The door opened, and she felt herself free to come out. How long she had
been there, or what passed there, is not for any one to say. She came out
tingling and smarting--if such words can be used--with an intolerable
recollection of the last act of her life. So intolerable was it that all
that had gone before, and all the risings up of old errors and visions
long dead, were forgotten in the sharp and keen prick of this, which was
not over and done like the rest. No one had accused her, or brought
before her judge the things that were against her. She it was who had
done it all,--she, whose memory did not spare her one fault, who
remembered everything. But when she came to that last frivolity of her
old age, and saw for the first time how she had played with the future
of the child whom she had brought up, and abandoned to the hardest
fate,--for nothing, for folly, for a jest,--the horror and bitterness of
the thought filled her mind to overflowing. In the first anguish of that
recollection she had to go forth, receiving no word of comfort in respect
to it, meeting only with a look of sadness and compassion, which went to
her very heart. She came forth as if she had been driven away, but not by
any outward influence, by the force of her own miserable sensations. "I
will write," she said to herself, "and tell them; I will go--" And then
she stopped short, remembering that she could neither go nor write,--that
all communication with the world she had left was closed. Was it all
closed? Was there no way in which a message could reach those who
remained behind? She caught the first passer-by whom she passed, and
addressed him piteously. "Oh, tell me,--you have been longer here than
I,--cannot one send a letter, a message, if it were only a single word?"
"Where?" he said, stopping and listening; so that it began to seem
possible to her that some such expedient might still be within her reach.
"It is to England," she said, thinking he meant to ask as to which
quarter of the world.
"Ah," he said, shaking his head, "I fear that it is impossible."
"But it is to set something right, which out of mere inadvertence, with
no ill meaning,"--No, no (she repeated to herself), no ill-meaning--none!
"Oh sir, for charity! tell me how I can find a way. There must--there
must be some way."
He was greatly moved by the sight of her distress. "I am but a stranger
here," he said; "I may be wrong. There are others who can tell you
better; but"--and he shook his head sadly--"most of us would be so
thankful, if we could, to send a word, if it were only a single word, to
those we have left behind, that I fear, I fear--"
"Ah!" cried Lady Mary, "but that would be only for the tenderness;
whereas this is for justice and for pity, and to do away with a great
wrong which I did before I came here."
"I am very sorry for you," he said; but shook his head once more as he
went away. She was more careful next time, and chose one who had the look
of much experience and knowledge of the place. He listened to her very
gravely, and answered yes, that he was one of the officers, and could
tell her whatever she wanted to know; but when she told him what she
wanted, he too shook his head. "I do not say it cannot be done," he said.
"There are some cases in which it has been successful, but very few. It
has often been attempted. There is no law against it. Those who do it do
it at their own risk. They suffer much, and almost always they fail."
"No, oh no! You said there were some who succeeded. No one can be more
anxious than I. I will give--anything--everything I have in the world!"
He gave her a smile, which was very grave nevertheless, and full of pity.
"You forget," he said, "that you have nothing to give; and if you had,
that there is no one here to whom it would be of any value."
Though she was no longer old and weak, yet she was still a woman, and she
began to weep, in the terrible failure and contrariety of all things; but
yet she would not yield. She cried: "There must be some one here who
would do it for love. I have had people who loved me in my time. I must
have some here who have not forgotten me. Ah! I know what you would say.
I lived so long I forgot them all, and why should they remember me?"
Here she was touched on the arm, and looking round, saw close to her the
face of one whom, it was very true, she had forgotten. She remembered him
but dimly after she had looked long at him. A little group had gathered
about her, with grieved looks, to see her distress. He who had touched
her was the spokesman of them all.
"There is nothing I would not do," he said, "for you and for love."
And then they all sighed, surrounding her, and added, "But it is
impossible--impossible!"
She stood and gazed at them, recognizing by degrees faces that she knew,
and seeing in all that look of grief and sympathy which makes all human
souls brothers. Impossible was not a word that had been often said to be
in her life; and to come out of a world in which everything could be
changed, everything communicated in the twinkling of an eye, and find a
dead blank before her and around her, through which not a word could go,
was more terrible than can be said in words. She looked piteously upon
them, with that anguish of helplessness which goes to every heart, and
cried, "What is impossible? To send a word--only a word--to set right
what is wrong? Oh, I understand," she said, lifting up her hands. "I
understand that to send messages of comfort must not be; that the people
who love you must bear it, as we all have done in our time, and trust
to God for consolation. But I have done a wrong! Oh, listen, listen to
me, my friends. I have left a child, a young creature, unprovided
for--without any one to help her. And must that be? Must she bear it, and
I bear it, forever, and no means, no way of setting it right? Listen to
me! I was there last night,--in the middle of the night I was still
there,--and here this morning. So it must be easy to come--only a short
way; and two words would be enough,--only two words!"
They gathered closer and closer round her, full of compassion. "It is
easy to come," they said, "but not to go."
And one added, "It will not be forever; comfort yourself. When she comes
here, or to a better place, that will seem to you only as a day.
"But to her," cried Lady Mary,--"to her it will be long years--it will be
trouble and sorrow; and she will think I took no thought for her; and she
will be right," the penitent said with a great and bitter cry.
It was so terrible that they were all silent, and said not a
word,--except the man who had loved her, who put his hand upon her arm,
and said, "We are here for that; this is the fire that purges us,--to see
at last what we have done, and the true aspect of it, and to know the
cruel wrong, yet never be able to make amends."
She remembered then that this was a man who had neglected all lawful
affections, and broken the hearts of those who trusted him for her sake;
and for a moment she forgot her own burden in sorrow for his.
It was now that he who had called himself one of the officers came
forward again; for the little crowd had gathered round her so closely
that he had been shut out. He said, "No one can carry your message for
you; that is not permitted. But there is still a possibility. You
may have permission to go yourself. Such things have been done, though
they have not often been successful. But if you will--"
She shivered when she heard him; and it became apparent to her why no one
could be found to go,--for all her nature revolted from that step, which
it was evident must be the most terrible which could be thought of. She
looked at him with troubled, beseeching eyes, and the rest all looked at
her, pitying and trying to soothe her.
"Permission will not be refused," he said, "for a worthy cause."
Upon which the others all spoke together, entreating her. "Already," they
cried, "they have forgotten you living. You are to them one who is dead.
They will be afraid of you if they can see you. Oh, go not back! Be
content to wait,--to wait; it is only a little while. The life of man is
nothing; it appears for a little time, and then it vanishes away. And
when she comes here she will know,--or in a better place." They sighed as
they named the better place; though some smiled too, feeling perhaps
more near to it.
Lady Mary listened to them all, but she kept her eyes upon the face of
him who offered her this possibility. There passed through her mind a
hundred stories she had heard of those who had _gone back_. But not one
that spoke of them as welcome, as received with joy, as comforting those
they loved. Ah no! was it not rather a curse upon the house to which they
came? The rooms were shut up, the houses abandoned, where they were
supposed to appear. Those whom they had loved best feared and fled them.
They were a vulgar wonder,--a thing that the poorest laughed at, yet
feared. Poor, banished souls! it was because no one would listen to them
that they had to linger and wait, and come and go. She shivered, and in
spite of her longing and her repentance, a cold dread and horror took
possession of her. She looked round upon her companions for comfort, and
found none.
"Do not go," they said; "do not go. We have endured like you. We wait
till all things are made clear."