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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f1e3182 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63582 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63582) diff --git a/old/63582-0.txt b/old/63582-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2fab9c6..0000000 --- a/old/63582-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,2830 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Oliver's Bride; A true Story, by Mrs. -Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: Oliver's Bride; A true Story - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: November 03, 2020 [EBook #63582] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVER'S BRIDE; A TRUE STORY *** - - - - - OLIVER’S BRIDE - - A True Story - - - BY - MRS. OLIPHANT, - _Author of “The Chronicles of Carlingford,” etc._ - - - COPYRIGHT - - - LONDON: - THE STANDARD LIBRARY COMPANY, - 15 CLERKENWELL ROAD, E.C. - - - - - OLIVER’S BRIDE. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - - -‘I have not been always what I ought to have been,’ he said, ‘you must -understand that, Grace. I can’t let you take me without telling you, -though it’s against myself. I have not been the man that your husband -ought to be, that is the truth.’ - -She smiled upon him with all the tenderness of which her eyes were -capable, which was saying much, and pressed the hands which held hers. -They had just, after many difficulties and embarrassments and delay, -said to each other all that people say when, from being strangers, they -become one and conclude to part no more. They were standing together in -all the joyful agitation and excitement which accompany this -explanation--their hearts beating high, their faces illuminated by the -radiance of the delight which is always a surprise to the true lover, -even when to others it has been most certain and evident. Their friends -had known for weeks that this was what it was coming to; but he was pale -with the ineffable discovery that she loved him, and she all-enveloped -in the very bloom of a blush for pure wonder of this extraordinary -certainty that he loved her. She looked at him and smiled, their clasped -hands changing their action for the moment, she pressing his in token of -utmost confidence as his hitherto had pressed hers. - -‘I do not mean only that I do not deserve you, which is what any man -would say,’ he resumed, after the unspoken yet unmistakable answer she -had made him. ‘The best man on earth might say so, and speak the truth. -No man is good enough for such as you; but I mean more than that.’ - -‘You mean flattery,’ she said, ‘which I would not listen to for a moment -if it were not sweeter to listen to than anything else in the world. You -don’t suppose I believe that; but so long as _you_ do--’ - -Her hands unloosed and melted into his again, and he resumed the -pressure which became almost painful, so close it was and earnest. - -‘Dear,’ he said, with his voice trembling, ‘you must not think I mean -that only. That would be so were I a better man. I mean that I am not -worthy to touch your dear hand or the hem of your garment. Oh, listen: I -have not been a good man, Grace.’ - -She released one of her hands and put it up softly and touched his lips. - -‘All that has been is done with,’ she said, ‘for both of us--everything -has become new--’ - -‘Ah,’ he said, ‘if you are content with that, it is so; it shall ever -be so. Yet I would not accept that peace of God without telling -you--without letting you know--’ - -‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘or I might have to confess, too.’ - -‘You,’ he cried, seizing her in his arms with a kind of rage. ‘Oh, never -name yourself in such a comparison. You don’t know, you can’t imagine--’ - -Once more she stopped his mouth. - -‘No more, no more; we are both content in what is, and happy in what is -to come.’ - -‘Happy is too mild a word. It is not big enough, nor strong enough for -me.’ - -She smiled with the woman’s soft superiority to the man’s rapture that -makes her glad. Superiority yet inferiority, admiring, yet half -disdaining, the tide that carries him away--all for her, as if she was -worth that! proud of him for the warmth of passion of which she is not -capable, at which she shakes her head, not even he able to transport her -to such a height of emotion as that to which she, only she, no other! -can transport him. She began to be his critic and counsellor on the -moment, as soon as it had been acknowledged that she was his love, and -was to be his wife. - -It had been a long wooing, much interrupted, supposed to be hopeless. -They had loved each other as boy and girl seven or eight years before. -It is to be hoped that no one will be wounded by the fact that Grace -Goodheart was twenty-five; not an innocent angel of eighteen, but a -woman who had her own opinions of the world. He was five years older. -When she was seventeen and he twenty-two there had been passages between -them which he had perhaps forgotten: but she had never forgot. At that -period they were both poor. She an orphan girl in the house of her -uncle, who was very kind to her, but announced everywhere that he did -not intend to leave her his fortune; he a young man without any very -definite intentions in life, or energy to make a way for himself. They -had parted then without anything said, for Oliver was a gentleman, and -would not spoil the future of the girl whom he could not ask to marry -him. He had gone away into the world, and he had forgotten Grace. But -there is nothing that a girl’s mind is more apt to fix upon than the -vague conclusion, which is no end, of such an episode. There is in it -something more delicate than an engagement which holds the imagination -as fast as any betrothal. He has not spoken, she thinks, for honour’s -sake. He has gone away, like a true knight, to gain fame or fortune, and -so win her: and she is consciously waiting for him for long years, -perhaps, till he comes back, following him with her heart, with her eyes -as far as she can, ever open to all that is heard of him, collecting -diligently every scrap of information. Grace had not been without her -little successes in that time; others had seen that she was sweet as -well as Oliver Wentworth; but she was so light-hearted and cheerful that -no one could say it was for Oliver’s sake, or for any reason but -because she did not choose, that she would have no one in her own -sphere. And then came that strange reversal of everything when the old -uncle died without any will, and Grace, who it was always supposed must -go out governessing at his death, was found to be his heiress. She was -his next of kin; there was nobody even to divide it with, to fight for a -share; and instead of being a little dependent orphan, she was an -heiress and a very good match. How it was that Oliver Wentworth came -back after this, was a question that many people asked; but however it -was, it was not with any mercenary thought on his part. Whether his -sister was equally disinterested, who would take no denial, but insisted -on his visit, need not, perhaps, be inquired. He had come rather against -his will, knowing no reason why Trix should be so urgent; and then he -had met Grace Goodheart, whom he had not seen for so many years, again. -To her it was a little disappointing that he came back very much as he -had gone away, without having achieved either honour or fortune. But -success is not dealt out in the same measure to every man; and if he had -failed, how much more reason for consoling him? He had only failed in -degree. He had not won either honour or fortune; but he was able to earn -his daily bread, and perhaps hers. And when he saw her again, his heart -had gone back with a bound to his first love, although in the meantime -that love had been forgotten. She was aware, more or less, of all this. -She was even aware, more or less, of what he had wanted to tell her. She -had followed him too closely with her heart not to know that he had not -always kept himself unspotted from the world. This had cost her many a -secret tear in the years which were past, but had not altered her mind -towards him. There are women who can cease to love when they discover -that a man is unworthy; indeed, it is one of the commonplaces both of -fact and fiction, that love cannot exist without respect. It would be -very well for the good people, and very ill for those who are not good, -if this were always so. There are many, many, of women, perhaps the -majority, who are not so high-minded, and who love those they love--God -help them--whether they are worthy of love or not. Grace was one of -those women. She heard, somehow--who can tell how, being intent to hear -anything she could pick up about him--that he had not kept the perfect -way. She heard that he had gone wrong, and perhaps heard no more for a -year or two, and in her secret retirement wept and prayed, but made no -outward sign; and then had heard some comforting news, and then again -had been plunged into the anguish of those who know that their beloved -are in misery and trouble, yet cannot lift a finger to help them. When -he appeared again within her ken, she knew it was a man soiled with much -contact of the world that met her, and not the pure-hearted boy of old. -But he was still Oliver Wentworth, and that was everything. And when in -honour and honesty he would have told her how unworthy he was, her -heart leapt up towards him in that glory and delight of approbation -which is perhaps the highest ecstacy of a woman. His confession, which -she would not allow him to make, was virtue and excellence to her. She -was more proud of him because he wanted to tell her that he was a -sinner, and acknowledge his unworthiness, than if he had been the most -unsullied and excellent of men. - -Wentworth’s sister had always been Grace’s friend. She was older than -either of them, married, and full in the current of her own life. When -Oliver came back to her after all was settled, and made what he believed -was a revelation to her of his love and happiness, Mrs. Ford laughed in -his face, even while she shared his raptures. - -‘Do you think I don’t know all that?’ she said. ‘There never was -anything so stupid as a man in love. Why, I have known it for the last -eight years, and always looked forward to this day.’ Which, perhaps, was -not quite true, and yet was true in a way. For Trix had all along loved -Grace for loving her brother, and had seen that, with such a wife, -Oliver would be all that could be desired; yet had thought it best -policy, on the whole, till Grace came into her fortune, to keep them out -of each other’s way. - -‘Trix,’ he said very gravely, pulling his moustache, ‘for eight years -she has always been the first woman in the world for me.’ - -At which his sister, which was very unbecoming, continued to laugh. ‘The -first, perhaps, dear Noll,’ she said, ‘but we can’t deny, can we, that -there have been a few others--secondary? But you may be sure, so far as -I am concerned, Grace shall never know a word of that.’ - -Oliver did not take the matter so lightly. From his rapture of content -he dropped into great gravity and walked about the room pulling at his -moustache, which was a custom he had when he was thinking. ‘On the -contrary,’ he said, ‘I should have liked her to know before she took the -last step that--that I haven’t been a good fellow, Trix.’ - -‘Oliver, I shouldn’t like to hear any one else say so. Tom says’ (this -was her husband) ‘that you’ve always been a good fellow in spite of--’ - -‘In spite of what?’ - -‘Well, in spite of--little indiscretions,’ said Trix, looking her -brother in the face, though she coloured as she did so in spite of -herself. - -‘That means--’ he said, and walked up and down and pulled his moustache -more and more. It was a long time before he added, ‘There is nothing -that makes a man feel so ashamed of himself, Trix, as to feel that a -woman like Grace--if there is anyone like her--’ - -‘Oh, nobody, of course!’ said his sister. - -He gave her a look, half angry, half tender. ‘You are a good woman, too; -and to think that two girls like you should take a fellow at your own -estimate, and pretend to think that he is a good fellow enough after -all: as if that were all that her--her husband ought to be.’ - -‘Well, Noll,’ said Mrs. Ford, ‘it is better not to go into details. Very -likely we should not understand them if you did, though I am no girl, -nor is she a baby either, for the matter of that; but whatever you have -been or done, the fact is that you are just Oliver Wentworth, when all -is said: and as Oliver Wentworth is the man Grace has been fond of -almost since she was a child, and who has been my brother since ever he -was born--’ - -‘Strange!’ he cried, with a curious outburst, half laugh, half groan, -‘to think she should have kept thinking of me all this time, while I--’ - -‘Have been in love with her, and considered her all the time the first -woman in the world. You told me so just now.’ - -‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s not a lie, though you may think it so. I did -feel that when I thought of--’ and here he paused and gave his sister a -guilty look. - -‘When you thought of her at all; you needn’t be ashamed, Noll. That’s -the man’s way of putting it. We women all know that; but now that she is -before your eyes and you cannot help thinking of her--now it has come -all right.’ - -Trix too gave a laugh which was half crying; and then she dried her eyes -and came solemnly up to him with a very serious face, and caught him by -the arm and looked into his eyes. - -‘Oliver, now that all that’s over, and you’re an older man and -understand that life can’t go on so; and now that you are going to marry -Grace, the woman you have always loved--Oliver, for the love of God, no -more of it now.’ - -He gazed at her for a moment with a flash of something like fury in his -eyes, and then flung her arm far from him with fierce indignation. ‘Do -you think I am a brute beast without understanding?’ he cried. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -For a week or more after their betrothal these two lovers were very -happy. To be sure there was a great deal of remark and some remonstrance -addressed to Grace about the antecedents of the man she was going to -marry. Various people spoke to her, and some even wrote, which is a -strong step, asking her if she was aware that Oliver Wentworth had been -supposed to be ‘wild’ or ‘gay,’ or something else of the same meaning. -It is generally supposed that a village or a small town is the place for -gossip, but I think Society is made up of a succession of villages, and -that there is no place, not even London itself--that wilderness, that -great Babylon--in which people are not talked about by their Christian -names, and everything that can be discussed, with perhaps a little more, -is not known about them. Ironborough was a very large town, but the -Wentworths and the Goodhearts had both been settled there for a -generation or two, and they were known to everybody. And not only was it -known universally and much talked of that Oliver Wentworth had been -‘wild,’ and that he was poor, and consequently that he must be marrying -solely for money; but it also raised a great ferment in the place that -he should intend, instead of settling down (‘and thankful for that’) in -Grace’s charming house, which her old uncle, a man very learned in the -art of making himself comfortable, had made so perfect--to carry off his -wife to London with him, and live there for the advantage of his work, -forsooth! as if his work could be of any such consequence in the -_ménage_, or as if he would ever earn enough to pay the house rent. -Oliver was like so many other young men, a barrister with very little to -do. He had managed to keep himself going by a few briefs and a little -literature, as soon as he had fully convinced himself, by the process of -spending everything else that he could lay his hands upon, that a man -must live upon what he can make. He was not of so fine a fibre as some -heroes, who feel themselves humiliated by their future wife’s fortune, -and whom the possible suspicion of interested motives pursues -everywhere; but at the same time he was not disposed to be his wife’s -dependent, and he knew the world well enough to be aware that with the -backing of her wealth he would probably make a great deal more of his -profession than it had hitherto been possible for him to do. As for -Grace herself, she talked of his profession, and of his work, and of the -necessity for living where it would be most convenient to him, as if her -entire fortune depended upon that, and Oliver’s work was to be the -support of the new household. A girl without a penny, whose marriage was -to promote her to the delightful charge of a house of her own, and -whose every new bonnet was to come from the earnings of her husband, -could not have been more completely absorbed in consideration of all -that was necessary for his perfect convenience in his work. She -bewildered even Mrs. Ford by the way she took up this idea. - -‘I honour you for what you say, and I love you for it, Grace; but still -you know Oliver’s profession is not what you would call very--lucrative, -is it? and he could do his writing anywhere, you know!’ - -‘Indeed, I don’t know anything of the kind,’ said Grace, indignantly. -‘He has to be constantly in the House when it is sitting. He has to know -everything that is going on. Would you think your husband was well -treated if he was made to manage his work, say from the seaside or a -country house, for your sake and the children’s, instead of being on the -spot? You know you would not, Trix.’ - -‘Oh, well, perhaps that may be so; but then my husband--’ faltered Trix, -with a troubled look. She would have said: ‘My husband is the -breadwinner, and everything depends on him,’ but she was daunted by the -look in Grace’s eyes, and actually did not dare to suggest that Oliver -would be in a very different position. Mr. Wilbraham, the solicitor who -managed Miss Goodheart’s affairs, interfered in the same way, with -similar results. She was in a position of almost unexampled freedom for -so young a woman. She had neither guardians nor trustees. There was -nobody in the world who had a right to dictate to her or even -authoritatively to suggest what she ought to do--for the reason that all -she had had come to her as it were inadvertently, accidentally, because -her uncle, who always said he intended to leave her nothing, had died -without a will. Mr. Wilbraham was the only man in the world who had any -right to say a word, and he had no real right, only the right of an old -friend who had known her all her life, and knew everything about her. He -said, when the settlement was being discussed (in which respect Mr. -Wentworth’s behaviour was perfect--for all that he wished was to secure -his wife in the undisturbed enjoyment of what was her own), that he -hoped Miss Goodheart meant to remain, when she was married, among her -own friends. - -‘I don’t think you would like London after Ironborough,’ he said, with -perfect sincerity; ‘and to get a house like this in town would cost you -a fortune, you know.’ - -‘It is not a question of liking,’ said Grace, with all the calm of -faith; ‘of course, we must live where Mr. Wentworth’s work requires him -to live. He cannot carry on his profession in the country.’ - -‘The country!’ said Mr. Wilbraham, with a sneer which his politeness to -an excellent client could only soften. ‘Does he call this the country? -and Mr. Wentworth’s profession, if you will permit me to say so, has, so -far as I know--’ - -‘It is the country though, you know,’ said Grace, preserving her temper, -though with a little difficulty, ‘though not exactly what you could -call fresh fields and pastures new.’ - -And when he looked up at her, Mr. Wilbraham made up his mind that it was -best to say no more. A willful woman will have her way. Perhaps it was -only the lavish and tender generosity of her nature, which would let no -one see that she was conscious her position was different from that of -the majority of women: but I think it went even a little further than -this, and that Grace had got herself to believe that Oliver’s work was -all in all. She talked to him about it, till he believed in it too, and -they planned together the localities in which it would be best to look -for a house, in a place which should be quiet so that he might not be -disturbed, and yet near everything that he ought to frequent and see; a -place where they would, have good air and space to breathe, and yet a -place where his chambers, and his newspaper office, and the House should -be easily accessible; in short, just such a house as a rising -barrister, who was at the same time a man of letters, ought to have. -Grace, especially, was very anxious that it should not be too far away. -‘As for me, you know, it does not matter a bit--one place is just the -same as another to me; but everybody says a man’s work loses when he is -not always on the spot,’ she said. Sometimes Oliver himself was tickled -by her earnestness; but she was so very much in earnest that he fell -into her tone, and did not even venture to laugh at himself, which was a -thing he had been very apt to do. - -And those consultations were very sweet. It is doubtful whether anything -in life is so sweet as the talks and anticipations of two who have thus -made up their minds to be one, while as yet life keeps its old shape, -the shape which they feel they have outgrown, and all is anticipation. -Everything loses a little when it is realised. No house, to give a small -example, is ever so convenient, so delightful, so entirely adapted for -happy habitation, as the one which these two reasonable people actually -hoped to find _To be Let_ in London. It was to have a hundred advantages -which never come together; it was to be exactly at the right distance -from the turmoil of town; it was to have rooms arranged just in this and -that way; it was to be very capable of decoration, and yet to have a -character of its own. Oliver’s library was to be the best room in the -house, and yet the other sitting-rooms were to be best rooms too. ‘I -will not endure to have you pushed into a dark room, as poor Mr. Ford -is,’ said Grace. ‘The master of the house, on whom everything depends, -should always have the best. To be sure poor Mr. Ford does his work in -his office, which is some excuse; but your study, Oliver, will tell for -so much. You must let me furnish it out of my own head.’ - -He laughed a little, and coloured, and said, ‘Seeing you will probably -furnish it out of your own purse, Grace--’ - -At which she opened her eyes wide, and looked at him, then laughed too, -a little, but gravely, as if it were not a subject for a jest, and said, -‘Oh, I see what you mean. You mean me to be the accountant, and all -that. Well, I am pretty good at arithmetic, Oliver; and, of course, it -might disturb your mind while you are busy, and I shall have nothing -else to do.’ - -This was the way she took it, with a readiness of resource in parrying -all allusions to her own wealth which was infinite, though whether she -succeeded in this by dint of much thought, or whether it was entirely -spontaneous, the suggestion of the moment, no one could quite make out. -The result upon Oliver, as I have said, was that he began to believe in -himself, too. Instead of laughing at his brief business, which had been -his custom, he began to take himself and his work very seriously, and to -think how he should apportion his time so as not to leave Grace too much -alone--as if he had ever found any difficulty in finding time for -whatever he wished to do! ‘It is a pity,’ he said, ‘that this season is -just the busiest time, both in chambers and in politics; but I must make -leisure to take you about a little, Grace. To think of taking you about, -and seeing everything again, fresh, through your dear eyes, is almost -too delightful. Would the time were here!’ - -‘It will come quite soon enough, Oliver. We have not even begun to look -for the house yet, and there is all the furnishing and everything to do. -Don’t you think you had better run up to town and begin operations? We -may not be able, you know, just at once, to light upon the house.’ - -‘Don’t you think you had better come with me, Grace?’ - -‘I? Oh! Why should I go with you? Surely,’ she said, with a laugh and a -blush, ‘you will be able to do that by yourself.’ - -‘How could I do it by myself? I am no longer myself. I am only half of -myself. Come and I shall go; but I am not going to leave myself behind -me, and stultify myself. I shall not even be one-half but only a fifth -or sixth of myself: for there is you, who is the best part of me, and -then my heart, which is next best, and my thoughts, which, along with my -heart and you, really make up myself--all the best part.’ - -‘What an intolerable number of selfs!’ she said; though, perhaps, it was -not very clever, it pleased her in that state of mind in which we are -all so easily pleased. She said no more, however, and drew away from -him, while he jumped to his feet at the opening of the door. The old -butler came in with a letter on a tray. There was something sinister in -the look of the letter. It was in a blue envelope, and was directed in a -very common, informal hand--_Immediate_ written on it in large letters. - -‘Please, sir, Mrs. Ford’s man has come to say as they don’t know if it -is anythink of importance; but ‘as brought it seeing as immediate’s on -it, in case it should be business, sir; and here, sir, is a telegram as -has come too.’ - -The butler gave a demure glance at his mistress, who was still blushing -a good deal, as she had done when she pushed away the chair. - -‘Thank you, Jenkins!’ said Oliver. - -He took the letter and looked at it before he opened it. He thought he -had seen the handwriting before, but could not remember where. He felt a -little afraid of it; he could not tell why. He turned it over in his -hand and hesitated, and would have liked to put it in his pocket and -carry it away with him for perusal afterwards. What could be so -_Immediate_ as to require his attention now--a bill, perhaps? He ran -over the list of possibilities in that way, and did not remember -anything. - -‘What is it, Oliver?’ said Grace. ‘Haven’t you opened it? Oh, but you -must open it when it is marked Immediate. It must be business, of -course.’ - -‘I should think it’s a hoax,’ he said slowly, ‘a circular, or something -of that sort’ and crushed it in his hand. Then as she made a little -outcry--‘Well, I’ll open it to please you. All women, I perceive, -believe in letters,’ he said, with a smile. - -The joke was but a small one at the best--it seemed smaller and smaller -as he opened the envelope and read what was written within. Grace had -gone away to re-arrange some flowers on the table, to leave him at -liberty. She bent over them, taking out some that were beginning to -fade, pulling them about a little till the moment should be over. It -seemed to run into two or three minutes, and Oliver did not say anything -or even move. He would generally say, ‘Oh, it is So-and-so!’--some -friend who sent his congratulations. That was the chief subject of all -their letters at the present time. They were letters which were handed -from one to another with little notes of admiration. ‘Poor fellow, he is -as pleased as possible.’ ‘What a nice letter, Oliver! I am sure he must -be fond of you,’ and so forth, and so forth. But he said nothing about -this. To be sure, it was business. - -She turned round at last, not knowing what to do; wondering, when your -bridegroom does not tell you of a thing, what is your duty in the -circumstances. To ask, or to hold your tongue? Grace was not jealous, or -ready to take offence. And she was very anxious to do her duty. What -ought she to do? - -He folded up the letter, as he heard her move, and turned towards her, -but without raising his eyes. His face was clouded and dark. He put it -into his pocket, and they sat down and began to talk, but not as before, -though of the same subject. - -At last he said, abruptly, ‘I think I will go up to town, Grace. You -suggested it, you know,’ as if he had altogether forgotten all that he -had said, which she had chidden him for, and loved him for, all that -pleasant nonsense about himself. - -She was startled for a moment; then replied quietly, ‘Yes, Oliver, I do -think it will be the best way--’ - -He continued hesitating--faltering. ‘It is not for that only, my -darling. This letter--I am afraid I shall have to go: a--a friend of -mine has got into trouble. I--can’t exactly tell what it is; but wants -me to go.’ - -‘Oh, how sorry I am!’ said Grace. ‘Dear Oliver, it is natural people -should turn to you when they are in trouble. Who is he? Do I know him? -Has he written to you about--’ - -‘I don’t suppose--he--knows anything about it. It is a friend I haven’t -heard of for a long time. Not one for you to know, but in great -trouble. Dying, the letter says.’ - -‘Oh, Oliver, go--go at once. Not for the world would I keep you from a -dying man. Don’t tell me any more than you wish, dear. But can I do -anything--can I send anything? Is he--oh, Oliver, forgive me--is he -poor?’ - -‘Forgive you?’ he said. He held her close to him with a strain which was -almost violent, as if he could not let her go. Then he said, ‘No, my -darling, you can do nothing. I may have helped to make things worse, and -I am at the height of happiness, while this poor creature--this poor--’ - -‘Oh, Oliver, go and comfort him,’ she said, ‘Don’t lose a train; don’t -come back to any good-bye. Go--go!’ Then while he hold her in his arms -she said, smiling, ‘It need not be a very long parting, I suppose?’ - -‘Any parting is long that takes me from you, Grace.’ - -‘But it is for love’s sake. Good-bye. I’ll do all I can do, Oliver. I’ll -pray for you--and him.’ - -‘God bless you, my dear love--not good-bye--till we meet again.’ - -And then the door closed, and he was gone. - -The day had grown dark, surely, all at once. It was a day in early -spring, and very cloudy. A mass of dark vapour had blown up over the -sweet sky; and what a change it was all in a moment, from that pretty -fooling about himself and his other self to this sudden parting! But, -then, it was an errand of mercy on which he was going. God be with him! -And it could not be for long. Nothing, neither trouble nor suffering, -nor death of friends, nor any created thing could separate them long. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -Trix was not so quickly satisfied as Grace had been. ‘Going away!’ she -cried; ‘going to leave Grace! I thought you could not bear to have her -out of your sight.’ - -‘I hope I was not such an ass as to say so, but I cannot help myself--it -is an old friend--’ - -‘Who is he? Do I know him?’ she said, as Grace had said. ‘You men are so -ridiculous about your friends. Probably somebody that did you nothing -but harm, and whom you would be thankful never to hear of again.’ - -‘You speak like an oracle. Trix; but I must go all the same.’ - -‘And why don’t you say who he is? Ah, it was a great deal better for -you, Oliver, when you had no friends that your sister didn’t know of. -Tell me who he is--at least, tell me his name.’ - -‘You would not be a bit the wiser. You know nothing whatever about--him. -Trix, take great care of her while I am away.’ - -‘Oh, as for taking care of her!--’ He went out of the room while she was -speaking to put his necessaries into his bag. And left alone, she began -to think still more doubtfully over the meaning of this sudden move. She -ran over every name she could think of, of people whom she knew he had -known. She, too, felt the influence of that sudden cloud which blotted -out the sky and brought the quick deluge of the spring shower pouring -about the ears of the wayfarers. The darkness assisted her womanish -imagination, as it had done that of Grace. It was like a sudden -misfortune falling when no one thought of it. And Mrs. Ford’s mind was -greatly exercised. When Oliver came into the room again, ready to -start, she got up quickly and went to him with her two hands on the -lappels of his coat. ‘Oliver,’ she cried, breathlessly, ‘I hope to -goodness it _is_ a him, and not--You couldn’t, you wouldn’t--it isn’t -possible.’ - -‘Suspicion seems always possible,’ he said, harshly, putting her away -from him. Was it the natural indignation of one unjustly blamed? ‘If -that is all you think of me, what can it matter what I say?’ - -‘Oh,’ cried Trix, who was very impulsive, ‘I beg your pardon, Noll. It -was only that I--it was because I am so anxious, oh, so anxious! that -everything should go well. You won’t be long--not any longer than you -can help?’ - -‘Not a moment,’ he said. ‘If I can return to-morrow, I will. I hope so -with all I my heart. Going at all is no pleasure. Take care of her while -I am away.’ - -It seemed to Trix that he was gone before she had known that he was -going. It was very sudden. He had not intended to go at all till after -his marriage. He had said so only that morning: and why this change all -in an hour? A friend! It must be a very intimate friend, she concluded, -or he would not have thrown up all his plans to go and visit him. To be -sure, when a man is dying he is not likely to wait the convenience of -another who is about to be married. She told her husband when he came in -in the evening, and he, a good man, who was not wont to trouble himself -about hidden meanings, received the news with great placidity. - -‘Is it anyone we know?’ was his first question. ‘I hope it may be the -sort of friend who will leave him something--a legacy couldn’t come at a -better moment.’ This was a wonderful sedative to her alarms, and turned -her thoughts into quite a different channel. It would be indeed a most -suitable moment to have a legacy left him. Every time is suitable for -that, but when a man is about to be married, nothing could be more -appropriate. Mrs. Ford went across in the evening, after dinner, to see -Grace. They lived quite near each other, and the Fords for that evening -had no engagement. She found her future sister-in-law sitting over a -little, bright fire, reading a novel, with papers beside her on the -table, lists from the furniture shops, and some made out in her own -handwriting of things that would be required in the new home. Miss -Goodheart received Mrs. Ford very cordially. ‘It feels so odd to be -quite alone again,’ she said, with a little laugh, which was slightly -nervous, ‘and when one didn’t expect it. So I was glad to find a new -book. Poor Oliver! he will not have pleasant journey. I hope he will -find his friend better. Is he a friend of yours, too?’ - -‘He was in such a hurry he had not time to tell me, nor I to ask him,’ -said Trix, which was not, as the reader knows, quite true. - -There was a little pause after this, as if they each would have liked to -ask questions of the other; and then, no questions being possible, as -neither knew, they plunged into furniture, which is a very enthralling -subject. Trix, having experience, was able to give many hints, and to -suggest a number of things Grace had left out--kitchen things, for -instance. How can anyone know about pots and pans, and how many are -necessary, without practical knowledge supplied by recent experience? - -They both subdued a little dull pain they had about the region of their -hearts by a good long talk on this subject, and parted quite cheerfully -when Mr. Ford--who never had any pains in that region except those which -are produced by a digestion out of order--came to fetch his wife. - -‘Oliver will take the opportunity to do several things on his own hook, -now that he has managed to tear himself away,’ that gentleman said. ‘The -great difficulty was to tear himself away. And I only hope his friend -will leave him something.’ - -This, though it was so prosaic, gave a real comfort to the two women. -It brought his mission quite out from the mystery that hung about it to -the range of commonplace affairs. - -It was not till Wentworth was fairly gone from the station shut up by -himself in a compartment of a first-class carriage, and unapproached by -any spectator, that he took out from his pocket and read over again the -letter and telegram which had called him away thus hurriedly out of the -happiness of his new life. The letter was on blue paper, not without a -suspicion of greasiness, and very badly written in a hand which might -have been that of a shopman or a schoolboy. But it was signed by a -female name, and this is what it said:-- - - - ‘DEAR MR. WENTWORTH,-- - - ‘Alice came home in bad health three months ago. She’s been very - bad ever since, and there is now no hopes of her. It’s consumption - and heart complaint, and what the doctor calls a complickation. - For the last fortnight she’s been weaker and weaker every day, and - yesterday was took much worse, and hasn’t but a day or two to live. - She says as she can’t die happy without seeing you. She calls for - you all the time she’s waking, both night and day. Oh, Mr. - Wentworth, you always was a kind gentleman, not like some; I know - as you would have nothing to say to her if she was well: but being - as she’s very ill and near her death, I do hope as you’ll listen to - me. You was the first as she ever took a fancy to, she says. But if - you come, oh come at oncet, for there is not a moment to be lost. - - ‘Yours truly, - - ‘MATILDA.’ - - -He unfolded the telegram afterwards and read, ‘If you want to find her -in life, come at once.’ - -Wentworth remarked with a kind of horrible calm, and even a smile, that -the telegraph people had corrected the spelling. This was the summons -for which he had left Grace. He had read both more than once. Now that -he had obeyed the call, he asked himself was it indeed so -necessary--ought he to have done it? There had been perhaps something in -the force of the contrast, something in the happiness which was so much -more than he deserved, in the purity and nobleness of the woman who had -given him her hand, and who was making her spotless atmosphere his, that -stung him with that intolerable, remorseful pity, the impulse of which -is not to be resisted. Standing by the side of his bride, and on the -edge of a life altogether above his deserts, he had felt that he could -not resist this appeal to him. To refuse to speak a word of comfort to a -dying creature--he to whom God had been so good--how was it possible? -Comfort! What comfort could he give? He might bid her repent, as he had -repented. But his repentance had been paid, it had been richly -recompensed, it was setting open to him the doors of every happiness; -whereas to this sharer of his iniquities it was to be followed only by -suffering and death. - -Wentworth had never been callous or hard-hearted at his worst: and now -at his best, compassion and remorse overwhelmed him. That he should -receive that information, that appeal, with Grace’s hand in his, gave -his whole nature a shock. He felt that he must take himself away out of -her presence, and remove the recollections, the scenes that rushed back -upon his mind, the image thus thrust before his eyes, away from her at -least, even if he did not answer the appeal. He was not of the iron -fibre of some men. He could not carry these two images side by side. - -And then how did he dare resist such an appeal. ‘You were the first.’ He -had said to himself that he was responsible for the ruin of no other -human creature. He was not a seducer. He had used no wiles to draw -anyone from the paths of virtue. Is that a defence when life and death -are in the balance, and a man is arraigned before the tribunal of his -own conscience? When he went back into the recesses of his memory and -beheld all that was brought before him, as by a flash of lightning, and -then remembered the position in which he now stood, he covered his face -with his hands. He was ashamed to the bottom of his soul. The way of -transgressors is hard. To anyone who had known all the facts, it would -have appeared that Oliver Wentworth was the most striking example of -undeserved happiness. He had no right to all the good things that had -fallen into his lap. He had deserved a very different return for all -that he had done; yet when he set out upon that railway journey, with -the touch of Grace’s hand still warm in his, the shame and misery in his -mind were a not unfit representation of those tortures which to most men -are more real than the fire and brimstone of the bottomless pit. How -was the recollection of what was passed ever to be washed out of his -memory? He might repent--he had repented--and never so bitterly as now: -but how was he to forget? In the great words of mercy it is proclaimed -that God forgets as well as forgives: ‘Their sins and iniquities will I -remember no more.’ But the sinner, how is he to forget, even when he -believes that he is forgiven? - -Yet, what he was doing was not shameful nor sinful. It was mercy that -carried him away from all he loved to give what consolation he could to -a dying creature whom he had never loved, who had been but the companion -of his amusements for a moment of aberration, a time which he looked -back upon with astonishment and disgust. How could he have forgotten -himself so far? How could he have fallen into such depths? His mind was -so revolted by the recollection, such a horror and loathing filled him -at the thought, that it was impossible to suppose that any softer -sentiment lay concealed beneath. Had he been a less tender-hearted man, -he would probably have thrown the letter into the fire, and perhaps sent -a little money as the common salve for all sufferings; but his very -happiness and elevation above those wretched recollections took from him -the power to dismiss such an appeal in this way. And was it not a -certain atonement, at least an offering of painful service such as the -heart of man believes in, whatever may be its creed, to do this? The -money he could have sent would have cost him nothing--this cost him what -was incalculable, a price almost beyond bearing. His agitation calmed a -little as he pursued these thoughts. He could not do her any good, poor -creature; but if it pleased her, if it eased a little the last steps -towards the grave? - -He arrived in London late on a wet and cold spring night; in town there -was little visible of the shivering growth which makes a sudden chill in -spring more miserable than winter; but the streets were wet and gleaming -with squalid reflections, and the crowds, even in the busiest -thoroughfares, were thinned and subdued. Wentworth took a cab and drove -through a part of London with which he was not familiar, through line -upon line of poor little streets, each one exactly like its neighbours, -lighted with few lamps, with a faint occasional shop window, few and far -between, and with only at long intervals a dark figure under an umbrella -going up or down. The endless extent of this net-work of streets, all -poor, mean, dark, yet decent, the homes of myriads unknown, gave him a -sense of weariness that many miles of country would not have produced. - -At last the cab stopped before one of the narrow doors, flanked with -little iron railings, the usual parlour window over-looking a narrow -little area. In the room above a light was burning, and all the rest of -the house dark. A square printed advertisement of some trade was in the -parlour window, just visible by the lamplight, and a painted board of -the same description was attached to the railings. The door was opened -by a young woman with a candle in her hand, which nearly blew out with -the entry of the blast of night air, and flickered before her face so -that it was difficult to make out her features. She gave a little cry, -‘Oh, it’s Mr. Wentworth!’ and bade him come in. To describe the -sensation with which Wentworth realised his position, known and expected -in this house, going up the narrow stair which was all that separated -him from the sickroom, from the dying woman, between whom and himself he -was thus acknowledging a connection, is more than I can attempt. There -was no secret here--a man in the slipshod dress of a worker at home -looked out from the little back room and asked, ‘Has he come?’ as he -passed. On the top of the stairs an older woman, with the dreadful black -cap of the elderly decent English matron of the lower classes, came out -to meet him, and put out her hand in welcome. ‘How do you do, Mr. -Wentworth? She’s that excited there’s no keeping her still: and I’m so -glad you’ve come.’ - -In the face of all this, his heart sank more and more. He felt himself -no longer on a mission of mercy, but going to meet his fate. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -The room was small and dingy: opposite to the door an old-fashioned -tent-bed hung with curtains of a huge-patterned chintz, immense flowers -on a black ground: a candle standing on a small table by the bedside, -another faintly blinking from the mantelpiece beyond, the darkness of -everything around bringing into fuller relief the whiteness of the bed, -the pillows heaped up to support a restless head, a worn and ghastly -face, with large, gleaming eyes, which seemed to have an independent, -restless life of their own. The face had been pretty when Wentworth had -known it first. It was scarcely recognisable now. The cheek bones had -become prominent, the lower part of the face worn away almost to -nothing, the eyes enlarged in their hollow caves. She looked as she had -been said to be--dying--except that the light in her eyes spoke of a -secret force which might be fever, or might be because they were the -last citadel of life. But though she seemed at the last extremity of -existence, a few efforts had been made to ornament and adorn the dying -creature, efforts which added unspeakably, horribly, to the ghastly look -of her face. The collar of her night-dress had been folded over a pink -ribbon, leaving bare an emaciated throat, round which was a little gold -chain, suspending a locket: and her hair, still plentiful and pretty, -the one human decoration which does not fade, was carefully dressed, -though somewhat disordered by the continual motion of her restlessness. -It was all horrible to Wentworth, death masquerading in the poor little -vanities which were so unspeakably mean and small in comparison with -that majesty, and all to please _him_--God help the forlorn creature! -to make her look as when he had praised her prettiness, she from whom -every prettiness, every possibility of pleasing, had gone. - -She held out her two hands, which were worn to skin and bone, ‘Oh, -Oliver, my Oliver! oh, I knew he would come. Oh, didn’t I say he would -come?’ she cried. Wentworth could not but take the bony fingers into his -own. He saw that it was expected he should kiss her; but that was -impossible. He sat down in the chair which had been placed for him by -the bedside. - -‘I am very sorry to see you so ill, my poor girl,’ he said. - -‘Ill’s not the word, Mr. Wentworth; she’s dying. She hasn’t above an -hour or two in this world,’ said the mother, or the woman who took a -mother’s place. - -He gave her a look of horrified reproach, with the usual human sense -that it is cruel to announce this fact too clearly. ‘I hope it is not -quite so bad as that.’ - -‘Yes, Oliver; oh, dear Oliver, yes, yes,’ said the sick woman. ‘This -is--my last night--on earth.’ She spoke with difficulty, pausing and -panting between the words, her thin lips distended with a smile, the -smile (he could not help remarking) that had always been a little -artificial, poor girl! at her best. But even at that awful moment she -was endeavouring to charm him still (he felt with horror) by the means -which she supposed to have charmed him in the past. - -‘Tell him, mother, tell him. I haven’t got--the strength.’ She put out -her hands for his hand, which he could not refuse, though her touch made -him shiver, and lay looking at him, smiling, with that awful attempt at -fascination. He covered his eyes with his disengaged hand, half because -of the horror in his soul, half that he might not see her face. - -‘Mr. Wentworth,’ said the elder woman, ‘my poor child, sir, she’s got -one wish--’ the bony hands closed upon his with a feeble, yet anxious -pressure as this was said. - -‘Yes; what is it? If it is anything I can do for her, tell me. I will do -anything that can procure her a moment’s pleasure,’ he said. - -Fatal words to say! but he meant them fully--out of pity first, and also -out of a burning desire, at any cost, to get away. Anything for that! He -would have willingly given the half of what he possessed only to get -away from this place--to return to the life he had left, to hear this -woman’s name no more. - -Once more the wasted hands pressed his, and she gave a little cry. ‘I -knowed it--always--mother. I told you.’ - -‘Hush, hush, dear! Don’t you wear yourself out. You’ll want all your -strength. Mr. Wentworth, I didn’t expect no less from a gentleman like -you. If she hasn’t been all she might have been, poor dear! though I -don’t want to blame you, sir, you’re not the one as should say a -word--for it was all out of love for you.’ - -Wentworth had it not in him to be cruel, but he drew his hand almost -roughly from between the girl’s feverish hands. ‘What is the use of -entering into such a question?’ he said. ‘I do not blame her. Let the -past alone. What can I do for her now?’ - -He had risen up, determined to make his escape at all hazards--but the -little cry she gave had so much pain in it that his heart was touched. -He sat down again, and patted softly the poor hand that lay on the -coverlet. ‘My poor girl, I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said. - -‘You mustn’t be harsh to her,’ said the mother. ‘How would you like to -think that poor thing had gone miserable out of this world to complain -of you, sir, before the Throne? Not as she’d have the heart to do it, -for she thinks there is no one like you, whatever you may say to her. -Mr. Wentworth, there’s just one thing you can do for her. Make an -honest woman of her, sir, before she dies.’ - -‘What!’ said Wentworth, springing once more to his feet. He but dimly, -vaguely understood what she meant, yet felt for a moment as if he had -fallen into an ambush, as if he had been trapped into a den of thieves. -He thought he saw a man’s head appearing at the door, and heard -whisperings and footsteps on the stairs. This it was that produced the -momentary fury of his cry; but then he regained control of himself, and -looking round saw no one but the dying girl on the bed and an elderly -woman standing in front of him, looking at him with deprecating yet -earnest eyes. - -‘It’s a great deal,’ said the woman, ‘and yet it’s nothing. It’s what -will never harm you one way or another, what nobody will know, nor be -able to cast in your teeth--that won’t cost you anything (except, maybe, -a bit of a fee), and yet it’s everything to her. It would make all the -difference between going out of this world honest and creditable and -going in her shame, which it was you that brought her to it.’ - -‘That’s a lie!’ said Oliver. Was it to be supposed he could think of -civility at such a moment? A desperate tremor seized hold upon him. He -got up and turned, half blinded with horror and excitement, towards the -door. ‘I came here,’ he said, ‘because--because--’ - -Ah! because--why? What could he say? He had meant to be kind--to make up -to her somehow, he could not tell how, for the fact that he was happy -and she dying. He stood arrested with those words upon his lips, which -he could not say, half turned from her, facing the door, as if he would -have broken away. - -And then there came a low, despairing cry from the bed--the cry as of a -lost creature. ‘Oh, Oliver, Oliver! you loved me once. Oh, don’t go and -leave me! You loved me, and I loved you.’ - -He would have cried out that it was false, but the breathless voice, -broken by panting that sounded like the last struggle, the voice of the -woman who was dying, while he was full of life and force, silenced him -in spite of himself. The mother had flown to her to raise her head, to -give her something from a glass on the table, and he, too, turned again, -awe-stricken, thinking the last moment had come. - -‘And you can stand and see her like this,’ said the woman by the -bedside, in a low tone. ‘You that are well and strong and have the world -before you; and let her go out of it at five-and-twenty, a girl as you -made an idol of once, a girl as you have helped to bring to this, and -won’t lift a finger to satisfy her before she dies, to give her what she -wants, and what will make her happy for the last hour--before she dies!’ - -The girl herself was past speaking. She lay back against her mother’s -breast, her own worn and emaciated shoulders heaving with convulsive -struggles for the departing breath. She could not speak, but those -eyes, which were so living while she was dying, turned to him with a -look of such appeal, such entreaty that he could not bear the sight. -They were large with fever and weakness, liquid and clear and dilated, -as the eyes of the dying often are, like two stars glowing out in sudden -light from the pale night of her face. He cried out, ‘What do you want -me to do?’ with despair in his voice, and a sense that whatever they -asked of him he could not now refuse. - -‘To do her justice,’ said the mother. ‘Oh, Mr. Wentworth, to make up to -her for all she’s suffered. To make her an honest woman before she -dies.’ - -The girl’s dying lips moved, but no sound was heard: a pathetic smile -came upon her lips, her eyes held him with that prayer, too intense for -words. Oliver turned away his head not to see them, then turned back -again as if in them there was some spell. A passionate impatience -pricked his heart, for their inference was not true. They had not been -to each other what was said. Love! love was too great a word to be -mentioned here at all. It had been levity, folly; it had not been love. -She had been too slight for such a word; but she was not too slight for -death. For that solemnity nothing is too slight or too poor; and death -is as great as love is, and compels respect. She drew his eyes to her so -that he could not free himself. He said in an unnatural, stifled voice, -‘Whatever you want from me--this is not the--the time. There is nothing -to be done to-night--and after to-night’--he could not say the words--he -waved his hand towards the bed. She was dying now--now--before their -eyes. - -‘I know what you mean,’ said the mother, with dreadful calm. ‘She won’t -last out the night. Very likely she won’t, but that’s what nobody knows -except her Maker. If she don’t, you can’t do nothing, and nobody here -will say a word. But if she do--! Give her your word, Mr. Wentworth, as -you’ll marry her to-morrow if she lives, and she’ll die happy. She’ll -die happy; whether it comes to anything or whether it don’t. Mr. -Wentworth, sir, do, for the love of God!’ - -The girl recovered a little gasping breath. ‘I’ll die happy. I’ll die -happy, whether it comes to anything or not.’ Even this little rally -showed more and more the nearness of the end. - -He had shrank at the word ‘marry’ as if it had been a blow aimed at him, -but he could not escape from the tragic persistence of those eyes. And -overwhelmed as he was, a little hope rose in him. He said to himself, -‘She can never live till to-morrow.’ Why should he resist if a promise -would make her happy? for she was surely dying, and she never could take -him at his word. ‘If that is all, I will promise,’ he said. - -The light in her eyes seemed to give a leap of joy and triumph, then -closed under the flickering eyelids, he thought for ever, and he cried -out involuntarily, and made a step nearer to the bed. When her eyes were -closed, she looked like one who had been dead a day, nothing but a -faint, convulsive heave of the shoulders showing that there was life in -her still. - -The mother busied herself about the half-unconscious creature, putting -the cordial to her lips, supporting the pillow against her own breast. -‘You will have an easy bargain,’ she said, as she went on with these -cares; ‘but anyhow, we’ll bless you for what you say. Matilda, give me -the drops the doctor left for her when she felt faint. She’s very low, -now, poor dear! Mr. Wentworth’s behaving like a gentleman, as you always -said he would. He has promised to marry her to-morrow morning, if she -lives. She’ll not live, but she’s satisfied, poor dear!’ - -Matilda had come so softly into the room that she startled him as if she -had been a ghost. ‘I knew as he would do it when he saw how bad she was; -but, Lord, what do it matter to the poor thing now?’ - -This was his own opinion. In a few minutes more there was a bustle -downstairs, which Matilda pronounced to be the doctor coming, and -Wentworth went down to wait until he had paid his visit. The little -parlour below had one candle burning in it, for the benefit of those who -went and came. The young man was left there for a few minutes alone. To -describe the condition in which he was is impossible. His heart was -beating with a dull noise against his breast. All that had been so -bright to him a little while before had become as black as night. He -could not think; only contemplate what was before him dumbly, with -horror and disgust and fear. He had given a pledge, but it was a pledge -that never would call for fulfilment--no, no, it never could be -fulfilled--it would be as a nightmare, a dreadful dream, from which he -would awake by-and-by and find the sun shining and all well. After a -while he heard the doctor’s heavy foot come clamping down the wooden -staircase. He was angry with the man for having so little delicacy, for -making so much noise when his patient was dying. Presently he came in to -give his bulletin to the gentleman, whom he perceived at once to be -somehow very deeply concerned. - -‘Last the night? No, I don’t think she’ll last the night: but you never -can tell exactly with such nervous subjects. She might put on a spurt -and come round again for a little while.’ - -‘Then,’ said Wentworth, with a sense that he was acquiring information -clandestinely, ‘there is no hope of any permanent recovery?’ - -The doctor laughed him to scorn. If he had not been a parish doctor, -accustomed to very poor patients and their ways, he would not have -allowed himself to laugh in such circumstances. - -‘When she has not above half a lung, and her heart is--but you don’t -understand these matters, perhaps. She may make a rally for a few hours, -but I doubt if she will see out this night.’ - -After this, Wentworth went home to the closed-up chambers, where nobody -expected him, and to which he got admittance with difficulty. He had to -walk miles, he thought, through those dreadful streets, all like each -other, all gleaming with wet, before he could even find a cab. There was -no strength left in him. He went on and on mechanically, and might, he -thought, have been wandering all night, but that the sight of a slowly -passing cab, which he knew he wanted, brought him back to a dull sense -of the necessity of shelter. The cold rooms, so vacant and unprepared, -which were just shelter and no more, were scarcely an improvement upon -the mechanical march and movement, which deadened his mind and made him -less sensible of his terrible position. It had been arranged that if she -was still alive in the morning, a messenger was to be sent to him, and -that then he was to take the necessary steps to redeem his pledge. But -he said to himself that it was impossible--that she could not live till -morning. It was a horrible moment for a man to go through--a man whose -life had blossomed into such gladness and prosperity. But still, if he -could but be sure that nothing worse was to come of it--and what could -come of it when the doctor himself was all but sure that she could not -see out the night? - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -Oliver spent a disturbed and sleepless night. He went to bed as a form, -one of those things that people do mechanically, and because the cold of -the shut-up rooms went to his heart. But he was astir very early, before -it was daylight. He had not slept but only dozed, miserably repeating in -dreams which that film of half sleep made into mere distortions of his -waking thoughts, the circumstances of the past evening, the journey, the -leave-taking with Grace, the horror at the end. It was a relief to be -fully awake and only have reality to contend with, miserable as that -was. Dawn came slowly stealing, filtering in marred and broken light -through the clouds and the rain which had continued through the night. -His whole being was concentrated in expectation of a sound at his door. -Every moment which passed without a summons encouraged him. He said to -himself, ‘It must be all over, all over.’ A dozen times the tension of -his great excitement seemed to produce a tingling in the silence which -simulated the sound of the bell. But it was nothing, and the cold dawn -gradually developed into full but colourless day. He was saying to -himself for the hundredth time, ‘It must be all over,’ and feeling for -the first time a little ease in his mind as if it might really be so, -when suddenly the bell rang. Ah! that was no vibration of excitement in -the air; it was the bell, very distinctly, loudly rung, and pealing into -the stillness. It rang and echoed into Wentworth’s very heart, the -brazen tinkle wounding him like a knife, so sudden, so sharp and keen. -There was no one to open the door but himself, no one in the place to do -anything for him. He did not move for a moment, finding that he needed -time to recover from the sting of that blow, when it was repeated more -sharply still, not without impatience. It occurred to him, then, that it -might be something else than the messenger of fate--the postman, -perhaps--some one who had nothing to do with this tragedy. These hopes, -if hopes they could be called, were dissipated, however, when he opened -the door. Outside stood a young man in shabby clothes with a face which -reminded him of poor Alice at her best. ‘Mother sent me to tell you that -Ally’s living and a little better. If you’ll come at eleven, she’ll have -the parson there as visits in our street.’ - -‘If I come at eleven!’ Oliver said, with a gasp. - -‘She said you would understand. I don’t know as I do. I think they’d a -deal better let you alone. What good can you do her?’ - -Here seemed a help, an advocate--and Oliver looked at him with an -eagerness that was almost supplication. ‘That is what I think,’ he said; -‘what good can I do her? It can only agitate her and hasten the end.’ - -‘Well,’ said the young man, ‘it’s none of my business. Mother and the -rest will have it their own way. But as for hastening the end, that’s -the best thing that could happen, for she do nothing but feel bad -lingering there. At eleven o’clock: and to look sharp, for the parson -will be waiting, mother says. ‘Good-morning!’ the youth said, turning -quickly and going off down the stairs. He began to whistle after a few -steps, then stopped, briefly, with an oh! of recollection, as if -remembering that to whistle was indecorous in the present position of -affairs. - -Oliver went back to his cold and empty rooms with a sense that life was -over and his heart dead within him. It seemed to fall down to some -impossible depths, down to a grave of silence and darkness. He shut the -door mechanically, and went back and sat down where he had been sitting -before, and stared with blank eyes in front of him into the vacant air. -God had not interposed to deliver him. But why, he asked himself, should -God have interposed? God had not been consulted or referred to in all -this connection--in anything that had passed--and why, unasked, -undesired, should He step in now like a heathen god or a tutelary deity -to set all right? Oliver did not feel that he could make any appeal even -to Him who was all righteousness and purity to help him out of the -consequences of his own folly and sin. Oh, yes, it was true many men had -done as much whom no judgment overtook, who lived fair before the -world, and had no shame put upon them, and forgot that they had -ever stepped aside from the paths of virtue. He had himself almost -forgotten--almost--till contact with a purer life and the gift of it to -be his companion, and all the happiness to which he had so little right, -had brought compunction to his soul. He remembered now how he had told -Grace that he had not been a good man: and how she had stopped him as -the father in the parable stopped the Prodigal in his confession--she -had stopped him, putting her pure hand upon his lips, throwing her -whiteness over him like a mantle. But there had been judgment waiting -behind. Justice had been standing watching his futile attempts at -escape, with a face immovable, holding her scales. He had been weighed -and found---- ah, no one but himself knew how entirely wanting! And now -here was the price to pay. He had promised and he could not escape. - -After a moment he tried to say to himself that these solemn thoughts -were inappropriate, that after all it was not much of a matter--to -please a dying woman, whom he had been supposed to love once--to give -her a little pleasure, poor soul! a little poor mimicry of pleasure on -the day of her death; where was there a man so hard-hearted that would -not do that? And then he had not any time to think; if he were to fulfil -this miserable appointment, he must do what was necessary at once. He -rose and got his bank-book out of its drawer and looked over it -carefully, calculating how much he had. He had gone over the calculation -so often, enough for the wedding trip which Grace and he had arranged to -make, and in which, at least, he felt that her money must not be -touched. He had enough for that and to pay a few little debts, those -little foolish things that accumulate without thinking--enough to wind -up everything honourably and start fair. He seemed to be tearing the -heart out of his breast when he tore out the cheque which he must -presently pay for a special licence--a licence! to marry, Heaven help -him! to marry: he who was the bridegroom of Grace Goodheart, his name -already publicly linked with hers. The horror of these names and words -gave him each a new sting and stab; but what were words in comparison -with the thing which he was about to do? He set out presently, pale, -with his eyes red like those of a midnight reveller, his face haggard -with misery, with want of rest and food and sleep, and got a cab and -drove to the place where the licence had to be procured. That done, he -turned his face again to the monotonous, endless streets, the dismal, -shabby quarter where his business was. Finding he had a little time to -spare, he dismissed the cab, and walked and lost himself in the -fathomless maze, and arrived late at the house. The young woman, -Matilda, was standing at the door looking out for him, the youth who -brought the message stood within the area rails, the mother, with the -blind a little polled aside in the room above, was looking out too. -There was a ray of pleasure and welcome when he appeared. - -‘I knew as you’d come,’ cried Matilda, ‘and so did she: but mother was -frightened a bit, not knowing you, Ol--Mr. Wentworth like her and me--’ -Oliver grew sick as he stepped into the narrow passage. The half-sound -of his own name, which she had not ventured to pronounce fully, seemed -to open another vista before him. He would be Oliver to this woman, -too--a member of the family. He went in, scarcely knowing where he went. -In the parlour was the clergyman, who met him severely, saying that he -had been kept waiting for nearly half-an-hour. - -‘And my time is precious; not like that of an idler.’ He was a severe -young man in the High Church uniform, thin and meagre with overwork and -earnestness. ‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘that you have made up your mind to -do justice to your victim at the last.’ - -‘My victim!’ said Oliver. - -But what was the use of any explanation? He began to recognise that in -ordinary parlance she was his victim, and that it might be considered an -act of justice; and also that to explain to a severe purist, a man -burning with the highest canons and sentiments of morality, how such a -thing could be without any victim in the matter, or any personal wrong, -however hideous the sin, would be an offence the more. He stood by -almost stupidly while the young priest, with his keen, clear-cut, -Churchman-like face, put on his surplice and prepared himself for the -ceremony; then, with a sinking of heart beyond description, followed him -up the narrow wooden stairs, which creaked at every step. He said to -himself that this was the fiend endowed with every virtue who had put -it in the woman’s head to drag him to his undoing; but so miserable was -he that he felt no anger, no resentment against the meddling priest, as -men are so apt to do. He recognised that it was no doubt his nature, -that he thought it his duty; that to this man he himself was a vile -seducer, and that the poor victim upstairs was the confiding, loving -girl, whose fame had been ruined and her heart broken! These thoughts -were so strangely out of keeping with the facts, and he regarded them -with such a dazed impartiality, that when he entered the room in which -this dreadful ceremony was to take place, there was a smile upon his -lips. But the smile was soon driven away by the sight which now met his -eyes. In the soft suffusion of the daylight the dying woman was scarcely -so ghastly as by the light of the candle on the night before, but the -spectacle she presented was more dreadful than anything that Oliver had -been able to conceive. The decorations of a bride dressed for her -wedding, or, rather, a hideous travesty of those decorations, surrounded -the worn and sunken face. Some dreadful artificial flowers--orange -blossom, of all things in the world! no idea of the meaning of it being -in their minds, but only a grotesque acquaintance with its general use -at weddings--were placed in a bristling wreath about her head. The pink -ribbon was withdrawn, and bows of ghostly white placed at her throat and -hands; and over all there was thrown a veil costly worked with huge -flowers, through which the gleaming eyes, the mouth distended with its -ghastly smile, showed like a living death. - -A cry of horror burst from Oliver in spite of himself; and even the -rigid priest was moved. - -‘Why did you do her up like that?’ he said, in a sharp tone to Matilda, -who stood admiring her handiwork. - -The poor creature herself had a look of delighted vanity in her terrible -gleaming eyes. The mother had a mirror in her hands, in which she had -been displaying her own appearance to the bride. The bride! Oliver -turned away and hid his face in his hands. - -‘I cannot--I cannot carry out this farce,’ he said. - -The curate placed his hand upon Wentworth’s arm. ‘You must,’ he said, -with his severe, unpitying voice. ‘Whose fault is it that this is a -farce? Stand forward, sir, and give this poor wreck, this creature you -have ruined, what compensation you can at the last.’ - -Oliver raised his eyes to his uncompromising judge with a wonder which -paralysed all effort. ‘You are mistaken,’ he said: but to pause now was -impossible; he went forward doggedly and placed himself by the bed, and -listened with a dull horror, as under a spell, to those words--those -words which he had thought of under so different a meaning--words of -solemn joy and devotion, words that could only be endured for the sake -of the pledge they sanctified. He listened and he took his part like a -man in a dream. He had provided no ring, and the ceremony was -interrupted till an old, shabby little trinket, set with some -discoloured turquoises, was hunted up from a drawer. But it was -completed at last, and she was his wife--his wife! She put back the veil -with a nervous movement, and inclined her head towards his. Was that -necessary, too? Was there to be no end to these exactions? ‘Oliver!’ she -cried. - -He turned from her, sick to the heart. ‘Take those fooleries away--don’t -you see how horrible it is?’ he said to Matilda, and hurried downstairs, -flying from the look and the touch of the woman who--oh, Heaven!--was -now his wife. - -The little priest followed him. He was as severe as ever. ‘You have done -something in the way of atonement,’ he said, ‘but if this is how you are -to follow it up, I warn you that such an atonement will not be -accepted. It must be from the heart.’ - -Oliver turned upon him. He seemed to be coming to life again after the -dismal paralytic fit through which he had passed. - -‘Did it ever happen to you,’ he said, ‘to make a mistake?’ - -The clergyman had begun to take off his surplice. He turned round in the -act, and looked at Wentworth. But the question did not daunt him as it -would have daunted many men, ‘Possibly,’ he replied, ‘but very seldom, -as a man. In discharge of my office I make no mistakes.’ - -‘You have made one now,’ said the bridegroom. ‘Oh, I do not excuse -myself. I know well enough how hideous, how paltry, how miserable it -is:--but it was not for me to make atonement. I was no deceiver, no -seducer--’ - -‘You are a man of education and intelligence,’ said the other in his -keen, clear tones, ‘and that was an ignorant, foolish girl. Is that not -enough--did you ever meet on equal terms? And now you are not on equal -terms, for you are well and strong and she is dying--perhaps with only a -few hours to live.’ - -Oliver drew back without a word. It was the argument that had moved him -at first, which he had found irresistible. He at the height of -happiness, and she dying: but he was not at the height of happiness now. -A more miserable man could not be. How was he to explain this day’s work -when all was over, when he was free? Was it possible that Grace would -understand him, that she would still accept his hand which had been -pledged under such different circumstances, which had been given away -from her to another, and such another! He could not go back into the -room where it had been done, or see the poor creature who was his bride -with all that dismal paraphernalia about her. He went out and walked -and walked till his limbs trembled under him. Then he remembered that he -had not eaten anything that day. By this time it was afternoon, -darkening towards evening, still drizzling, wet and miserable. He got -himself some food, a kind of hasty dinner, in the first tavern he came -to. And then, strengthened a little and calmed, went back. Perhaps, -dreadful hope, it might be all over by the time he had traversed the -many streets and had reached again that miserable place of fate. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -It was a dreadful hope to lie down with at night, and rise up with in -the morning--that morning or night might bring him a message to say that -all was over, and that he was free. But it was still more dreadful that -this message never came. When he saw her next she had rallied, rallied -amazingly, the doctor said; but he added that it was only a flicker in -the socket--only a question of time--a day or two, perhaps an hour or -two. Oliver had revulsions of pity, attended with a loathing which he -could scarcely keep under. He had to suffer himself to be drawn towards -her, to feel his neck encircled by her arms, to kiss her cheek, to -listen to her as long as he could bear it, while she told him how often -she had thought of him; how she had never loved any man but he, how she -had felt that she could not die in peace till she had seen him again. It -required all his pity for her to strengthen him for these confessions, -to enable him to meet that meretricious smile, those ghastly little -tricks of fascination which he could remember to have laughed at even in -other times. How horrible they were to him now no words could say. He -went through the same miserable streets daily till he shuddered at his -own errand and at the dreadful hope that was always in his heart in -spite of himself, the hope that he might hear that all was over. His -mind revolted from his fate with a self-indignation and rage against all -that had brought it about, against the wrong done to the most miserable -of human creatures by wishing her death, and at himself for the weakness -which had brought him into this strait. To live with no desire so strong -in him as that this poor girl should die, to make his way to the poor -little house that sheltered her day by day, sick with hope that he might -hear she was dead--oh! what was this but murder--murder never coming to -any execution, but involved in every thought? But afterwards there came -upon this unhappy man something more dreadful still, the moment in which -a new thought sprang up in him--the thought that it was never to be -over, that she was not going to die, that the flicker in the socket of -which the doctor had spoken was the filling in of oil to the flame, the -rising of new force and life. When this thought came to him, what with -the horror of the possibility, and the horror of knowing that he grudged -that possibility, and would take life from her if he could, Oliver’s cup -seemed full, despair took possession of him. Everything grew dark in -heaven and earth. She was going to live, not to die; and what, oh! what, -most miserable of men, was he to do? - -The first thing that enlightened him was a change in her phrases when -she talked to him of her own devotion, of her longings after him. - -‘I knew as it would give me a chance for my life if I could see you once -again.’ - -It had been at first only to die in peace after she had seen him that -she proposed. And when his eyes, quickened with this horrible light, -began to observe closely, he perceived that she spoke more strongly, -that her emaciation was not so great nor her breathing so difficult. She -was going to live, not die; and what was to become of him? What was he -to do? - -All this time--and it went on, gliding day after day, and week after -week, he scarcely could tell how--he was receiving letters and calls -back, and anxious inquiries and appeals from those he had left behind. -Grace wrote to him--first a letter of simple love and anxiety, hoping -his friend was better, anticipating news from him; then more serious, -fearing that the illness was grave indeed, that he was absorbed in -nursing, but begging for a word; then anxious, alarmed lest something -should have happened to him; then with an outburst of feeling, -entreating to know what it meant, imploring him only to tell her there -was a reason, even if he could not say what that reason was. Then -silence. But even this lasted but for a few days. She wrote again to say -that she could not believe he had changed, that it was to her -incredible; but should it be so, imploring to know from himself that so -it was. The dignity and the tenderness, and the high trust and honour -which would not permit any pettiness of offence, went to his very heart. -He sent her a few miserable lines in reply, imploring her to wait. ‘Some -of my sins have found me out,’ he said; ‘the sins I acknowledged to you. -But oh! for the love of God, do not abandon me, for then I shall lose -my last hope.’ - -He got from her in return these words, and no more, ‘I will never -abandon you unless I have it from your own hand that I must.’ And then -no other word. - -But Trix plied him with a thousand. What did he mean flying like this -from his betrothed and his family and all his prospects? What did he -mean, what was his reason, what in the name of all that was foolish was -he thinking of? Did he mean to break his word, to give up his -engagement, to break all their hearts? What was it? What was it? What -was it? - -He left her letters at last unopened. He could make no answer to them. -He could give no explanation. Every day he had hoped that -perhaps--perhaps. And now that his horror had come over him he was less -disposed to write than ever. If it should be as, God forgive him, he -feared, what was there in store for him? What should he do? The veins -of his eyeballs seemed to fill with blood, and the air grew dark in his -sight; a blank, sinking void opened before him; he could perceive only -that he must be swallowed up in it, swept beyond sight and knowledge; -but for the others who loved him, he did not know how to reveal to them -the terrible cause. - -During all this time of suspense he was very kind to the woman to whom -he had linked himself like the living to the dead. He got her everything -she wished for--delicate food, fine wine, all that could afford a little -ease to her body or amusement to her mind. Such forms of kindness are -appreciated in regions where life is more practical than sentimental. -The mother and sister sang his praises. ‘Die! no, he don’t want you to -die,’ they said. ‘What would he send you all these nice things for, and -feed you up, and get you that water-bed that cost such a deal of money, -if he wanted you to die? But you’re that exacting now you’re Mrs. -Wentworth.’ - -‘I _am_ Mrs. Wentworth: that’s one thing none can take from me,’ she -said. - -He heard her as he came up the narrow stair, trying as no one else did -to make as little noise as possible, and that wave of loathing which -sickened his very soul came over him. How horrible it all was, -incredible, impossible, that she should bear that name! that it should -be bandied about in a place like this--his mother’s name, his wife’s. -Ah! but she, and no other, was his wife. This was the evening when she -said to him, ‘I feel I am really getting better, Oliver. I believe I’ll -cheat the doctors yet: and it will all be your doing, dear. You’ll take -me abroad, and my lungs will come right, and we shall be as happy as the -day is long.’ - -He made no reply, but avoided the hand with which she tried to draw him -to her, and asked a few questions of her mother, before he bade her -good night. He met the doctor as he was going downstairs, and waited to -hear his bulletin. The parish doctor had found his manners, which had -only been put aside when there was no need for such vanities: but he was -not used to fine words. He said,-- - -‘That wife of yours is a wonderful woman; it seems as if it might be -possible to pull her through after all. She has such pluck and spirit, -and that’s half the battle.’ - -‘You told me,’ said Wentworth, with a sternness which was almost -threatening, ‘that there was no hope of recovery.’ - -‘You don’t seem best pleased with my good news,’ said the doctor, with a -laugh. ‘As for hope of recovery, there wasn’t a scrap in her then state. -And her life isn’t worth a pinch of snuff even now; but with a husband -that can take her abroad to a warm climate and give her every luxury, -why, there is hope for any woman; and I can but say I think it possible -that she may pull through. That should be good news for you--but perhaps -unexpected,’ he said, with a keen glance. - -Wentworth made no reply. He bowed his head slightly, and went out before -the doctor, walking out into the darkness and distance with a straight, -unobservant abstraction. He never looked to right or left; and went out -of his way for nothing, as if he saw nothing in his way. The doctor -looking after him observed this idly, as people observe things that -don’t concern them. He thought that on the whole it was a very curious -incident. He could not think of any motive that could have brought about -such a marriage. He wondered a little what the man could be thinking of -to do such a thing: a woman who had long lost any signs of prettiness, -if she had ever possessed any; poor, uneducated, and of damaged -character. Why had he married her? and, having married her, was he -disappointed that she did not die? He stood and watched Wentworth till -he was out of sight, saying to himself that he should not be surprised -if that man were found in the river or on Hampstead Heath some of these -days. But it was no concern of his. - -Oliver went home to his chambers, walking all the way. It was a very -long way, and when he got there he was very tired, very tired and sick -to death. He ate a mouthful of the dinner provided for him, and drank a -glass or two of wine, dully, silently, keeping his thoughts, as it were, -at bay, not allowing himself to indulge in them. Afterwards he sat down -at his writing-table, and wrote a long, a very long letter, which he -closed and sealed, getting up to get matches to light his taper, and -searching in every corner he could think of for the sealing-wax; though -why he should seal it he could not have explained. It was a mark of -special solemnity, in keeping with the great crisis and the state of -mind in which he was. Afterwards he sat down and thought long and very -gravely. He went over the position in every possible point of view. -There could not be a more hopeless one. Betrothed to a woman he loved -and approved with every faculty of his being, yet married to one whom he -did not pretend to love for whom, at the best, he had no feeling above -pity--and at the worst--There began to penetrate into his brain, unused -to such thoughts, a dull suspicion that he might have been all through -the victim of a cheat; but it did not make much difference, and he felt -no resentment, nothing but a profound sensation of hopelessness, past -help or care. Whether it was deception all through, or whether it was -the judgment of God upon him, who had sinned and had not suffered, and -had been on the edge of winning, he so unworthy, the best that man can -have in this world--it did not seem to matter much. In either case the -result was the same--that here he stood with life made impossible to -him, with a blank wall before him, and nothing to be done, no way of -deliverance nor even of escape. He looked out in that curious blank way -over the future, asking himself what it would be his duty to do. It -would be his duty to take her away to a warm country, as her doctor had -said--to give her all the care that she required, ‘every luxury’--these -were the words--and so ensure her recovery. To do anything else would be -inhuman. And as for Grace--ah, for Grace! To him she must henceforth be -a sacred thing apart. He must not see her, speak to her, lean his heart -upon her evermore. That was all ended--ended and over. He had written a -long letter to his brother-in-law, telling him all the circumstances. He -was not a man who could go on with deceits and false positions, trying -miserably to stand between one and another. He might have done that, -perhaps, for a time, might have beguiled Grace with letters, and -explained by any false excuse his detention in London, his absence from -her--but to what good? One day or other it would all have to be -disclosed, now that it was evident that this woman was not going to die; -however long he might fight it off, the necessity would come at last. -And it was better that she should know now, than only at the moment when -he should be leaving England with his wife. His wife! Oh, terrible word! -Oh, awful, impossible fate! - -This sudden realisation of what was before him made his mind start like -a restive horse, and he found himself once more before that blank wall. -It would be his duty to do it, and he could not do it. He did not trifle -with himself nor elude this question any more than he would deceive the -woman he loved. He looked out upon what was before him, and he said to -himself that he could not do it--he could not pretend to do it. Other -men might have the courage to struggle, but not he. There was only the -coward’s remedy remaining to him, only the base man’s way--to turn and -flee. He had written it all in his letter to Ford, although it seemed to -him that when he wrote that letter he had not so clearly perceived that -there was only one thing to do. He had bidden his brother-in-law to -secure a living somehow for this wretched creature who bore his name, to -use the little he would leave for her, and to eke it out--or finally, -with the boldness of a man whom earthly motives had ceased to sway, to -put this last inconceivable legacy into the hands of Grace. - -‘I know she will do it,’ he had said. - -He knew she would do it, God bless her! She would understand why of all -terrible things he dared to ask that of her; and she would do it. That -was all there could be to arrange before-- - -Oliver was not of that mind that is the mode of the present moment. He -was no doubter. He believed in the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter, as well -as in righteousness and judgment to come; but there is something in the -unutterable sensations with which a man finds himself thus placed before -evils which are too many for him, driven to the last extremity, and -unable to move one way or other, which works a strange change upon the -mind on this as on other matters of faith. When we are doing any act in -our own person, it seems so much less strange to us, so much more -natural, than when we contemplate it from the point of view of another -man. He did not think either of the sin or of the cowardice. He thought -only of the last resort, the last way of escape from that which was -intolerable, which was more than man could bear. To describe the way by -which a man comes to this point, to entertain the idea of ending his -own life, is impossible. Those who are brought so far seldom survive to -tell how it has been. It seemed to Oliver something like the arising and -going to the Father of the prodigal. God, it seemed to him, would -understand it all; the confusion in his soul, the intolerableness, the -impossibility. If anyone else misunderstood, God would understand; and -as for the punishment that might follow, he thought that he could take -that like a man. No punishment could be equal to this. He would say -that he did not mean to avoid punishment, that he was ready for -anything, only not this; not the ghastly life which was insupportable, -not the falsehood, not the treachery. Suffering, honest -suffering--yes!