Silver Hair
And how should I your true love know
From another man?--Friar of Orders Gray
"Please God, I can try again."
Those were the words with which Herbert Bowater looked into his
Rector's face on awaking in the evening of that same December day
from one of a series of sleeps, each sweeter and longer than the
last, and which had borne him over the dreaded hours, without fever,
and with strengthening pulse.
Julius had not ventured to leave the sick-room that whole day, and
when at last he went home and sank into the chair opposite Terry,
for the first time through all these weeks of trouble and tension,
he burst into a flood of tears.
He had hardly made the startled lad understand that life, not death,
had thus overcome him, when the door flew open, and in rushed
Rosamond, crying, "Julius, Julius, come! It is he or his ghost!"
"Who? What?"
"It is your hair! At Mrs. Douglas's grave! He'll be gone! Make
haste--make haste!"
He started up, letting her drag him along, but under protest. "My
dear, men _do_ come to have hair like mine."
"I tell you it was at our graves--our own--I touched him. I had
this wreath for Raymond, and there he was, with his hat off, at the
railing close to Mrs. Douglas's. I thought his back was yours, and
called your name, and he started, and I saw--he had a white beard,
but he was not old. He just bowed, and then went off very fast by
the other gate, towards Wil'sbro'. I did call, 'Wait, wait,' but he
didn't seem to hear. Oh, go, go, Julius! Make haste!"
Infected by the wild hope, Julius hurried on the road where his wife
had turned his face, almost deriding himself for obeying her, when
he would probably only overtake some old family retainer; but as,
under the arch of trees that overhung the road, he saw a figure in
the moonlight, a thrill of recognition came over him as he marked
the vigorous tread of the prime of life, and the white hair visible
in the moonlight, together with something utterly indescribable, but
which made him call out, "Archie! Archie Douglas! wait for me!"
The figure turned. "Julius!" came in response; the two cousins'
hands clasped, and there was a sob on either side as they kissed one
another as brothers.
"Archie! How could you!--Come back!" was all that Julius could say,
leaning breathlessly against him and holding him tight.
"No! Do not know that I have been here. I was sent to London on
business. I could not help running home in the dark. No one must
know it. I am dead to them."
"No, Archie, you are not. Gadley has confessed and cleared you.
Come home!"
"Cleared me!" The two arms were stretched up to the sky, and there
was the sound of a mighty sob, as though the whole man, body, soul,
and spirit, were relieved from an unspeakable burthen. "Say it
again, Julius!"
"Gadley, on his death-bed, has confessed that Moy and Proudfoot took
that money, incited by Tom Vivian."
Archie Douglas could not speak, but he turned his face towards
Compton again, strode swiftly into the churchyard, and fell on his
knees by his mother's grave. When at last he rose, he pointed to
the new and as yet unmarked mound, and said, "Your mother's?"
"Oh no! Raymond's! We have had a terrible fever here--almost a
pestilence--and we are scarcely breathing after it."
"Ah! some one in the train spoke of sickness at Wil'sbro', but I
would ask no questions, for I saw faces I knew, and I would lead to
no recognition. I could not stay away from getting one sight of the
old place. Miles made it all burn within me; but here's my return-
ticket for the mail-train."
"Never mind return-tickets. Come home with me."
"I shall startle your mother."
"I meant my home--the Rectory. It was my wife who saw you in the
churchyard, and sent me after you. She is watching for you."
Archie, still bewildered, as if spell-bound by his ticket, muttered,
"I thought I should have time to walk over and look at Strawyers."
"Joanna is here."
"Julius! It is too much. You are sure I am awake? This is not the
old dream!" cried the exile, grasping his cousin's arm quite
gainfully.
"I am a waking man, and I trust you are," said Julius. "Come into
the light. No, that is not Jenny on the step. It is my Rose. Yes,
here he is!"
And as they came into the stream of light from the porch, Irish
Rosamond, forgetting that Archie was not a brother, caught him by
both hands, and kissed him in overpowering welcome, exclaiming, "Oh,
I am so glad! Come in--come in!"
There he stood, blinking in the lamplight, a tall, powerful, broad-
chested figure, but hardly a hero of romance to suit Terry's fancy,
after a rapid summary of the history from Rosamond. His hair and
beard were as white as Julius's, and the whole face was tanned to
uniform red, but no one could mistake the dazed yet intense gladness
of the look. He sank into a chair, clasped his hands over his face
for a moment, then surveyed them all one by one, and said, "You told
me she was here."
