came
the tidings that the passengers were landing, and he became nervous as
she was. “I will go down and meet him,” said he, “and tell him that you
are here. I shall soon find him by his name.” And so he went out.
Everybody knows the scrambling manner in which passengers arrive at an
hotel out of a big ship. First came two or three energetic, heated men,
who, by dint of screeching and bullying, have gotten themselves first
disposed. They always get the worst rooms at the inns, the housekeepers
having a notion that the richest people, those with the most luggage,
must be more tardy in their movements. Four or five of this nature
passed by Forrest in the hall, but he was not tempted to ask questions
of them. One, from his age, might have been Mr. Gorloch, but he
instantly declared himself to be Count Sapparello. Then came an elderly
man alone, with a small bag in his hand. He was one of those who pride
themselves on going from pole to pole without encumbrance, and who will
be behoved to no one for the carriage of their luggage. To him, as he
was alone in the street, Forrest addressed himself. “Gorloch,” said he.
“Gorloch: are you a friend of his?”
“A friend of mine is so,” said Forrest.
“Ah, indeed; yes,” said the other. And then he hesitated. “Sir,” he then
said, “Mr. Gorloch died at Callao, just seven days before the ship
sailed. You had better see Mr. Cox.” And then the elderly man passed in
with his little bag.
Mr. Gorloch was dead. “Dead!” said Forrest, to himself, as he leaned
back against the wall of the hotel still standing on the street
pavement. “She has come out here; and now he is gone!” And then a
thousand thoughts crowded on him. Who should tell her? And how would
she bear it? Would it in truth be a relief to her to find that that
liberty for which she had sighed had come to her? Or now that the
testing of her feelings had come to her, would she regret the loss of
home and wealth, and such position as life in Peru would give her? And
above all would this sudden death of one who was to have been so near to
her, strike her to the heart?
But what was he to do? How was he now to show his friendship? He was
returning slowly in at the hotel door, where crowds of men and women
were now thronging, when he was addressed by a middle-aged, good-looking
gentleman, who asked him whether his name was Forrest. “I am told,” said
the gentleman, when Forrest had answered him, “that you are a friend of
Miss Viner’s. Have you heard the sad tidings from Callao?” It then
appeared that this gentleman had been a stranger to Mr. Gorloch, but had
undertaken to bring a letter up to Miss Viner. This letter was handed to
Mr. Forrest, and he found himself burdened with the task of breaking the
news to his poor friend. Whatever he did do, he must do at once, for all
those who had come up by the Pacific steamer knew the story, and it was
incumbent on him that Miss Viner should not hear the tidings in a sudden
manner and from a stranger’s mouth.
He went up into the drawing-room, and found Miss Viner seated there in
the midst of a crew of women. He went up to her, and taking her hand,
asked her in a whisper whether she would come out with him for a moment.
“Where is he?” said she. “I know that something is the matter. What is
it?”
“There is such a crowd here. Step out for a moment.” And he led her away
to her own room.
“Where is he?” said she. “What is the matter? He has sent to say that he
no longer wants me. Tell me; am I free from him?”
“Miss Viner, you are free.”
Though she had asked the question herself, she was astounded by the
answer; but, nevertheless, no idea of the truth had yet come upon her.
“It is so,” she said. “Well, What else? Has he written? He has bought
me, as he would a beast of burden, and has, I suppose, a right to treat
me as he pleases.”
“I have a letter; but, dear Miss Viner----”
“Well, tell me all,--out at once. Tell me everything.”
“You are free, Miss Viner; but you will be cut to the heart when you
learn the meaning of your freedom.”
“He has lost everything in trade. He is ruined.”
“Miss Viner, he is dead!”
She stood staring at him for a moment or two, as though she could not
realise the information which he gave her. Then gradually she retreated
to the bed, and sat upon it. “Dead, Mr. Forrest!” she said. He did not
answer her, but handed her the letter, which she took and read as though
it were mechanically. The letter was from Mr. Gorloch’s partner, and
told her everything which it was necessary that she should know.
“Shall I leave you now?” he said, when he saw that she had finished
reading it.
“Leave me; yes,--no. But you had better leave me, and let me think about
it. Alas me, that I should have so spoken of him!”
“But you have said nothing unkind.”
“Yes; much that was unkind. But spoken words cannot be recalled. Let me
be alone how, but come to me soon. There is no one else here that I can
speak to.”
He went out, and finding that the hotel dinner was ready, he went in and
dined. Then he strolled into the town, among the hot, narrow,
dilapidated streets; and then, after two hours’ absence, returned to
Miss Viner’s room. When he knocked, she came and opened the door, and he
found that the floor was strewed with clothes. “I am preparing, you see,
for my return. The vessel starts back for St. Thomas the day after
to-morrow.”
“You are quite right to go,--to go at once. Oh, Miss Viner! Emily, now
at least you must let me help you.”
He had been thinking of her most during those last two hours, and her
voice had become pleasant to his ears, and her eyes very bright to his
sight.
“You shall help me,” she said. “Are you not helping me when at such a
time you come to speak to me?”
“And you will let me think that I have a right to act as your
protector?”
“My protector! I do know that I want such aid as that. During the days
that we are here together you shall be my friend.”
“You shall not return alone. My journeys are nothing to me. Emily, I
will return with you to England.”
Then she rose up from her seat and spoke to him.
“Not for the world,” she said. “Putting out of question the folly of
your forgetting your own objects, do you think it possible that I should
go with you, now that he is dead? To you I have spoken of him harshly;
and now that it is my duty to mourn for him, could I do so heartily if
you were with me? While he lived, it seemed to me that in those last
days I had a right to speak my thoughts plainly. You and I were to part
and meet no more, and I regarded us both as people apart, who for a
while might drop the common usages of the world. It is so no longer.
Instead of going with you farther, I must ask you to forget that we were
ever together.”
“Emily, I shall never forget you.”
“Let your tongue forget me. I have given you no cause to speak good of
me, and you will be too kind to speak evil.”
After that she explained to him all that the letter had contained. The
arrangements for her journey had all been made; money also had been sent
to her; and Mr. Gorloch in his will had provided for her, not liberally,
seeing that he was rich, but still sufficiently.
And so they parted at Panama. She would not allow him even to cross the
isthmus with her, but pressed his hand warmly as he left her at the
station. “God bless you!” he said. “And may God bless you, my friend!”
she answered.
Thus alone she took her departure for England, and he went on his way to
California.
THE END.
PRINTED BY W. H. SMITH AND SON, 186, STRAND, LONDON.