Lily was no more visible that day. She retired to her room, having,
indeed, much need of repose, and to be alone and think over all that had
passed. He said a great deal more to her than is here recorded; but
Lily’s powers of comprehension were exhausted, or she did not listen, or
her mind was so much absorbed in her own projects that she was not aware
what he said. His presence produced an agitation in her mind which was
indescribable. At first the sense that he was there, the mere sight of
him, after all that had come and gone, was intolerable to her. But after
a while this changed; his voice became again familiar to her ears, his
presence recalled a hundred and a hundred recollections. This was the
man whom she had chosen from all the world, whose coming had made this
lonely house bright, who had changed her lonely life and every thing in
it, who was hers, her love, her husband, the one man in the world to
Lily. There was no such man living, she said to herself sternly, as the
Ronald of her dreams; but yet this was the being who bore his name, who
bore his semblance, who spoke to her in a voice which had tones such as
no other voice had, and made her heart beat in spite of herself. This
was Ronald--not her Ronald, but Ronald himself--the man who had deceived
her and made her a deceiver, who had robbed her of her child in her
weakness, when she could not go after him, and swore to her a lie that
the child was dead. All that was true; but it is not much of a love
which dies with the discovery that the object of it is unworthy. She had
thought it had done so; all things had seemed easy to her so far as he
was concerned. But now Lily discovered that life was not so easy as
that. The sound of his voice, that so familiar voice which had said so
much to her, had gone through all these delusions like a knife. Was he
to blame that she had made a hero of him, that she had endowed him with
qualities he did not possess? This was Ronald, the real man, and there
was between him and her the bond of all bonds, that which can never be
broken. And she saw confusedly that there had been no false pretences on
his part, that he had been the same throughout, if it had not been that
her eyes were blinded and she saw her own imagination only. The same
man; she did not do him the injustice to think that he had been a cheat
throughout, that he had not loved her. It was not so simple as that
either; but he had determined with that force which some men have that
she should not lose her fortune. Already her heart, excusing him, put it
that way; and he had, through all obstacles, carried out this
determination. Was it her part to blame him? and even if that were her
part, was it the part of a woman never to forgive?
I do not say that these were voluntarily Lily’s thoughts; but she had
become, as she had never been before, the field of battle where a combat
raged in which she herself seemed to have comparatively little part.
When the one side had made its fiery assault, then the other came in.
There rose up in her with all these meltings and softenings a revulsion
of her whole being against Ronald, the man who had made her lie. Into
what strange thing had he turned her life for all these years? A false
thing, full of concealments, secrets, terrors of discovery. He had led
her on from lie to lie, and then when the climax of all came, there had
been no mercy, no relenting, no remorse in his breast. He had torn her
child from her without care for him or for her, risking the lives of
both, and leaving in the bosom of the outraged mother a wound which
could never be healed. She felt it now as fresh as when she awakened
from her illness and came to life again by means of the pain--even now,
when perhaps, perhaps that wrong was to be put right and her child given
back to her. If he were in her arms now, it would still be there. Such a
blow as that was never to be got over; and it had been inflicted for
what? For no high motive of martyrdom--for the money, the horrible
money, which now, at the cost of so many lies and outrages of nature,
had fallen into his hands.
Oh, no, no! things are not so easy in this world between human creatures
made of such strange elements as those of which it has pleased the
Master of all things to compound us. It is not all straightforward:
love--or else not love, perhaps hate. Love was on every side, the heart
crying out toward another that was its mate, and at the same time an
insupportable repugnance, revulsion, turning away. He was all that she
had in the world; all protection, companionship, support, that was
possible to her was in him; and yet her heart sickened at him, turning
away, feeling the great gulf fixed which was between them. This great
conflict within deadened Lily to all that was going on outside. She was
too much occupied with the struggle even to see, much less feel, the
state of affairs round her. What she did herself she did mechanically,
carrying on what she had intended beforehand, with the waning strength
of that impulse which had originated in her before this battle began.