"She is with her brother Herbert, at Mrs. Hornblower's lodgings.
No, you must wait, Archie; he has barely in the last few hours, by
God's great mercy, taken a turn for the better in this fever, and I
don't see how she can leave him."
"But she must hear it," cried Rosamond. "I'm going to make her or
Cranky get some rest; but you ought to be the one to tell her,
Julius, you that have stood by her through all."
"And aren't you burning to do so, Rosey, woman? and I think you had
better, rather than that I should startle Herbert by returning; but
stay, mind your own rules--eat and drink before you go, and give the
same to Archie. I shall send up a note to Miles. How is Cecil?"
"Very silent and broken, poor thing. She is to see your mother to-
morrow. How well it was that she kept me so late over her wreath of
camellias!"
Archie submitted to wait for food and fuller information,--indeed
the lady of the house manifested more impatience than he did, as she
flitted about making preparations, and he sat with hands locked
together over his knee, gazing fixedly at Julius, scarcely speaking,
though eagerly listening; and when the meal was brought in, he could
not eat, only eagerly drank off a cup of scalding tea, and watched
Rosamond, as if jealous of any delay over her cutlet. She did not
abuse his patience.
"Now then?" she said, rising. "You shall hear something of her
before long."
"Let me come to her door," entreated Archie.
And as the light shone from the window of the sick-room, Rosamond
said, "Stand under that tree in the moonlight, and I will make her
look out."
All was intensely quiet; Cranky fast asleep in the arm-chair in the
outer-room, and Jenny sitting by the bed, watching the smooth quiet
breath.
"You are to lie down on the sofa and sleep," said Rosamond, kissing
her, and she shook her head, "You must. People want strength for
joy as well as grief. Trust him to me, for there is some one for
you to see to-morrow."
"Not papa!" said Jenny, startled. "No, nor Phil! Tell me,
Rosamond. There is only one you could look at me like that for!"
"Look out at the window."
Trembling all over, Jenny went and put her face to the lattice. The
figure under the tree came nearer. Archie must have been able
clearly to see her face in the moonlight. He stretched up his arms
to her, then folded them together on his breast, and let himself be
led away by Julius, while Jenny slid down on her knees, with her
face buried, and the suppressed choking sobs made Herbert look up at
Rosamond, and whisper, "It is?"
"It is," repeated Rosamond, who had thought him asleep, or entirely
absorbed in the trouble of living.
"Go to her," he added.
Rosamond put her arm round her, and supported her into the next
room; for, after the month of hopeless watching, the long
sleeplessness and the struggle of this silent day to force her
spirit to the forgiveness she had promised, and then the sudden
reaction, had overpowered her, and the suppression and silence were
beyond endurance. She did not even know that Herbert was awake when
Rosamond brought her out into Mrs. Hornblower's room, and said,
"Have it out now, my dear, no one will hear. Scream comfortably.
It will do you good."
But Jenny could not even scream. She was in the excited agony when
the mind is far too much for the body, and joy, unrealized, is like
grief. If her brother had that day passed away, and if nothing had
been heard of her lover, she would have been all calmness and
resignation; but the revulsion had overcome her, and at the moment
she was more conscious of strangulation than of anything else.
Rosamond tended her for full half an hour, and then she seemed
almost asleep, though she resisted the attempt to undress her, with
the words, "I must go to Herbert."
"I will take care of Herbert," and Jenny was too much spent not to
acquiesce, and fell asleep almost before she was laid down on the
bed their landlady had given up to the watchers.
Rosamond's task was a comfortable one, for every hour of sleep,
every mouthful of food seemed to do its work of restoration on the
sound, healthy frame, and a smile and word of thanks met her
whenever she roused her patient with the inevitable spoon.
When he awoke towards morning, he asked what day it was, and when
she told him, answered, "So I thought. Then I have not lost count
of time."
"No, you have been wonderfully clear-headed."
"I can't see how there can have been time to write," he said. "It
is true that he is come, is it not?"
"Quite true; but he came independently on business," and Rosamond
told of Julius's chase, bringing a look of amusement on his face.
