Forlorn.
Yes, she was dead; had died with a smile upon her lips; had died at
peace and charity with all; had died knowing that the man whom she had
looked up to and reverenced, had loved with all the pure and guileless
love of her young heart, had loved her also, and had so loved her that
he had suffered in silence, and only spoken when the confession could
bring no remorse to her, even no longing regret for what might have
been. Even no longing regret? No! "Happy, _quand même_," were the last
words that ever passed her lips; "happy, _quand même_,"--she had been
something to him after all! In the few short and fleeting hours which
she had passed between hearing Chudleigh Wilmot's confession, wrung
from his heart by the great agony which possessed him, she had
pondered over the words which he had spoken with inexpressible
delight. What can we tell, we creatures moulded in coarser clay,
creatures of baser passions, soiled in the perpetual contact with
earth, its mean fears and gross aspirations, if aspirations they may
be called,--what can we tell of the feelings of a young girl like
this? Death, which we contemplate as the King of Terrors, threatening
us with his uplifted dart, and destined to drag us away from the stage
of life, bright with its tawdry tinsel, and its garish splendour, came
to her in softer and more kindly guise. For months she had been
expecting the advent of the "shadow cloaked from head to foot," in
whose gentle embrace she knew that she must shortly find herself.
Those around her, her loving, doating father, Lady Muriel, Ronald,
softened by the silent contemplation of her gradually-decreasing
strength, the daily ebbing of physical force, the daily loosening of
even the slight hold on life which she possessed, visible even to his
unpractised eyes,--none of these had the smallest idea that the frail
delicate creature, round whose couch they stood day by day with forced
smiles and feigned hope, knew better than any of them, better even
than he whose professional skill had never been brought into such
play, how swiftly the current of her life was bearing her on to the
great rapids of Eternity. And if before she had heard those burning
words, intensified by the agony shown in the choking voice in which
they found their utterance, she had been able calmly and not
unwillingly to contemplate her fate, how much greater had been her
resignation, how much more readily did she accept the fiat when she
learned that the one love of her life had been returned; and that,
despite of all that had come between them, despite the interposition
of the dread barrier which had apparently so effectually separated
them from each other, the man who had been to her far beyond all
others, had singled her out as the object of his adoration!
In those few last earthly hours the "what might have been" had passed
through her mind, and passed away again, leaving behind it no trace of
anguish or remorse. Not only to Wilmot had the time since their first
acquaintance at Kilsyth passed in review in phantasmagoric semblance;
Madeleine had often gone through such scenes in the short drama,
recollecting every detail, remembering much which had been overlooked
even in his rapid summary. "What might have been!" Even suppose the
dearest, the only real aspiration of her heart had been accomplished,
and sire had become Chudleigh Wilmot's wife, would not the inevitable
end have had additional distress and misery to both of them? The
inevitable end! for she must have died--she knew that; not for one
instant did she imagine that any combination of circumstances
different from what had actually occurred could have averted or
postponed the fulfilment of the dread decree. Her married life had not
been specially happy; then should she not have less regret in leaving
it? Would not the pangs of parting be robbed of half their bitterness
by the knowledge that her husband left behind would not sink under the
blow? What might have been? Ah, Wilmot would feel her loss acutely,
she knew that; the one outburst of grief, of passionate tenderness and
heartfelt agony which had escaped him had told her that; but he would
feel it less than if what might have been had been, and she had been
taken away from him in the early days of their love and happiness.
A notion that such thoughts as these might have filled the mind of her
for whom they mourned occurred to each of those by whom the dead girl
was really loved, not indeed at once nor simultaneously, but at divers
times, as they pondered over the blank which her loss had left in
their lives. Among this number Mr. Ramsay Caird was not to be
reckoned. The solemn announcement which, at his own request, Dr.
Wilmot had made to him as to the impossibility of his wife's recovery
and the probable short duration of her illness had had very little
effect on the young man. What were the motives which prompted him were
known to himself alone; but the _insouciance_, to use the mildest term
for it, which had prompted him during the whole of his short married
life seemed in no way diminished even by the dread news which had been
communicated to him. He acknowledged that he had seen Dr. Wilmot, and
had asked him his opinion; that that opinion had been very serious,
and to some persons would have been alarming, but that he was not
easily alarmed, and that he was utterly and entirely incredulous in
the present instance. Madeleine had a bad cough, and was naturally
delicate on her chest, and that sort of thing; she did not wrap up
enough when she went out, and sat in draughts: but as to the way in
which they all went on about her--well, they would find that he was
right, and then they would be sorry they had listened to any such
nonsense. He said this to Lady Muriel; for both Kilsyth and Ronald
shrunk from any communication with him. Bitterest among all the bitter
feelings which oppressed these two men, so different in mind and
spirit, but with their love centred on the same object, was the
thought that they had given up the guardianship of their treasure to
one who was utterly unworthy of it, and, as one of them at least
confessed to himself with keen remorse, had blighted two lives by
unreasoning and short-sighted pride.