She remembered still what she had resolved to do then, and did it dully,
without much consciousness. She had made up her mind to go off at once
upon her search. Had any thing occurred to prevent her doing this? She
could not tell, but she went on in so different a way, carrying out her
resolution. She counted her money, which was all hers now, about which
she could have no scruples. There was some of the housekeeping money,
which still she herself felt was her uncle’s, intrusted to her, but
which certainly, when she came to think of it, was her own now, and some
which Sir Robert had given her, about which there could be no question.
It seemed a large sum of money to her inexperience--if only she knew
where to go, and what to do!
Robina was packing, or appearing to pack--a piece of work which ought to
have been done before now. Lily reproved her for being so late, but not
with any energy. The things outside of her were but half realized, she
was so busy within. Beenie was in a curious state, not good for much.
She wept into the box over which she stooped, dropping tears on her
mistress’s linen when she did not succeed in intercepting them with her
apron. But though she wept all the time, she sometimes broke into a
laugh under her breath, and then sobbed. It was evident that she had no
heart for her packing. She put in the most incongruous things and then
took them out again, and would rise up stealthily from her knees when
Lily’s back was turned, and run to the window, coming back again with a
hasty “Naething, naething, mem!” when her mistress remarked this, and
asked what she wanted. Down stairs--but Lily did not see it, nor would
have remarked it had she seen--Katrin stood at the open door. She had
her hand curved over her eyes, though there was no sunshine to prevent
her from seeing clearly any thing that might appear on the long, dark,
frost-bound road. Half the morning, to the neglect of every thing
within, Katrin stood looking out. It was a curious thing for the
responsible housekeeper of the house--the cook, with her lunch and her
dinner on her mind--to do; and so the other servants said to themselves,
watching her with great curiosity. Were there any more “ferlies” coming,
or what was it that Katrin was expecting from the town?
Of these things Lily took no notice. She went into the drawing-room
ready for her journey, conscious that she must see her husband before
she left the house, but with a great failing of heart and strength,
wishing only to get away, to be alone, to go on with the terrible
struggle in her thoughts. There was no one there when she went in, and
it was a relief to her. She sat down to recover her strength, to
recover her breath. She had told him that she was going, and so far as
she could remember he had made no opposition. She had appealed to him to
help her, but so far as she knew he had not attempted to do so. It was
not yet quite time to go, and Beenie was behindhand, as she always was.
Lily was glad, if the word could be used at all in respect to her
feelings at this moment, of the little quiet, the time to breathe.
There was, however, some strange commotion going on in the house--a
sound outside of cries and laughter, a loud note of Beenie’s voice in
the adjacent room, and then the rush of her heavy footsteps downstairs.
There arose in Lily’s mind a vague wonder at the evanescence of all
impressions in the women’s minds. They had all wept plentifully the day
before at the funeral, and spoken with sickly stifled voices, as if they
had been not only sorrowful, but bowed down with trouble. And now there
was Beenie, loud with a shriek of what sounded like joy, and Katrin’s
voice rising over a little babel of confused sound, in exclamations and
outcries of delight. What could have changed their tone so suddenly? But
Lily asked herself the question very vaguely, having no attention to
give to them. The only external thing that could have thoroughly roused
her would have been her husband’s step, and the thrill of being face to
face with him again.
It was not long before the sound of approaching footsteps made her heart
leap into the wildest agitation again. The noise had gone on down
stairs, the cries of delight, the sound of sobbing, and for one moment
something--a small brief note which made Lily start even in her
self-absorption. But she had not heeded more than that one quick
heart-beat of surprise. Was that at last Ronald’s step coming quickly up
the winding stair? She clasped her hands firmly together, and wound
herself up as best she could for this meeting, the interview which would
perhaps be their last. Her eyes were fixed upon the door. She was
conscious of sitting there rigidly, like a figure of stone, though her
being was full of every kind of agitation. And then there was a pause.
He had not come in. Why did he not come in?