Jenny came in with the rising sun, pale indeed, but another creature
after her rest and in the sight of the restful countenance that
greeted her with a smile. The moaning, hoarse voice was gone too,
it was a faint shadow of Herbert's own tones that said, "Is not this
good, Jenny? I didn't think to have seen it."
"My Herbert, you have given him back! You have given me the heart
to be glad!"
"You must go and see him," said Herbert.
Jenny looked wistful and undecided; but Julius entered to say that
she must come at once, for Archie must go back to London by the ten
o'clock train to an appointment, and could not return for two days.
Herbert smiled her away, for he was still in a state where it was
not possible to bear any engrossing of his head-nurse, and the
lover's absence was, even to his unselfishness, good news.
Rosamond could not refrain from the pleasure of peeping down the
little dark stair as Archie and his Jenny met in the doorway, and
she walked demurely in their rear, wondering whether other eyes saw
as much as she did in the manner in which Jenny hung on his arm.
She left them to their dewy walk in the Rectory garden to the last
minute at which breakfast could be swallowed, and told Jenny that
she was to drive him in the pony-carriage to Hazlett's Gate; she
would take care of Herbert.
"You ought to be asleep, you know," said Jenny.
"My dear, I couldn't sleep! There's a great deal better than sleep!
Is not Herbert going to get well? and aren't you jolly again and
Archie back again? Sleep!--why I want to have wings and clap them--
and more than all, is not Mr. Charnock off and away to-morrow?
Sleep indeed!--I should like to see myself so stupid."
"Mr. Charnock?" interrogatively said Archie.
"The head of the family--the original Charnock of Dunstone," said
Rosamond, who was in wild spirits, coming on a worn-out body and
mind, and therefore perfectly unguarded. "Don't shake your head at
me, Jenny, Archie is one of the family, and that makes you so, and I
must tell you of his last performance. You know he is absolutely
certain that his dear daughter is more infallible than all the
Popes, even since the Council, or than anybody but himself, and that
whatever goes wrong here is the consequence of Julius's faith in Dr.
Easterby. So, when poor Cecil, uneasy in her mind, began asking
about the illness at Wil'sbro', he enlivened her with a prose about
misjudging, through well-intentioned efforts of clerical
philanthropy to interfere with the sanitary condition of the town--
so that wells grew tainted, &c., all from ignorant interference.
Poor man he heard a little sob, and looked round, and there was
Cecil in a dead faint. He set all the bells ringing, and sent an
express for me."
"But wasn't he furious with Anne for mentioning drains at all?"
"My dear Joan, don't you know how many old women there are of both
sorts, who won't let other people look over the wall at what they
gloat on in private? However, he had his punishment, for he really
thought that the subject had been too much for her delicacy, and
simply upset her nerves."
"When was this?"
"Four or five days ago. She is better, but has said not a word more
about it. She is nothing like strong enough, even for so short a
journey as to Portishead; but they say change will be the best thing
for her, and the coming down into the family would be too sad."
"Poor thing! Yes indeed," said Jenny; and feeling universally
benevolent, she added, "give her my love," a thing which so sincere
a person could hardly have said a few weeks ago.
Reserve was part of Cecil's nature, and besides, her father was
almost always with her; but when she had been for the first time
dressed in crape up to her waist, with the tiniest of caps perched
toy-like on the top of her passive head, the sight upset him
completely, and muttering, "Good heavens!--a widow at twenty-two!"
he hid himself from the sight over some business transactions with
Mrs. Poynsett and Miles.
Rosamond seized the opportunity of bringing Julius in to pay his
farewell visit, and presently Cecil said, "Julius, I should be much
obliged if you would tell me the real facts about this illness."
"Do," said Rosamond. "Her half knowledge is most wearing."
He gently told her what science had pronounced.
"Then it was Pettitt's well?" she said.
"They tell us that this was the immediate cause of the outbreak; but
there would probably have been quite as much fatal illness the first
time any infectious disease came in. The whole place was in a
shameful state, and you were the only people who tried to mitigate
it."
"And did worse harm, because we would not listen to advice," said
Cecil. "Julius, I have a great deal of money; can't I do anything
now? My father wants me to give a donation to the church as a
memorial of _him_, but, somehow, I don't feel as if I deserved to do
that."
"I see what you mean, Cecil, but the town is being rated to set the
drainage to rights, and it will thus be done in the most permanent
and effectual way. There are some orphans who might be saved from
the Union, about whom I thought of asking you to help."
