FRANK could not rest. He wrote again to Clara at Fenmarket; the letter
went to Mrs Cork’s, and was returned to him. He saw that the Hopgoods
had left Fenmarket, and suspecting the reason, he determined at any cost
to go home. He accordingly alleged ill-health, a pretext not altogether
fictitious, and within a few days after the returned letter reached him
he was back at Stoke Newington. He went immediately to the address in
Pentonville which he found on the envelope, but was very shortly informed
by Mrs Cork that ‘she knew nothing whatever about them.’ He walked round
Myddelton Square, hopeless, for he had no clue whatever.
What had happened to him would scarcely, perhaps, have caused some young
men much uneasiness, but with Frank the case was altogether different.
There was a chance of discovery, and if his crime should come to light
his whole future life would be ruined. He pictured his excommunication,
his father’s agony, and it was only when it seemed possible that the
water might close over the ghastly thing thrown in it, and no ripple
reveal what lay underneath, that he was able to breathe again.
Immediately he asked himself, however, _if_ he could live with his father
and wear a mask, and never betray his dreadful secret. So he wandered
homeward in the most miserable of all conditions; he was paralysed by the
intricacy of the coil which enveloped and grasped him.
That evening it happened that there was a musical party at his father’s
house; and, of course, he was expected to assist. It would have suited
his mood better if he could have been in his own room, or out in the
streets, but absence would have been inconsistent with his disguise, and
might have led to betrayal. Consequently he was present, and the gaiety
of the company and the excitement of his favourite exercise, brought
about for a time forgetfulness of his trouble. Amongst the performers
was a distant cousin, Cecilia Morland, a young woman rather tall and
fully developed; not strikingly beautiful, but with a lovely
reddish-brown tint on her face, indicative of healthy, warm, rich
pulsations. She possessed a contralto voice, of a quality like that of a
blackbird, and it fell to her and to Frank to sing. She was dressed in a
fashion perhaps a little more courtly than was usual in the gatherings at
Mr Palmer’s house, and Frank, as he stood beside her at the piano, could
not restrain his eyes from straying every now and then a way from his
music to her shoulders, and once nearly lost himself, during a solo which
required a little unusual exertion, in watching the movement of a locket
and of what was for a moment revealed beneath it. He escorted her amidst
applause to a corner of the room, and the two sat down side by side.
‘What a long time it is, Frank, since you and I sang that duet together.
We have seen nothing of you lately.’
‘Of course not; I was in Germany.’
‘Yes, but I think you deserted us before then. Do you remember that
summer when we were all together at Bonchurch, and the part songs which
astonished our neighbours just as it was growing dark? I recollect you
and I tried together that very duet for the first time with the old
lodging-house piano.’
Frank remembered that evening well.
‘You sang better than you did to-night. You did not keep time: what were
you dreaming about?’
‘How hot the room is! Do you not feel it oppressive? Let us go into the
conservatory for a minute.’
The door was behind them and they slipped in and sat down, just inside,
and under the orange tree.
‘You must not be away so long again. Now mind, we have a musical evening
this day fortnight. You will come? Promise; and we must sing that duet
again, and sing it properly.’
He did not reply, but he stooped down, plucked a blood-red begonia, and
gave it to her.
‘That is a pledge. It is very good of you.’
She tried to fasten it in her gown, underneath the locket, but she
dropped a little black pin. He went down on his knees to find it; rose,
and put the flower in its proper place himself, and his head nearly
touched her neck, quite unnecessarily.
‘We had better go back now,’ she said, ‘but mind, I shall keep this
flower for a fortnight and a day, and if you make any excuses I shall
return it faded and withered.’
‘Yes, I will come.’
‘Good boy; no apologies like those you sent the last time. No bad
throat. Play me false, and there will be a pretty rebuke for you—a dead
flower.’
_Play me false_! It was as if there were some stoppage in a main artery
to his brain. _Play me false_! It rang in his ears, and for a moment he
saw nothing but the scene at the Hall with Miranda. Fortunately for him,
somebody claimed Cecilia, and he slunk back into the greenhouse.
One of Mr Palmer’s favourite ballads was _The Three Ravens_. Its pathos
unfits it for an ordinary drawing-room, but as the music at Mr Palmer’s
was not of the common kind, _The Three Ravens_ was put on the list for
that night.
‘_She was dead herself ere evensong time_. _With a down_, _hey
down_, _hey down_,
_God send every gentleman_
_Such hawks_, _such hounds_, _and such a leman_. _With down_, _hey
down_, _hey down_.’
Frank knew well the prayer of that melody, and, as he listened, he
painted to himself, in the vividest colours, Madge in a mean room, in a
mean lodging, and perhaps dying. The song ceased, and one for him stood
next. He heard voices calling him, but he passed out into the garden and
went down to the further end, hiding himself behind the shrubs.
Presently the inquiry for him ceased, and he was relieved by hearing an
instrumental piece begin.
Following on that presentation of Madge came self-torture for his
unfaithfulness. He scourged himself into what he considered to be his
duty. He recalled with an effort all Madge’s charms, mental and bodily,
and he tried to break his heart for her. He was in anguish because he
found that in order to feel as he ought to feel some effort was
necessary; that treason to her was possible, and because he had looked
with such eyes upon his cousin that evening. He saw himself as something
separate from himself, and although he knew what he saw to be flimsy and
shallow, he could do nothing to deepen it, absolutely nothing! It was
not the betrayal of that thunderstorm which now tormented him. He could
have represented that as a failure to be surmounted; he could have
repented it. It was his own inner being from which he revolted, from
limitations which are worse than crimes, for who, by taking thought, can
add one cubit to his stature?