Finally the door was slowly opened, but at first no one appeared. Then
there was a whisper and another sound--a sound that went through and
through the listening, waiting, agitated woman, who seemed to have no
power to move, and then----
There came in something white into the room, a little speck upon the
darkness of the walls and carpet--low down, white, with something like a
rose above the whiteness. This was what Lily saw: her eyes were dim and
every thing was confused about her. Then the speck moved forward slowly
with tottering, uncertain movements, the whiteness and the rose
wavering. There came a great cry in Lily’s heart, but she uttered not a
word; a terror, lest any movement of hers should dispel the vision, took
possession of her. She rose up noiselessly, and then, not knowing what
she did, dropped upon her knees. The little creature paused, and Lily,
in her semi-conscious state, became aware of the blackness of her own
figure in her mourning, and the great bonnet and veil that covered her
head. Noiselessly she undid the strings and threw them behind her,
scarcely breathing in her suspense. The child moved again toward her,
relieved, too, by the removal of that blackness, and Lily put out her
arms. How can I tell what followed? She could not, nor ever knew. The
child did not shriek or cry, as by all rules he should have done. He
rolled and wavered, the rose growing distinct into a little face, with a
final rush into his mother’s arms. And for a moment, an hour--how long
was it?--Lily felt and knew nothing but that again she had her baby in
her arms--her baby, that had been snatched from her unconscious, that
came back to her with infantile perceptions, smiles, love in its face!
She had her baby in her arms, not shrinking from her, as she had figured
him to herself a hundred times, but putting up his little hands to her
face, pleased with her, not discomposed with her kisses, putting his
soft cheek against hers; the one was as soft as the other, and as the
warm blood rose in Lily’s veins and the light came to her eyes and the
joy to her heart, as softly, warmly tinted, too, one rose against
another. She forgot herself and all about her--time and space, and all
her resolutions and her struggle and strain with herself, and her
mourning and her wrongs. Other people came into the room and stood
round, women crying, laughing, unable to do any thing but exclaim and
sob in their delight. But Lily took no notice. She had her child against
her heart, and her heart was healed. She could not think where all the
pain had gone. Her breath came free and soft, her life sat lightly on
her, her cares were over. She wanted to know nothing, see nothing, hear
nothing more.
But this could not be. In another minute Ronald came into the room
quickly, no doubt full of anxiety, but full also of the energy of a man
who has the command of the situation and means to settle it in every
way, not unkindly, but yet authoritatively. With a word he dispersed the
women, stopping their outcries, which had been a sort of accompaniment
to the song of content that was in Lily’s heart, and then he came
quickly forward and put his arm round the group of the mother and child.
He pressed them to him and kissed them, first his wife and then the
baby, who sat on her knee. “Now all is well,” he said; “my Lily, all is
well! Every thing is forgiven and forgotten, and you and me are to begin
again!”
Then Lily came suddenly back out of her rapture. She came back to the
life to which he called her, in which he had played so strange a part.
How her heart had melted toward him when he was not there! To be Ronald
had seemed to her by moments to be every thing. But now that he was
here, kneeling before her, his child on her knee, his arms around her,
his kiss on her cheek, there rose up between them a wall as of iron,
something which it seemed impossible should ever give way, a repulsion
stronger than her own will, stronger than herself. She made an
involuntary movement to free herself. And her face changed, the
rose-hues went out of it, the light from her eyes. All well! How could
all be well? Two years, during which this child had been growing into
consciousness in another house, with other care, with neither father nor
mother; and she left widowed and bereft, to play a lying part and be
another creature--not what she was! And all for money, money--nothing
better! And now the money was won by all those lies and deceptions, now
all was to be well?
“Let me be,” she said hoarsely, “let me be! A little rest, I want a
rest. I am not equal to any more.”
He got up to his feet, repulsed and angry. “You do not think what I am
equal to,” he said, “or hesitate to inflict on me what punishment, what
cruelty, you please! And yet every thing that has been done was done in
your own interests, and who but you will get the good of it all?”
“My interests?” Lily cried.
And then there came an unexpected interruption. The baby, for all so
young as he was, became aware of the change of aspect of things around
him. His little roselip began to quiver, and then he set up a lamentable
cry which, to the inexperienced heart of Lily, was far more dreadful
than ever was the cry of a child. As she tried to soothe him there
appeared in the doorway Margaret Bland, the woman who had taken him
away. And Lily gave a cry like that of her child, and clung to the baby,
who, for his small part, struggled to get to his nurse, the only
familiar figure to him in all this strange place. “Not you,” cried Lily,
“not that woman who stole him from me! Beenie! not you, not you!”