Cecil asked the details of the orphans, and the consultation over
them seemed to be prolonged by her because, even now, she could not
resolve to go below the surface. It lasted until her father came to
ask whether she were ready to go with him to Mrs. Poynsett's
sitting-room. She looked very fragile and childish as she stood up,
clinging to his arm to help her wavering, uncertain step, holding
out her hand to Julius and saying, "I shall see you again."
He was a little disappointed to see her no older, and no warmer;
having gone thus far, it seemed as if she might have gone further
and opened more. Perhaps he did not understand how feelings,
naturally slow, were rendered slower by the languor of illness,
which made them more oppressive than acute. As Mr. Charnock and his
daughter knocked, the door was opened by Miles, who merely gave his
hand, and went down. Frank, who had been reading in a low easy-
chair by the fire, drew it close to his mother for her, and
retreated to another seat, and the mother and daughter-in-law
exchanged a grave kiss. Cecil attempted some civility about the
chair, to which poor Frank replied, "I'm afraid it is of no use to
speak to me, Cecil, Miles can only just make me hear."
Regret for his misfortune, and inquiry as to the chance of
restoration, were a possible topic. Mr. Charnock gave much advice
about aurists, and examples of their success or non-success; and
thence he diverged to the invalid-carriage he had secured, and his
future plans for expediting his daughter's recovery. Meanwhile Mrs.
Poynsett and Cecil sat grave, dry-eyed, and constrained, each
feeling that in Mr. Charnock's presence the interview was a nullity,
yet neither of them able to get rid of him, nor quite sure that she
would have done so if she could.
He, meanwhile, perfectly satisfied with his own considerate tact,
talked away the allotted half-hour, and then pronounced his daughter
pale and tired. She let him help her to rise, but held Mrs.
Poynsett's hand wistfully, as if she wished to say something but
could not; and all Mrs. Poynsett could bring out was a hope of
hearing how she bore the journey. It was as if they were both
frozen up. Yet the next moment Cecil was holding Frank's hand in a
convulsive clasp, and fairly pulling him down to exchange a kiss,
when he found her tears upon his cheek. Were they to his
misfortune, or to his much-increased resemblance to his brother?
Mr. Charnock kept guard over her, so that her other farewells were
almost as much restrained as these, and though she hung on
Rosamond's neck, and seemed ready to burst forth with some fervent
exclamation, he hovered by, saying, "My dear child, don't, don't
give way to agitation. It does you honour, but it cannot be
permitted at such a moment. Lady Rosamond, I appeal to your
unfailing good sense to restrain her emotion."
"I haven't any good sense, and I think it only hurts her to restrain
her emotion," said Rosamond, with one of her little stamps, pressing
Cecil in her arms. "There, there, my dear, cry,--never mind, if it
will comfort your poor heart."
"Lady Rosamond! This is--Cecil, my dear child! Your resolution--
your resignation. And the boxes are packed, and we shall be late
for the train!"
Mr. Charnock was a little jealous of Lady Rosamond as a comforter
preferred to himself, and he spoke in a tone which Cecil had never
resisted. She withdrew herself from Rosamond, still tearless,
though her chest heaved as if there were a great spasm in it; she
gave her hand to Miles, and let him lead her to the carriage; and so
Raymond's widowed bride left Compton Poynsett enfolded in that
strange silence which some called sullenness and pride; others, more
merciful, stunned grief.
Poor Cecil! there was less pity to be spared to her because of the
intense relief it was to be free from her father, and to be able to
stand in a knot consulting on the steps, without his coming out to
find out what they were talking about, and to favour them with some
Dunstone counsel.
The consultation was about Mr. Moy. It was determined that since
Archie was in England, it would be better not to wait till Herbert
was recovered, but that Miles and Julius should go together at once
to see what effect they could produce on him.
They drove together to his office. He was a tall man, a few years
over forty, and had hitherto been portly and well-preserved, with a
certain serene air of complacent prosperity about him, that had
always been an irritation to the county families, with whom he tried
to assert an equality; but as he rose to greet the brothers, there
was a bent and shrunken look about him: the hair on his temples had
visibly whitened, his cheeks seemed to have sunk in, and there were
deep furrows on them. Altogether he had grown full twenty years
older in appearance since he had stood proposing a popular toast at
the dinner at the town-hall. There was something nervous and
startled in his gray eye, as he saw them enter, though he tried to
assume his usual half-bland, half-easy, manner.