--torments if God thought it worth the trouble--anything -except this, which was more than he could bear. His mind was all wrong, -confused, stupefied with all that had happened to him, and with the -turning upside down of all his purposes, and the bitter ending to what -had been a good impulse, surely a good impulse, an impulse of pity -without consideration of himself; also with the wretched state in which -he had been living, the want of food, the want of sleep, the sense of -treachery to all he loved, the union to all he loathed; it was all -intolerable, insupportable, turning his brain. - -He had a pair of pistols in his room--pretty toys, decorated with -silver, wrought in delicate designs--which someone had given to him. He -took them down and opened the box and examined them curiously to see how -they worked and that all was in order. He looked at the little bullet -which could do so much, and weighed it in his hand with a dazed smile, -and a kind of strange amusement. So little--and yet in it lay that for -which not all the wealth of the world could find an antidote. He charged -both weapons with a smile at himself for that too, thinking how very -unlikely it was that the two would be wanted, and feeling almost -something of the pleasure with which a boy prepares for his first shot, -with a half horror, half delight. And then he thought how it would be -best to do it. He did not want to disfigure himself unnecessarily, to go -through all eternity with a bound-up jaw, like--who was it? Robespierre. -This brought a sort of smile upon his face; he knew that it was folly to -think of Robespierre; for all eternity--with his face bound up! and yet -it amused him to think of the awful, grotesque figure, and to determine -that he should not be like that. The temple or behind the ear; that was -the better way; and then there would be no disfigurement. The hair would -hide it, and Grace would see him and not be horrified--not -horrified--only perhaps broken-hearted. But that had to be, any way. - -Would he hear the report as sound travels before his senses were all -stilled? He heard something, a jar and tinkle, which made him start at -the very moment he felt that cold mouth of death. The touch of the -pistol and then a jerk of his arm and a clanging world of sound, and -then--no more. It disturbed his arm and the steadiness of his touch; and -the report followed harmlessly, the bullet going somewhere, he knew not -where, leaving him sitting there with the jar of the concussion in the -finger which had pulled that trigger. The sound seemed to wake him up -like a clap of thunder. He sprang to his feet, flinging the little -weapon away with a burning sense of despising himself, of scorn for his -intention, scorn for his failure. Was he a coward too, doubly a coward, -ready to run away, yet weak enough to be stopped in the act? A sudden -heat of shame came over him; he burst into a laugh of scorn, -self-ridicule, derision--God in heaven! had he been frightened at the -last moment? by what, by his nerves, by a fancied sound, like a child? - -What? what? a fancied sound? No; but the commonest, most vulgar noise -in the world: the bell at his door, pealing, tingling, jarring, with a -repeated and violent summons into the silence of the night. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -They had all been disturbed by it beyond expression; by his absence, by -his silence, his sudden, strange departure which, natural enough at the -minute, appeared now, in the light of subsequent events, so -extraordinary, which now looked like a flight, but--from what? From -happiness, from well-being, from everything that the heart of man could -desire. Mr. Ford was a person of a very sturdy mind, not given to -fancies like his wife, but after a fortnight had passed he was almost -more anxious than she was. He questioned her closely as to Oliver’s past -life. Had she ever heard of any entanglement? - -‘There must be some one who has a claim upon him, who would expose him -to Grace, if not worse,’ he said; at which Trix was naturally indignant. - -‘You men have such bad imaginations,’ she cried. ‘How should he have any -entanglements? He has been fond of Grace since--since--’ - -‘Since he saw her here six months ago, Trix.’ - -Trix grew very red, and the tears came into her eyes. ‘You mean, Tom, -that Oliver, that--that my brother got fond of Grace only when--’ - -‘I don’t mean anything of the sort,’ said Tom Ford, ‘it is women who -have bad imaginations, though, perhaps, in a different way. I mean that -he had forgotten all about her. But when he saw her again, and saw how -nice she was--for she is a very nice woman, poor thing! far too nice to -be made a wreck of for the sake of some baggage--’ - -‘Tom! you have taken leave of your senses, I think.’ - -‘My dear, you know well enough, just as well as I do, that Oliver hasn’t -been immaculate. But why the deuce didn’t he have the courage to tell -the truth? Why didn’t he speak to you, or me, if it comes to that? If he -had made a clean breast of it--’ - -‘We don’t know yet that there is anything to make a clean breast of,’ -said Trix, beginning to cry. And she put on her bonnet in a disturbed -way and went over to Grace for comfort, who might be supposed to want -comfort more than she did. Grace was very pale, but composed, and met -her friend with a smile. - -‘I don’t know anything,’ she said, ‘but he asks me to wait, and I mean -to wait. Why should we condemn him? There must be a reason, and when he -can he will tell us. It is not out of mere wantonness he is staying -away.’ - -They had all given up tacitly the pretence about the sick friend. That -had been dismissed at a quite early date; the reality that was in it -being beyond any guesses they could make. - -‘Oh, Grace, you are the best of us all! You are the one that is the -worst treated, and you are the most kind.’ - -‘Trix, we don’t know that there is any ill-treatment at all,’ said -Grace. She was very subdued, very pale. It almost overcame her composure -altogether when a servant came in with a large packet, one of the many -wedding presents that were arriving daily. ‘I have not the heart to open -them,’ she said, leaning her head upon Trix’s shoulder, who flew to her -with instant comprehension: ‘and yet I want to open them that nobody may -suppose--Look,’ she said, pointing to a table covered with glittering -spoils. ‘Look at all that, and the congratulations that come with them. -And to think that I don’t know, I don’t know even--’ - -‘Oh, Grace, all will be well, all will be well! long before that.’ - -Grace did not say anything, but she shook her head. ‘He does not even -say that all will be well; he says only--wait. But I will wait,’ she -said, composing herself. Trix did not get much comfort out of this -visit. She went home indignant, angry beyond telling with her brother, -though she could not bear that her husband should give utterance and -emphasis to her fears. And for some days after the talk of those two -people was of nothing but Oliver and what his meaning could be. Mrs. -Ford sent off a long and eloquent letter to him the night after these -discussions, but received no answer to that any more than to her former -letters. And Ford, too, wrote one, which was very much more serious. -Ford, who never wrote a letter except on business, leaving everything -else to his wife. Ford put before his brother-in-law indeed the business -view of the matter. He had come under certain engagements, did he -intend or not to fulfil them? He told Oliver that his conduct was mere -madness, that it was against all his interests, that he was destroying -his own credit and cutting his own throat. What did he mean by it? but -adding that whatever he meant, which was his own concern, he ought not -to lose a moment in coming back, and doing what he could to repair the -fearful mistake he was making. The letter was curt and business-like, -but very much in earnest. Oliver had come by that time to a condition of -mind in which arguments of that or any other kind were of no avail. He -never read this letter; did he not know everything that could be said to -him? had he not said it all and twenty times more to himself? - -After this appeal, however, and that much more eloquent, certainly more -lengthy, one of Trix’s, silence fell again, and the days so anxiously -watched at every post for letters passed on and brought nothing. The -excitement, the tension, the fear of suspense grew hourly. As yet they -had managed to keep it to themselves. Nobody knew, unless it might be -the servants, who know everything. Grace was the best in this effort; -she replied with so composed a look, so steady a smile to the many -curious questions addressed to her as to Mr. Wentworth’s long absence, -that curiosity was baffled. Trix did not know how she could do it. She -herself grew red, the tears came to her eyes when she was questioned, in -spite of herself. It was always on the cards that she might break down -altogether, and take some sympathetic visitor into her confidence. She -was like her brother, not of so steady a soul as Grace, and this was to -her insupportable, as his more terrible anguish was to him. - -It was from Tom Ford, however, the man without nerves, the cool-headed, -mercantile person whom Trix had so often stormed at as unsensitive and -hard to move, that the touch of impatience came. He said one day at -breakfast suddenly, without warning, ‘I think, Trix, if there is no word -to-day, I shall run up to town and see with my own eyes what Oliver is -up to. We cannot let this go on.’ - -‘Run up to town to-day? Tom, you have heard something; you know more -than we do--’ - -‘Nothing of the sort: but I feel a responsibility. He is your brother, -and that poor girl met him in our house. I must see what it means. I -can’t let it run on like this. She has no brother to stand up for her. I -want to know what the fellow means.’ - -‘Tom, you must not go and bully Oliver. He would never stand that, even -when he was a boy.’ - -‘I have no intention of bullying him. I want to know what he means,’ Mr. -Ford repeated doggedly. And then Trix, what with fear lest his -interference should be resented, what with eagerness to solve the -mystery, insisted on going too; to which her husband did not object, -having foreseen it. She went out immediately and told Grace. The sense -of being about to do something is a great matter to a woman who in most -emergencies of her life is compelled to wait while others do what is to -be done. Action restores trust to her, and a sense that all must come -right. - -‘Tom and I are going. Tom has business of his own, and he takes this -opportunity: and he thinks I may as well go too, and then this mystery -will be cleared up. I shall telegraph to you at once, the moment I have -seen him, Grace.’ - -Grace was greatly startled by this sudden resolution, though she said -very little. But when they started by the afternoon train, she was there -at the station to meet them. - -‘I think I will go, too,’ she said. ‘You know I have a great deal -of--shopping to do.’ And not a word was said by which a stranger could -have divined that this was an expedition, not of shopping, but of -outraged love and despair. They arrived late with a sort of -understanding that nothing could be done that night. But when the ladies -had been settled in their hotel, Mr. Ford went out to take, as he said, -a walk. He went through the gloomy streets; through the Strand, with all -its noise and crowd, to the Temple, where Oliver’s chambers were. He had -not told his wife even where he was going. He thought there might be -something to learn which it would be better these women should not hear; -and perhaps he thought, too, that it would be a triumph, without their -aid, to lead the wanderer back. He went all that long way on foot, -thinking within himself that the later he was the more likely he was to -find Oliver, and turning over in his mind what he should say. He would -represent to him the folly of his behaviour, the madness of throwing -thus his best hopes away. Ford was very anxious, more anxious than he -would have confessed to anyone. He did not, indeed, think of such a -possibility as that which had really happened; but his mind was prepared -for some complication, some entanglement that had to be got rid of; -perhaps even some tie made in earlier years which Oliver believed -himself to have got rid of, and which had come to life again, as such -things will. Who could tell? He might have married and have thought his -wife was dead, and have been roused out of his happiness by the terrible -news that this was not true. Such a thing is not uncommon in fiction, -for instance; and Mr. Ford, like many busy men, was a great novel -reader. He was ready even, terrible though it would be, to hear that -this was the cause of his brother-in-law’s disappearance. But, perhaps, -he hoped, it might be something not so bad as that. - -He was a long time gone, so long, that Trix got alarmed, and in her -uneasiness burst into Grace’s room, who was going to rest, to wait with -what patience she might for the morning, which, she said to herself, -must end all suspense. Her self-restraint was sadly broken by the -irruption into her room of Trix in all her fever of alarm. - -‘Where do you think he can have gone? Oh, what do you think can have -happened to him?