A BRAVE PURPOSE.
If Lettice had not seen Cora when she did, she would probably have gone
to the prison that evening, to ask whether she could not arrange for
Alan's funeral, as she could not arrange for his release. Her spirit was
crushed by the blow which had fallen on her, but she could not give way
so long as his body was there to receive the last token of her love.
When the Frenchwoman left her it was too late to see Captain Haynes,
even if she had been physically able to make the attempt.
It never occurred to her to think that any mistake could have been made
in the information she had received from her landlady. The struggle
which had been going on in her mind, the consciousness that she had
broken with all her old friends, the exaltation which had possessed her
since she resolved to give to Alan all that was possible for her to
give, or seemed to be worth her giving, the death of his aunt and the
thought of his loneliness, had combined to make her nervously
apprehensive. As soon as she had settled down under the shadow of the
prison walls, the idea took hold of her with unaccountable force that
the life of Alan was hanging by a thread, and the news of his death came
to her only as the full confirmation of her fears.
But, as it happened, there was another man in the prison named Walters,
who had been convicted of an assault upon his wife some time previously,
and had been ill for many months of an internal complaint which was
certain, sooner or later, to end fatally.
A sleepless night brought Lettice no ray of hope, and it was with a
heavy and despairing heart that she went to the governor's residence
next morning, and sent up to him the note which she had written before
leaving her room.
Captain Haynes remembered her former visit, and being disengaged at the
moment, he came down at once.
"My dear lady," he said, bustling into the room, "what is the meaning of
this letter? What makes you talk of burying your friend? He has been in
this tomb of stone long enough to purge him of all his offenses, and I
am sure you don't want to bury him alive again!"
Lettice started to her feet, gazed at the speaker with straining eyes,
and pressed her hands upon her tumultuous heart.
"Is--he--alive?" she gasped, in scarcely audible words.
"Of course he is alive! I told you when you were here before that he was
out of danger. All he wants now is careful nursing and cheerful company;
and I must say that you don't quite look as if you could give him
either."
"Alive--alive! Thank God!"
A great wave of tenderness swept through her heart, and gushed from her
eyes in tears that were eloquent of happiness.
"I was told that he was dead!" She looked at the governor with a smile
which disarmed his bluff tongue.
"I am on the borderland of a romance," he thought, "and a romance of
which the ending will be pleasanter than the beginning, unless I am much
mistaken. This is not the wife; it is the woman he was writing his
verses to before he took the fever. The doctor says she has written the
best novel of the year. Novels and poetry--umph! not much in my line."
Then aloud, "you are under a mistake. A man named Walters died
yesterday; perhaps that is how you have been misled. Some rumor of his
death must have got abroad. Mr. Walcott is getting over his illness very
nicely; but he will need a good rest, good food, and as much
cheerfulness as you can give him. I told him, just now, that you had
arranged to meet him to-morrow, and I fancy it roused him more than
anything Dr. Savill has done for him. I must wish you good-morning,
madam!--but let me impress upon you again, before you go, that he is to
be kept perfectly quiet, free from anxiety, and as cheerful as you can
manage to make him."
Captain Haynes was rather ashamed of the laxity into which Miss Campion
had drawn him. He was not accustomed to display so much sympathy with
his prisoners, whatever he may have felt in his own mind. But, to be
sure, the case was quite exceptional. He did not have prisoners like
Alan or visitors like Lettice every day. So he had no difficulty in
finding excuses for himself.
Lettice walked on air as she came out of the precincts of the jail,
which had now lost all its terrors. In less than twenty-four hours she
was to come again, and transport her hero--whom the dense and cruel
world had branded as a criminal--from slavery to freedom, from misery to
peace and joy. The world had cast him out; well, then, let the world
stand aside, that she might give this man what was his due.
What would she say to him? Ah, she dare not think of that beforehand!