"Good morning, Captain Charnock Poynsett. Good morning, Mr.
Charnock, I hope I see you well?" the words faltering a little, as
neither sailor nor clergyman took notice of his proffered hand; but
he continued his inquiries after the convalescents, though neither
inquired in return after Mrs. Moy, feeling, perhaps, that they would
rather not hear a very sad account of her state just before letting
their inevitable Nemesis descend; also, not feeling inclined for
reciprocal familiarity, and wanting to discourage the idea that
Miles came for political purposes.
"It has been a terrible visitation," said Moy, when he had been
reduced to replying to himself.
"It has," said Julius. "Perhaps you have heard that your tenant,
Gadley, is dead?"
"Yes, I did hear it. A very melancholy thing--the whole family
swept-away," said Mr. Moy, his eye again betraying some uneasiness,
which Julius increased by saying--
"We thought it right that you should hear that he made a disclosure
on his death-bed."
"Indeed!" Mr. Moy sat erect--the hard, keen, watchful lawyer.
"A disclosure that nearly affects the character of Mr. Archibald
Douglas," proceeded Julius.
"May I ask what this may be?"
"Mr. Gadley then informed me that he had been in the outer room,
behind his desk, at the time when Mr. Douglas brought in the letter
from my mother, containing the missing cheque, and that after
Douglas was gone, he heard Mr. Vivian propose to those within to
appropriate the amount to their own debts."
"Pardon me, Mr. Charnock, this is a very serious charge to bring on
the authority of a man in a raving fever. Was any deposition taken
before a magistrate?"
"No," said Julius. "Mr. Lipscombe was fetched, but he was unable to
speak at the time. However, on reviving, he spoke as is thus
attested," and he showed Herbert Bowater's slip of paper.
"Mr. Charnock," said Mr. Moy, "without the slightest imputation on
the intentions of yourself or of young Mr. Bowater, I put it to
yourself and Captain Charnock Poynsett, whether you could go before
a jury with no fuller attestation than you have in your hand. We
know what Mr. Charnock and Mr. Bowater are. To a jury they would
simply appear--pardon me--a young clergyman, his still more youthful
curate, and a sister of mercy, attaching importance to the words of
a delirious man; and juries have become very incredulous in such
cases."
"We shall see that," said Miles sharply.
"The more cautious," added Mr. Moy, "when it is the raking up of a
matter eleven years old, where the witnesses are mostly dead, and
where the characters of two gentlemen, also deceased, would be
implicated. Believe me, sir, this firm--I speak as its present
head--will be rejoiced to make any compensation to Mrs. Poynsett for
what went astray while coming to their hands. It has been our
desire to do so from the very first, as letters of which I have
copies testify; but our advances were met in a spirit of enmity,
which may perhaps be laid aside now."
"No so-called compensation can be accepted, but the clearing of
Douglas's character," said Miles.
"It is a generous feeling," said Mr. Moy, speaking apparently most
dispassionately, though Julius saw his hands trembling below the
table; "but even if the word of this delirious man were sufficient,
have you reflected, Captain Charnock Poynsett, on the unequal
benefit of justifying--allowing that you could justify--a young man
who has been dead and forgotten these eleven years, and has no
relation living nearer than yourself, at the expense of those also
gone, but who have left relations who could ill bear to suffer from
such a revelation?"
"Justice is justice, whether a man be dead or alive," said Miles;
"and Douglas is alive to demand his right."
"Alive!" cried Mr. Moy, starting violently. "Alive! Archie Douglas
alive!"
"Alive, and in England," said Julius. "He slept in my house the
night before last. He never was in the Hippolyta, at all, but has
been living in Africa all these years of exile."
Mr. Moy's self-command and readiness were all gone. He sank back in
his chair, with his hands over his face. The brothers looked at one
another, fearing he might have a stroke; but he revived in a moment,
yet with a totally different expression on his countenance. The
keen, defensive look was gone, there was only something piteously
worn and supplicating in the face, as he said--
"Then, gentlemen, I cannot resent anything you may do. Believe me,
but for the assurance of his death, I should have acted very
differently long ago. I will assist you in any way you desire in
reinstating Mr. Douglas in public opinion, only, if it be possible,
let my wife be spared. She has recently had the heaviest possible
blow; she can bear no more."