So, while his young wife had been gradually declining, Ramsay Caird
had made very little alteration in the mode of life which he had
thought fit to pursue since the earliest days of his marriage. Relying
principally on the fact, which he was constantly urging, that he was
of "no use," he absented himself more and more from his home; and when
"doing duty" there, as he phrased it, strove in no way to hide the
dislike with which he regarded the irksome task. Companionship was
necessary to Ramsay Caird, and was not to be obtained, he found, among
the class with whom since his arrival in London and his domestication
in Brook-street he had been accustomed to associate. The men who had
been pleasantly familiar with him in those days stood aloof, and
seemed by no means anxious to continue the acquaintance. They had
come, soon after his marriage, and dined in the little red-flocked
tank in Squab-street, but that was principally for Madeleine's sake;
and when rumours as to the newly-founded _ménage_ grew rife, and more
especially after Tommy Toshington's delightful story of seeing Caird
at Madame Favorita's door had got wind, the men generally agreed that
he was a bad lot, and fought as shy of him as was compatible with
common politeness. For it is to be noted that the loose-living
Benedick, the married man who glories in his own escapades and talks
with unctuous smack of his dissipations, is generally shunned by those
men of his own set, who are by no means strait-laced, and forced to
seek his company in a lower grade.
Ramsay Caird began to be bored and oppressed by his wife's illness,
and by the constant presence of her father and brother at his house.
It is true that he never saw these unwelcome visitors--on both sides
any meeting was studiously avoided--but he could not help knowing of
their being constantly with the invalid; and his own conscience, as
much of it as he had ever possessed, did not fail to tell him what
must be their indubitable opinion of him and his conduct. The
companions too with whom he had taken up--for Ramsay Caird was
essentially gregarious, and especially during the last few months had
found the impossibility of living without excitement--the new
companions with whom he consorted, and who were principally
half-sporting, half-military, whole raffish adventurers, always well
dressed, and retaining a certain hold on society, where they once had
been well received,--these men encouraged Caird in his dislike to his
home, and assisted him in the invention of plausible excuses to get
away from it. The fact that he had "gone on to the turf," which he had
at first taken every precaution to prevent his connections in
Brook-street from becoming acquainted with, and which, when some kind
common friend had told them of it, struck Kilsyth with silent horror,
and aroused much burning and outspoken indignation in Ronald, was now
put forward on every occasion, just as though it had been a legitimate
business on which he was employed. "Meetings" were constantly taking
place all over the country at which his attendance was indispensable,
and he was soon well known as one of the regular frequenters of the
betting-ring. On his return the servants in Squab-street could
generally tell what had been the result of his betting speculations;
but only to them and to one other person did he ever show his temper.
And that one other person was Lady Muriel--the proud Lady Muriel--who
in all matters between her husband and this man, who by her
instrumentality had become the husband of her husband's daughter, had
to be the go-between; to her it was left to soften his irregularities
and gloss them over as best she might, and she alone possessed his
confidence. To be the _confidante_ of a gambler and the apologist for
a debauchee was scarcely what Lady Muriel had expected when she gave
her pledge to dying Stewart Caird, and when she intrigued and
manoeuvred so successfully in gaining her stepdaughter's hand for
Ramsay.
Three days before Madeleine's death Ramsay Caird announced to Lady
Muriel, whom he stopped as she was about to ascend the stairs to the
invalid's room, that he wanted to speak to her, and, on joining him
in the red-flocked tank, told her that he was about to start that
night for Paris. There were races at Chantilly in which he was very
much interested, having a large sum at stake, and it was absolutely
necessary that he should be on the spot to watch and avail himself of
the fluctuations in the betting-ring. Then, for the first time during
their acquaintance, Lady Muriel spoke out to her quondam protégé. The
long-repressed emotions under which she was suffering seemed to have
given her eloquence; she drew a vivid picture of "what might have
been" if Ramsay's conduct had been different, and lashed his present
life and pursuits, the company he kept, and the general degradation
into which he had fallen, with an unsparing tongue. She implored him
to give up his intended journey, assuring him that he either would not
or could not understand the extreme danger of his wife's position,
pointing out to him what scandal must necessarily arise from his
absenting himself at such a time, and telling him that his past
conduct during his married life, already sufficiently commented upon
by the world, might to a certain extent be condoned by his doing his
duty and devoting himself to his home for the future. Ramsay listened
impatiently, as men of his stamp always listen to such advice, and
then he in his turn spoke out. He said that he would be his own
master, that he would brook no interference with his plans, that
already he was a mere cipher in his own house, which was invaded and
occupied by other people at their own pleasure, and that he would
stand it no longer; then, after this outburst, he moderated his tone,
apologised to Lady Muriel for his violence, and told her that, though
the importance of his business arrangements and the largeness of his
venture made it absolutely necessary for him to go to Paris on this
occasion, yet it should be the last; he would do as her ladyship
wished him, as he felt he ought to do, and his enemies should find
that he was not so black as by some persons he had been painted.