What would she do for him? For one thing, she would give him back his
self-respect. He had been the object of scorn and the victim of lying
scandals. He should find that the woman he loved intended from
henceforth to take those paltry burdens on herself, and to know no other
praise or merit than that which came to her from him.
He had borne troubles and suffered injuries which before now had driven
men to suicide, or madness, or self-abandonment. In order to save him
from any of these things she meant to give herself into his hands,
without terms or conditions, in order that the wrong-doing of the world
might be righted by her act, were it ever so little.
Who could call that a sacrifice which made her heart so light, her step
so elastic, her eyes so bright with hope and satisfaction? It was no
sacrifice, but a triumph and reward of the highest kind that she was
preparing for herself. How should she not be happy?
There was no time to be lost if she was to provide all that was
necessary for the well-being and comfort of her patient before to-morrow
morning. Everything had to be done at the last moment. She had been so
long in coming to a definite and final resolution to treat this
friendless discharged prisoner as a hero and a king, that it was almost
too late to make arrangements. Why had she not done yesterday something
of what she had left to be done to-day? She scarcely realized to herself
that her mind was only just made up. That facile belief in the report of
Alan's death was only the outcome of her distress and perplexity--of the
failure of her courage on the threshold of decision and action.
With a cold shudder she thought of the dust which she had unwittingly
thrown in Cora's eyes. She had told her that her husband was dead, and
the tale had been readily believed, for the very opposite reason to that
which had prevailed with herself. She had been convinced by her
fears--Cora by her hopes and greed. And now she could not undeceive the
woman, for she did not know where to find her. Would she if she could?
Perhaps it was the the best thing which could have happened; for it
would be terrible if Alan were to step out of his prison back into the
hell on earth which that woman had created for him.
Well, now, at any rate, she must devote herself to the task which she
had undertaken. She felt as a sister might feel who had been suddenly
commissioned to provide a home within twenty-four hours for an invalided
traveler; and she set about the work with enthusiasm.
She began by taking Milly in some measure into her confidence, and
giving her a number of directions as to what she was to do in the course
of the day. Then she hired a cab, and went to a house-agent whose name
she remembered. That seemed the quickest way of getting what she
wanted--a small furnished house, cheerful and yet retired, which she
could take at any rate for a month, and for longer if she needed it. The
agent by good chance had the very thing she asked for. He turned over
the leaves of his register, and presently came upon a desirable bijou
residence, plainly but adequately furnished, containing three reception
rooms and five bedrooms, conservatory, with large and well-stocked
garden, lawn and shrubbery, coach-house and stable. Vacant for three
months; very moderate terms to a suitable tenant. That sounded well.
The "very moderate terms" came to something more than Lettice wanted to
give; but she had a hundred pounds in her pocket, and a spirit which
disdained to grudge in such a service.
So, having journeyed to Chiswick, and found Bute Lodge to be, if not
precisely a jewel amongst lodges, at any rate clean and comfortable, she
came back to the agent with an offer to take it from month to month, and
with a roll of notes ready to clinch the bargain. Money is the best
reference, as she found when she paid a month's rent on the spot, and
promised that all her payments should be in advance. But, as the agent
had asked her for a reference of another kind, Lettice, who had expected
this demand, and was prepared for it, gave the name of James Graham. She
ought not to have made use of him without asking him beforehand. She
might have referred to the owner of Maple Cottage, where she had lived
when last in London, or even to her publisher. But she wanted to go and
see her old friend Clara; and, woman-like, did a more important thing to
serve as a pretext for a less important.
Clara Graham was delighted to see her again, and the two women had a
long and confidential talk.
"I, at any rate," said Clara, "have never doubted his innocence, and I
was sure that you would not."
"Yet you never told me what troubles had fallen upon him!"