"Mr. Moy, we will do nothing vindictive. We can answer for my
mother and Douglas," began Julius; but Miles, more sternly, would
not let his brother hold out his hand, and said--
"You allow, then, the truth of Gadley's confession?"
"What has he confessed?" said Moy, still too much the lawyer not to
see that his own complicity had never yet been stated.
Julius laid before him his own written record of Gadley's words, not
only involving Moy in the original fraud, but showing how he had
bribed the only witness to silence ever since. The unhappy man read
it over, and said--
"Yes, Mr. Charnock, it is all true. I cannot battle it further. I
am at your mercy. I would leave you to proclaim the whole to the
world; if it were not for my poor wife and her father, I would be
glad to do so. Heaven knows how this has hung upon me for years."
"I can well believe it," said Julius, not to be hindered now from
grasping Mr. Moy's hand.
It seemed to be a comfort now to tell the whole story in detail.
Moy, the favoured and trusted articled clerk at first, then the
partner, the lover and husband of the daughter, had been a model of
steadiness and success so early, that when some men's youthful
follies are wearing off, he had begun to weary of the monotony of
the office, and after beginning as Mentor to his young brother-in-
law, George Proudfoot, had gradually been carried along by the
fascination of Tom Vivian's society to share in the same perilous
pursuits, until both had incurred a debt to him far beyond their
powers, while he was likewise so deeply involved, that no bonds of
George Proudfoot would avail him.
Then came the temptation of Mrs. Poynsett's cheque, suggested,
perhaps in jest, by Vivian, but growing on them as the feasibility
of using it became clear. It was so easy to make it appear to
Archie Douglas that the letter was simply an inquiry for the lost
one. Mr. Proudfoot, the father, was out of reach; Mrs. Poynsett
would continue to think the cheque lost in the post; and Tom Vivian
undertook to get it presented for payment through persons who would
guard against its being tracked. The sum exceeded the debt, but he
would return the overplus to them, and they both cherished the hope
of returning it with interest. Indeed, it had been but a half
consent on the part of either, elicited only by the dire alternative
of exposure; the envelope and letter were destroyed, and Vivian
carried off the cheque to some of the Jews with whom he had had only
too many transactions, and they never met him again.
Moy's part all along had been half cowardice, half ambition. The
sense of that act and of its consequences had gnawed at his heart
through all his success; but to cast himself down from his position
as partner and son-in-law of Mr. Proudfoot, the keen, clever,
trusted, confidential agent of half the families around--to let his
wife know his shame and that of her brother, and to degrade his
daughter into the daughter of a felon--was more than he could bear;
and he had gone on trying to drown the sense of that one lapse in
the prosperity of his career and his efforts to place his daughter
in the first ranks of society. No doubt the having done an injury
to the Poynsett family had been the true secret of that enmity, more
than political, which he had always shown to Raymond; and after
thinking Gadley safer out of that office, and having yielded to his
solicitations and set him up at the Three Pigeons, he had been
almost compelled to bid for popularity by using his position as a
magistrate to protect the blackguardism of the town. He had been
meant for better things, and had been dragged on against his
conscience and judgment by the exigencies of his unhappy secret; and
when the daughter, for whose sake he had sacrificed his better self,
had only been led by her position into the follies and extravagances
of the worst part of the society into which she had been introduced,
and threw herself into the hands of a dissipated gambler, to whom
her fortune made her a desirable prey--truly his sin had found him
out.
His fight at first had been partly force of habit, but he was so
entirely crushed that they could only have pity on him when he put
himself so entirely in their hands, only begging for forbearance to
his wife and her aged father, and entreating that principal,
interest, and compound interest might at once be tendered to Mrs.
Poynsett.
The brothers could answer for nothing. Archie must decide for
himself what he would accept as restoration of his character, and
Mrs. Poynsett could alone answer as to whether she would accept the
compensation. But neither of them could be hard on one so stricken
and sorrowful, and they did not expect hardness from their mother
and cousin, especially so far as old Mr. Proudfoot and his daughter
were concerned.