So Ramsay Caird and a select circle of British turfites took their
departure by that night's mail, and enjoyed themselves very much,
smoking, drinking, and playing cards whenever it was practicable on
the journey. Most of them were men whose acquaintance Caird had made
some time previously; but amongst them there was a Frenchman, a M.
Leroux, whom Ramsay had never previously seen, although the little
gentleman said he had frequently been in England, and seemed perfectly
conversant with the English language, manners, and customs. He was a
lively, vivacious, gasconading little fellow; and any temporary
depression of spirits which Ramsay Caird may have felt after his
interview with Lady Muriel quite vanished under the influence of M.
Leroux's conversation. He and M. Leroux seemed to have taken a mutual
liking to each other; they went together to the races, where Caird won
a large sum of money, Leroux not being quite so fortunate; and on
their return to Paris, Ramsay declined to join his English friends,
and dined with Leroux and some very agreeable Frenchmen to whom Leroux
had introduced him at the races. The dinner was excellent; and after
they had done full justice to it, and to the wines which accompanied
it, they all adjourned so some neighbouring rooms belonging to one of
their number, where cards and dice were speedily introduced. Again
Ramsay Caird's luck stood by him. _Malheureux en amour_, he was
destined to be _heureux en jeu_ on this occasion at least. Nothing
could alter or diminish his flow of success; no matter what he played,
lansquenet, baccarat, hazard, he won largely at them all; and when at
a very late hour he left the rooms in company with Leroux and two of
his friends, his pockets were filled with notes and gold. They were
quite empty when they were examined about noon the next day by the
attendants at the Morgue, whither Ramsay Caird's dead body, found in
the Seine with a deep gash in its breast, had been conveyed.
M. Leroux and his friends did not come so well out of this little
affair as they had expected. They knew that Ramsay was a stranger in
Paris, known only to the English sporting-men in whose company he had
arrived there, and who had probably returned to England. But they did
not make allowance for the fact that of all cities Paris has a charm
for the "English division," who, if they have won any money, linger
for a few days amongst its pleasures, one of which undoubtedly is a
frequent visit to the Morgue. By one of these late lingerers, no less
a person than Captain Severn, the body of Ramsay Caird was seen and
recognised; inquiries were at once set on foot; the waiter at the
restaurant, the _concierge_ at the house where the play had taken
place, were examined, and gave their evidence. M. Leroux and his two
friends were apprehended; one of the friends turned traitor (his share
of the spoil had been too small), and Leroux and the other, being
found guilty of murder under extenuating circumstances, were sentenced
to the galleys for life.
The news of this catastrophe was conveyed to the Kilsyth family in a
letter addressed by Captain Severn to Ronald, which letter lay
unopened in Brook-street for several days. Ronald Kilsyth was far too
much crushed and broken by the blow, which, for all their long
expectation of its advent, had yet fallen suddenly upon them at the
last, to attend to anything unconnected, as he imagined, with the
dead. He had indeed carelessly glanced at the cover of this letter,
with several others; but the handwriting was unfamiliar to him, and he
put it aside, to be opened at a later opportunity. It was not until
two or three days afterwards, when Ramsay Caird had been sought in
vain, and when Lady Muriel had confessed that he had confided to her
his intention of going to Paris, that Ronald recollected the letter in
the strange handwriting with the Paris postmark. He sent for the
letter, and read it through without the smallest sign of emotion. He
was a hard man, Ronald Kilsyth, and the softening effect of his
sister's illness only included her and those who were fond of her.
Ronald knew well enough that Ramsay Caird did not come within this
category, and he felt no pity for his fate.
He communicated the news to his father more as a matter of form than
anything else; for the shock of his beloved child's death had almost
deprived Kilsyth of his reason. Like Rachel, he refused to be
comforted, and would sit hour after hour in one position on his chair,
his eyes fixed on vacancy, his chin resting on his breast, his hands
idly clasped before him. Nothing seemed to rouse him,--not even the
news which had been conveyed to Ronald in Captain Severn's letter. He
comprehended it, for he said "Poor Ramsay!" once, and once only; then
heaved a deep sigh, and never alluded to his dead son-in-law again.