"My dear, I thought you must have heard about it all. But the fact was
that James asked me not to mention the trial. Remember, you were not
well at the time; and it was a difficult case. I could not quite assume
that your interest would be strong enough to justify me in risking the
loss of your health--perhaps of your life. Really, it is a hard question
to deal with--like one of those cases of conscience (didn't they call
them?) which men used to argue for the sake of having something to do. I
stood up for poor Mr. Walcott with my husband; but you know it is
useless to argue against him."
"He believes with the rest of them?"
"Everybody believes alike. I never heard of one who thought that he did
not do it."
"Only yourself!"
"Yes, and that was, perhaps, for your sake," said Clara, affectionately.
"And I suppose that I believe in him for his own sake."
"That is natural; but will people think that it is logical?"
"No, they won't," said Lettice, "at all events, not at first. But,
gradually perhaps, they will. I am perfectly convinced that Alan did not
stab his wife--because I feel it with a force that amounts to
conviction. You see, I know his character, his past history, the
character and history of his wife, the circumstances in which they were
placed at the time. I am sure he is innocent, and I am going to act up
to it. Alan will live down this horrible accusation and punishment--he
will not give way, but will keep his self-respect, and will do
infinitely better work for all the torture he has gone through. And our
hope must be this--that when the world sees him stronger than ever,
stronger in every way, and doing stronger work in his vocation, it will
come to believe in him, one by one, beginning with us, until his
vindication is brought about, not by legal proof, which is impossible,
but by the same feeling and conviction which to-day only draw two weak
women to the side of an unhappy and discredited man."
"Are you calling yourself a weak woman? You have the strength of a
martyr, and in days when they used to burn women you would have chosen
to be a martyr."
"I am not so sure. It is one thing to do what one likes, but quite
another thing to burn, which no one likes."
"Well, you are very brave, and you will succeed as you deserve. But not
at first."
"No, not at first. The hardest task will be with Alan, who has been in
despair all these months, and at death's door with fever. He will come
out weak, helpless, hopeless; there will be constant danger of a
relapse; and, even if he can be made to forget his despair, it will be
very difficult to restore him to cheerfulness." Her eyes filled with
pitying tears as she spoke.
"Only one thing can do that!" Clara stroked her friend's bright brown
hair, and kissed her on the cheek. "With you for his doctor he will soon
be well."
"Only two things can do it--a joy greater than his sorrow, and a
self-respect greater than his self-abasement."
Lettice stood up; and the far reaching look that Clara knew so well came
into the true and tender grey eyes, strong with all the rapt purpose of
a devoted woman. Her resolutions were forming and strengthening as she
went on. She had been guided by instinct and feeling, but they were
guiding her aright.
There was one thing more in which Clara was a help to her. She took her
to an old woman, the mother of her own parlor-maid, exceptionally clean
and respectable, whom Lettice engaged to go at once to Bute Lodge,
taking a younger daughter with her, and make everything ready for the
morrow.
"I shall come and see you soon," said Clara, as they wished each other
good-bye.
"Do! And if you can convert your husband----"
"If not, it will not be for want of trying."
It was evening before Lettice was at her lodging again. She had done all
that she could think of--made every preparation and taken every
precaution--and now there was nothing left but to wait until the
appointed hour should strike, and Alan should be a free man again.
One concession she made to Mrs. Graham's sense of propriety. There was
an old lady who had once been Clara's governess--a gentle, mild-tongued,
unobservant person, who was greatly in want of a home. Mrs. Alison was
easily induced to promise the support of her presence to Lettice during
the days or weeks which Lettice hoped to spend at Bute Lodge. She was a
woman of unimpeachable decorum and respectability, and her presence in
the house would, in Clara's opinion, prove a bulwark against all
dangers; but, although evil tongues might be silenced by the fact of her
presence, the old lady was singularly useless in the capacity of
chaperon. She was infirm, a little deaf, and very shy; but her presence
in the house was supposed to be a sop to Cerberus, in the person of Mrs.
Grundy, and Clara was less afraid for her friend than she had been
before Mrs. Alison was installed at Bute Lodge.