“And yet, mem,” said Margaret, “it is me that has been father and mother
and all to him when none of you came near. And the darling is fond o’ me
and me of him like my own flesh and blood.”
“Beenie, Beenie!” cried Lily, wild with terror, as the child slid and
struggled out of her arms. “Katrin, Katrin! oh, don’t leave her, not for
a moment--don’t let her take him away!”
Once more the cloud of women appeared at the door, all the maids of the
house delighted over the child, and Beenie in the front, seizing
Margaret by the skirts as she gathered up the child in her arms. “Na,
na, she’ll no take him an inch out o’ my sight!” Beenie cried.
Lily stood up trembling, breathless, confronting her husband as this
little tumult swept away. A passion of terror had succeeded her rapture
of love and content; and yet there was a compunction in it and almost a
touch of shame. That chorus of excited women did not add to the dignity
of her position. He had not said any thing, but was walking up and down
the room in impatience and annoyance. “Who do you think would take him
from you _now_?” he cried in his exasperation, adding fuel to the fire.
Oh, not now! There were no interests to be involved now; the money was
safe, for which all these hideous plans had been laid. If this was meant
to soothe, it was an ill-chosen word. And for a moment these two people
stood on the edge of one of those angry recriminations which aggravate
every quarrel and take all dignity and all reason from the breach.
Ronald perceived his mistake even before Lily could take any advantage
of it, had she been disposed so to do.
“Lily,” he said, “your life and mine have to be decided now. There is
neither credit nor comfort in the position of deadly opposition which
you have taken up. I may have sinned against you. I told you what was
not true about the child, I acknowledge that. I should not have
pretended he was dead. I saw my mistake as soon as I had committed it,
but it was as ineffectual as it was wrong. You did not believe me for a
minute, therefore I did no harm. The rest was all inevitable; it could
not be helped. Enough has been said on that subject. But all necessity
for these expedients is over now. Every thing is plain sailing before
us; we have the best prospects for our life. I can promise that no woman
will have a better husband than you will find me. You have a beautiful
healthy child who takes to you as if you had never been parted from him
for a day. We have a good house to step into----”
“What house?” she cried, surprised.
“Oh, not the garret you were so keen about,” he answered, a smile
creeping about the corners of his mouth, “a house worthy of you, fit for
you--the house in George Square!”
“Uncle Robert’s house!” she cried, almost with a shriek.
“Yes,” he said, “to which you are the rightful heir, as you are to his
money. They are both very safe, I assure you, in _my_ hands.”
“You are,” she said breathlessly, “the proprietor--now?”
“Through you, my bonnie Lily; but there is no mistake or deception about
that,” he said, with a short laugh; “they are very safe in my hands.”
No man could be less conscious than Ronald, though he was a man full of
ability and understanding, of the effect of these words of his triumph
upon his wife’s mind. He thought he was setting before her in the
strongest way the advantages there were for her, and both, in agreement
and peaceful accord, and how prejudicial to her own position and comfort
any thing else would be. He was perhaps a little carried away by his
success. Even the experiment of this morning--how thoroughly successful
it had been! The child might have been frightened and turned away from
the unknown mother: instead of this, by a providential dispensation, he
had gone to her without hesitation and behaved himself angelically. How
any woman in her senses could resist all the inducements that lay before
her, all the excellent reasons there were to accept the present and
ignore the past--in which nothing had been done that was not for her
interest--he could not tell. He began to be impatient with such folly,
and to think it might be well to let her have a glimpse of what, if she
rejected this better part, lay on the other side.
Lily had seated herself once more in her chair; it was the great chair
she had occupied when the funeral party assembled, and gave her
something of the aspect of a judge. She had lost altogether the color
and brightness that had come into her face. She was very pale, and the
blackness of her mourning made this more visible. And, she sat silent,
oh, not convinced, as he hoped--far from that--but struck dumb, not
knowing what to say.
At this moment, however, there was another interruption, and the little
figure of Helen Blythe, covered, too, with crape and mourning, but with
a natural glow and subdued brightness as always upon her morning face,
appeared at the door.