His thoughts were filled with reminiscences of his lost darling, and
he had none to bestow on anyone else. "My poor Maddy!" "My bonnie
lass!" "My own childie!"--he would sit and repeat these phrases over
and over again; then steal away down to the house where all that was
left of her still lay, and remain on his knees by the coffin, until
Ronald would come and half forcibly lead him away. He left London
immediately after the funeral, and never could be persuaded to return
to it. After a while, the fresh mountain air, to which he had been so
accustomed, and away from which he was never well, had some of its old
restorative effect, and Kilsyth recovered most of his physical
strength and some of his old pleasure in field sports; but his zest
for life was gone, and the gullies mourned the alteration in the chief
whom they loved so much.
The death of Ramsay Caird under such horrible circumstances was a
crushing blow to Lady Muriel. This, then, was the end of all her
schemes and plots; this the result of so much mental agony and remorse
endured by herself--of so much grief and cruel injustice inflicted by
her on others. She had kept the promise she had made to Stewart Caird
on his deathbed, two lives had been sacrificed, two loves had been
blighted--but she had kept her promise. For the first time in her life
"my lady's" courage failed her; and her conscience showed her how
recklessly she had availed herself of the means to gain her ends. For
the first time in her life she dreaded meeting the glances of the
world. More than all men she dreaded Ronald Kilsyth, knowing as she
did full well how she had used him for her own purposes, and with what
lamentable results. She had been seriously affected by Madeleine's
death--like many worldly people, never knowing how much she had loved
the girl until she lost her; and now the fact of Ramsay's murder under
such discreditable circumstances--a story which had been made public
in the newspapers, where the world could glean the undeniable truth
that the murdered man had left what was actually his wife's deathbed
to attend some races--seemed to overwhelm her The young men who
visited at the house had been in the habit of expressing to each other
great admiration of Lady Muriel's "pluck"--that quality did not desert
her even at her worst. She made head against her troubles, and never
gave in; but those intimate enemies who saw her before she left London
with her husband declared Lady Muriel to be "quite broken" and a
"thorough wreck."
And Chudleigh Wilmot? He lived, of course; lived, and ate and drank,
and pursued very much his usual course of life. Well, no; not quite
his usual course of life. The effect of the death of the one woman
whom in his lifetime he had loved was to him much as are the gunshot
wounds of which we sometimes hear officers and army surgeons tell;
wounds where the hit man feels a slight concussion at the moment, and
does not know until a short time afterwards that he is stunned,
paralysed for ever. While Wilmot had been watching the insidious
progress of Madeleine's disease, his mental misery at times was most
acute; every variation in her was apparent to his practised eye; and
day by day he saw the destroyer creeping stealthily onward in his
attack, without the smallest power to resist him. When the bitter
tidings of her death were brought by Ronald's servant, the words fell
upon Chudleigh Wilmot's ear and smote him as if a sharp cut from a
whip had fallen upon him. She whom he had loved so devotedly, so
hopelessly, so selflessly, was dead--he realised that. He knew that he
should never see the light in her blue eyes, never hear the sweet soft
tones of her voice again. He was thankful that, under the impulse of
his grief, he had spoken to her out of his overcharged heart and told
her how he loved her. He dared not have done it before, he dared not
under any other circumstances have confessed the passion for her that
had so long been the motive-power of his life; but then--"Happy,
_quand même!_" Her last words--she never had spoken after that--her
last words were addressed to him, and told him of her happiness.
It was not until after the funeral that Wilmot experienced the full
effect of the blow, experienced it in the dead dull blankness which
seemed for the second time to have fallen upon his life. He had had
something of the kind before, but nothing equal in intensity to what
he now suffered. He felt as though the light had died out, and that
henceforward he was to walk in darkness, without care, without hope,
without interest in any mortal thing. Previously he had found some
relief in hard study; now he found it impossible to fix his attention
on his hooks. The awful sense of something impending was perpetually
upon him; the more awful sense of something wanting in his life never
left him. The only time that a ray of comfort broke in upon him was
when Ronald Kilsyth would come and sit with him, and they would talk
of the dead girl for hours together, as Madeleine had predicted they
would do. They are very much together now, these two men; Ronald has
risen in the service, and he and Wilmot are engaged in ameliorating
the condition of the common soldiers and their families, It was a work
in which Madeleine at one time took much interest; and this was
sufficient to recommend it to Wilmot, who at once took it up.
He is a middle-aged man now, with a grizzled head and a worn grave
face. He has wealth and fame, and might have any position; but the
world can offer him nothing that arouses in him the slightest
interest, unless it be associated with the memory of his lost love.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Forlorn Hope (Vol. 2 of 2), by Edmund Yates