That the confession was made, and that Archie should be cleared, was
enough for Julius to carry to Herbert's room, while Miles repaired
to his mother. It was known in the sick-room where the brothers had
been, and Julius was watched as he crossed the street by Jenny's
eager eye, and she met him at the door of the outer room with a face
of welcome.
"Come in and tell us all," she said. "I see it is good news."
Herbert was quite well enough to bear good news in full detail as he
lay, not saying much, but smiling his welcome, and listening with
ears almost as eager as his sister's. And as Julius told of the
crushed and broken man, Jenny's tears rose to her eyes, and she
pressed her brother's hand and whispered, "Thanks, dear boy!"
"Small thanks to me."
"Yes, I can enjoy it now," said Jenny; "thanks to you for forcing
the bitterness out of me."
"Can you bear a little more good news, Herbert?" said Julius. "Who
do you think is to have St. Nicholas?"
"Not William Easterby? That's too good to be true."
"But so it is. All the Senior Fellows dropped it like a red-hot
coal."
"I thought Dwight wanted to marry?"
"Yes, but the lady's friends won't hear of his taking her there; so
it has come down to young Easterby. He can't be inducted of course
yet; but he has written to say he will come down on Saturday and
take matters in hand."
"The services on Sunday? Oh!" said Herbert, with as great a gasp of
relief as if he had been responsible for them; and, indeed, Rosamond
declared that both her husband and Mr. Bindon looked like new men
since Wil'sbro' was off their backs. Archie was coming back that
evening. Jenny much longed to show her two treasures to each other,
for it was a useless risk for the healthy man, and the sick one was
too weak and tired to wish for a new face, or the trouble of
speaking; nay, he could not easily bring himself to cheerful
acquiescence in even his favourite Lady Rose taking his sister's
place to set her free for an evening with Archie at the Hall.
Mrs. Poynsett was in the drawing-room. She had taken courage to
encounter the down-stair associations, saying she would make it no
sadder for the dear boy than she could help, and so Miles had
carried her down to meet one who had been always as one of her own
sons.
And thus it was that she gathered him into her embrace, while the
great strong man, only then fully realizing all the changes, sobbed
uncontrollably beside her.
"My boy, my poor Archie," she said, "you are come at last. Did you
not know you still had a mother to trust to?"
"I ought to have known it," said Archie, in a choked voice. "Oh
that I had seen Jenny in London!"
For indeed it had become plain that it had been his flight that had
given opportunity and substance to the accusation. If he had
remained, backed by the confidence of such a family as the
Poynsetts, Gadley would have seen that testimony in his favour would
be the safer and more profitable speculation; and Moy himself, as he
had said, would have testified to the innocence of a living man on
the spot, though he had let the blame rest on one whom he thought in
the depths of the sea. Archie's want of moral courage had been his
ruin. It had led him to the scene of temptation rather than resist
his companions, and had thus given colour to the accusation, and in
the absence of both Joanna and of his cousins, it had prevented him
from facing the danger.
This sense made him the more willing to be forbearing, when, after
dinner, the whole council sat round to hear in full the history of
the interview with Mr. Moy; Anne taking up her position beside
Frank, with whom, between her pencil and the finger-alphabet, she
had established such a language as to make her his best interpreter
of whatever was passing in the room.
"One could not help being sorry for Moy," said Miles, as he
concluded; "he turns out to be but half the villain after all, made
so rather by acquiescence than by his own free will."
"But reaping the profit," said Mrs. Poynsett.
"Yes, though in ignorance of the injury he was doing, and thus
climbing to a height that makes his fall the worse. I am sorry for
old Proudfoot too," added Julius. "I believe they have not ventured
to tell him of his granddaughter's marriage."
"I do not think the gain to me would be at all equal to the loss to
them," said Archie. "Exposure would be ruin and heartbreak there,
and I don't see what it would do for me."
"My dear Archie!" exclaimed both Mrs. Poynsett and Joanna, in
amazement.
"So long as you and Mr. Bowater are satisfied, I care for little
else," said Archie.
"But your position, my dear," said Mrs. Poynsett.
"We don't care much about a man's antecedents, within a few years,
out in the colonies, dear Aunt Julia," said Archie, smiling.
"You aren't going back?"
"That depends," said Archie, his eyes seeking Joanna's; "but I don't
see what there is for me to do here. I'm spoilt for a solicitor
anyway--"
"We could find an agency, Miles, couldn't we?--or a farm--"
"Thank you, dear aunt," said Archie; "I don't definitely answer,
because Mr. Bowater must be consulted; but I have a business out
there that I can do, and where I can make a competence that I can
fairly offer to Jenny here. If I came home, as I am now, I should
only prey on you in some polite form, and I don't think Jenny would
wish for that alternative. I must go back any way, as I have told
her, and whether to save for her, or to make a home for her there,
it must be for her to decide."
They looked at Jenny. She was evidently prepared; for though her
colour rose a little, her frank eyes looked at him with a confiding
smile.
"But we must have justice done to you, my dear boy, whether you stay
with us or not," said Mrs. Poynsett.
"That might have been done if I had not been fool enough to run
away," said Archie; "having done so, the mass of people will only
remember that there has been something against me, in spite of any
justification. It is not worth while to blast Moy's character, and
show poor old Proudfoot what a swindler his son was, just for that.
The old man was good to me. I should like to let it rest while he
lives. If Moy would sign such an exculpation of me as could be
shown to Mr. Bowater, and any other whom it might concern, I should
be quite willing to have nothing told publicly, at least as long as
the old gentleman lives."
"I think Archie is right," said Miles, in the pause, with a great
effort.
"Yes, right in the highest sense of the word," said Julius.
"It is Christian," Anne breathed across to her husband.
"I don't like it," said Mrs. Poynsett.
"Let that scoundrel go unhung!" burst from Frank, who had failed to
catch the spirit of his interpreter.
"I don't like it in the abstract, mother," said Miles; "but you and
Frank have not seen the scoundrel in his beaten down state, and, as
Archie says, it is hard to blacken the memory of either poor George
Proudfoot or Tom Vivian, who have fathers to feel it for them."
"Poor Tom Vivian's can hardly be made much blacker," said Mrs.
Poynsett, "nor are Sir Harry's feelings very acute; but perhaps poor
old Proudfoot ought to be spared, and there are considerations as to
the Vivian family. Still, I don't see how to consent to Archie
going into exile again with this stigma upon him. I am sure Raymond
would not, and I do not think Mr. Bowater will."
"Dear Aunt Julia," said Archie, affectionately, coming across to
her, "it was indeed exile before, when I was dead to all of you; but
can it be so now the communication is open, and when I am making or
winning my home?" and his eyes brought Jenny to him by her side.
"Yes, dear Mrs. Poynsett," she said, holding her hand, "I am sure he
is right, and that it would spoil all our own happiness to break
that poor old father's heart, and bring him and his wife to disgrace
and misery. When I think of the change in everything since two days
back--dear Herbert wrung a sort of forgiveness out of me--I can't
bear to think of anybody being made miserable."
"And what will your papa say, child?"
"I think he will feel a good deal for old Proudfoot," said Jenny.
"He rather likes the old man, and has laughed at our hatred of Miss
Moy's pretensions."
"Then it is settled," said Archie; "I will write to Moy, for I
suppose he had rather not see me, that I will say nothing about it
publicly while Mr. Proudfoot lives, and will not show this
confession of his, unless it should be absolutely necessary to my
character. Nor after old Proudfoot's death, will I take any step
without notice to him."
"Much more than he ought to expect," said Mrs. Poynsett.
"I don't know," said Archie. "If he had refused, it would not have
been easy to bring him to the point, I suppose I must have
surrendered to take my trial, but after so many years, and with so
many deaths, it would have been awkward."
"And the money, mother," said Miles, producing a cheque. "Poor Moy,
that was a relief to him. He said he had kept it ready for years."
Mrs. Poynsett waved it off as if she did not like to touch it.
"I don't want it! Take it, Archie. Set up housekeeping on it," she
said. "You are not really going back to that place?"
"Yes, indeed I am; I sail on Tuesday. Dear good Aunt Julia, how
comfortable it is to feel any one caring for me again; but I am
afraid even this magnificent present, were it ten times as much,
could not keep me; I must go back to fulfil my word to my partner
out there, even if I returned at once."
"And you let him go, Jenny?"
"I must!" said Jenny. "And only think how different it is now! For
the rest, whether he comes back for me at once, or some years hence,
must depend on papa and mamma."
She spoke with grave content beaming in her eyes, just like herself.
The restoration was still swallowing up everything else.