--such dreadful things happen in London,’ Mrs. Ford -cried, rising gradually into higher and higher excitement. She thought -of garroters; of roughs who might have followed him along the Embankment -(though she scarcely knew where that was), and already her imagination -figured him lying on the pavement senseless, perhaps unconscious, unable -to tell anyone where to carry him. - -‘The only address that would be found upon him would be our address at -home, and if they telegraphed there, and then telegraphed here, how -much time must be lost? And it is too late even to telegraph,’ she -cried, as these miserable anticipations gained upon her. But what could -two women do in a London hotel? They could not go out with a lantern and -search for his body about the streets, and they did not even know where -or in what direction he had gone. ‘He has gone to find your brother,’ -Grace suggested once; but Trix would not hear of this. ‘Never,’ she -said, ‘without letting me know.’ - -At last, when it was long past midnight, a hansom drove up to the hotel, -and Mr. Ford appeared, exceedingly pale and with an air of great -agitation and distress. He told them that Oliver had been very ill: that -he would have to leave England, to get into a milder climate. He would -not be more explicit; a milder climate and to get out of England, that -was all he would say. He had a letter in his hand which he had been -reading as best he could by the lamplight as he drove back, and by the -dying candles in Wentworth’s room, into which he had forced his way. He -told his wife as soon as they were alone that he had found on Oliver’s -desk this long letter addressed to himself, and gave her an outline of -the story, which brought out such a shriek from Trix, as sounded through -the partition and startled Grace once more in the solitude of her room, -to which she had returned. She appeared between the husband and wife a -minute after in her white dressing gown, white as the gown she wore. - -‘There is something you have not told me. Tell me what it is,’ she said. -It had been a momentary relief to her to know that Oliver was ill. If -that was so, everything might be explained; but--And now she heard that -there was something more. - -‘Oh, Grace, go to bed; oh, go to bed. We don’t know ourselves yet. -To-morrow morning, the very first thing, after you have had a night’s -rest--’ - -‘I cannot rest to-night,’ she said, with parched lips, ‘until I know. -There is nothing that cannot be borne,’ she added, a moment afterwards, -‘except not to know.’ - -They made a curious contrast. Trix all flushed with excitement and -distress, her voice choked with tears, her eyes overflowing; and she who -was even more concerned, she who believed herself to be Oliver -Wentworth’s bride, in that breathless silence of suspense, afraid to -make a sound, to waste a word, lest perhaps she should miss some -recollection, some indication of what to her was life or death. - -‘I have something here to read, if you think you can bear it. It is not -good news.’ - -‘Oh, Tom, for the love of Heaven, don’t! Grace, go to your room, dear! -Oh, go to bed, and I’ll come--I’ll come and tell you as soon as we -know.’ - -‘It is Oliver’s hand,’ said Grace. ‘I can bear whatever he has written. -But let me hear it at once, for this suspense is more than I can bear.’ - -‘Grace--Grace!--’ - -But Mr. Ford interrupted his wife. He saw that Grace was not to be put -off any longer, and indeed was capable of nothing but knowing the truth. -He brought the easiest chair for her, with that pathetic instinct which -makes us so careful of the bodies of those whose hearts we are about to -crush. She made no opposition. She would have done anything--anything, -so long as it brought her nearer the end. Ford had the discrimination to -see this, and that the only thing she could not bear was delay. He began -at once to read the letter, of which he had already told the chief facts -to his wife. The two candles flickered, placed together on the -mantelpiece, and drearily doubled in the mirror behind, while the bare -hotel room, with its big bed and wardrobes, formed an indistinct, cold -background. Mr. Ford stood by the mantelpiece, and read slowly, in a -voice of which he had not always command. Trix behind him, sobbing, -crying, exclaiming, unable to restrain herself, moved up and down, -sometimes stopping to look over his shoulder, sometimes throwing for a -moment herself into a seat. In the centre, the white figure of Grace, -all white, motionless, sat rigid, scarcely breathing. Grace was prepared -for everything. Except a start and shiver when she heard of the -marriage, she scarcely made a sign from beginning to end. The others -were distracted, even in their own horror and pity, by an anxious desire -to know how she would take it. But Grace was disturbed by no such -secondary feelings. At that point her hands, which had been lying in her -lap, closed in a convulsive clasp, but save this she made no sign, -listening to every word till the end. Even after the end, it was some -time before she moved or spoke. Then she pointed to it, and said -faintly, ‘It is a letter--is he--has he gone away?’ - -‘You have heard all this. I must tell you more--I must tell you all I -know,’ said Ford. He was much agitated, his lips quivering, his voice -now and then failing altogether. ‘I believe,’ he said, struggling to get -out the words, ‘that the noise I made at his door saved his life, that -he had thought for a moment of putting an end to everything; there was a -pistol on the floor.’ - -She rose to her feet with a quick, sudden cry, ‘_That! That!_’ and -clutched for support at the mantelpiece, against which Mr. Ford was -leaning, and where there seemed to rise in the mirror a pale, white -ghost, facing the darker figure. - -‘Oliver,’ she cried, ‘Oliver! tell me everything. That is his last word, -and he is dead!’ - -‘No, no, no--oh, no!’ came in Trix’s voice from behind. - -Ford took her hands from their clutch on the marble, and put her back -into her chair. All he was afraid of was that she might faint, or die, -perhaps, in their hands. - -‘He is not dead, so far as I know. He has gone away. How could he meet -you? Oh, Grace, what can we say to you, Trix and I? It is our fault! My -poor girl, cry or something. Don’t look like that. You must put him out -of your thoughts.’ - -She shook herself free of him with impatience. ‘I am asking you about -Oliver,’ she said. ‘Oliver! Where is he? Have you left him, with no one -near him, no one to comfort him? Trix, are you going to him, or shall -I?’ - -The husband and wife looked at each other in dismay. Mrs. Ford stilled -in a moment her sobs and exclamations, not knowing what to reply. - -‘You are nearest him in blood, but I am nearest in--’ Grace paused for a -moment. ‘He will want to know that I--understand,’ she said slowly, as -if speaking to herself. - -‘He has no right to know anything about you,’ Ford said roughly, in the -agitation of his mind. ‘You must think no more of him, Grace. He has no -claim upon you. This miserable marriage--’ - -‘Marriage,’ she said, again rising, resisting his attempt to support -her. ‘You think a woman has no idea but marriage. What is that to me? I -have been fearing I knew not what--and now my mind is relieved, I -understand. It is not that I forgive him,’ she added, after a moment, -with an indescribable look of tender pride and dignity, ‘I approve. You -may blame him if you will--I approve. And if he should die, I accept his -legacy. I thank God he had that trust in me, and that he did what was -right. Though it should kill us both, what does that matter? He has done -only what was right, and I approve!’ - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -This was how she took it, as the young priest had taken it, as an -atonement, as a duty. Instead of the despair they had expected, she was -excited and inspired as people are who die for a great cause. She did -not and would not take into account all that made Oliver’s strange -sacrifice a thing without justice, without dignity--a mere hideous -postscript to a mere vulgar sin, repented of indeed, but not made less -vulgar and hideous even by repentance. Fortunately for Grace, nothing of -this entered her mind. He had made atonement, he had righted a wrong at -the cost of his own happiness. To be sure, it was at the cost of hers -also, but in her exaltation she never thought of that. What she did -mourn over was that he should not have told her; that he had suffered -bitterly and cruelly, and had been driven to the uttermost despair -rather than tell her; that he should have thought her incapable of the -same sacrifice as he was making, less noble than himself. This hurt her -in passing, but she had not time to think more of it. In the meantime he -must be comforted, reassured, cared for. He must know that she -understood him, that she--yes, she who was the victim, who had to bear -the penalty--approved. She was inspired with strength and courage to do -this. She was no victim--she was a martyr, sharing his martyrdom for the -sake of what was right. - -I need scarcely say that the Fords no more understood her than if she -had been speaking a foreign language. They gazed at her with horror and -bewilderment. They asked each other, had she not loved him after all? -That a woman who loved him could have so accepted this revelation was -to them incredible. Mr. Ford was almost angry with her in the -disappointment with which he saw this extraordinary and un-looked-for -effect. He said stiffly, that he was very glad that she could take it so -philosophically--more than poor Oliver had done--but that as for -comforting or helping him that was impossible. For Oliver had -disappeared, and, so far as was known, might be heard of no more. How he -had got out of his chambers, his anxious brother-in-law did not know; he -supposed it must have been at the moment when, receiving no answer to -his summons, he had gone to seek for help to break open the door. On his -return the door had been found open, the rooms empty, the letter on the -table, the pistol lying on the floor; but of Oliver no sign; and that -was all that anyone knew. - -It was evident, at least, that nothing could be done till next day. And -Grace withdrew from the troubled pair, who did not understand her any -more than they knew how to deal with the horrible crisis altogether. -She went slowly, steadily to her own room, not trembling and sick at -heart as when she had come. The suspense was over--now she knew -everything. Her heart was in so strange an exaltation, that for the -moment she seemed to feel no pain. It seemed to her as if Oliver and she -were martyrs about to come out upon some scaffold hand in hand, and for -the righting of wrong and the redeeming of the lost to die. Such a -crisis has an intoxication peculiar to itself. She did not sleep all -night, but lay down and thought over everything. The worst was that he -had not told her. If he had but trusted in her, it was she who should -have stood by him all along, and taken his part and justified him before -the world. - -She met Mrs. Ford in the morning as she left her room, putting a stop to -all those attempts to make an invalid of her, and treat her as if she -were ill, which is the common expedient of the lookers-on in cases of -grief or mental suffering. Her face was pale but not without colour, -very clear, like a sky after rain; the eyes limpid and large, as if they -had increased in size somehow during the night. - -‘When you have had your breakfast,’ she said, with a smile,--‘I have -ordered it for you--then there are several things I wish you to do--for -me--’ - -‘Grace!’ Mrs. Ford was astonished by her look, and felt herself taken by -surprise. ‘You--you don’t mean--shopping?’ she asked, almost -mysteriously, confounded by her friend’s calm. - -Grace gave her a reproachful look. ‘I have ordered a carriage, too,’ she -said, taking no notice of the suggestion. ‘Tell me when you are ready.’ - -Mrs. Ford, looking with guilty countenance at her watch, went quickly to -the table at which her husband was seated, eating a hurried, but not at -all an insufficient, breakfast. - -‘I don’t know what she means,’ Mr. Ford said. ‘She has ordered a feast. -There’s half a dozen things. No, no more; don’t bring any more. Trix, -I’m going off to the Temple, of course, at once, and if I can find out -anything or get any trace of where he has gone, I’ll telegraph. Mind -what I told you last night. You must try and get her sent home.’ - -‘She is going to do her--shopping,’ said Trix. To tell the truth, she -did not herself believe this, but it was the first thing that occurred -to her to say. - -‘Her SHOPPING!’ Mr. Ford panted forth, with a great burst of agitated -laughter. ‘Great Heavens, you don’t say so! Her shopping! What a fool I -have been to put myself out about her. You women will do your shopping -on the Day of Judgment.’ - -Trix thought it was perhaps better to let him go away with this idea; it -would leave him, she felt, more free. And when Grace joined her with her -bonnet on, and disclosed her design, Mrs. Ford was startled for the -moment, but yielded without much difficulty. They drove away in the soft -morning, when even the London streets look like spring, miles away -through the interminable streets, until at last they came to that one -among so many others where the pavement was worn by Oliver’s weary feet, -where he had gone with his heart bleeding, so that it was strange he had -left no trace. It seemed to both the women as if he had left traces of -these painful steps, as if the sky darkened when they got there, and the -air began to moan with coming storm. It did so, it was true, but not -because of Oliver. A sudden April shower (though it was in May) fell in -a quick discharge of glittering drops as they drove up to the house. Not -to the door--for already a cab was standing which blocked the way: but -the cab was not all. A little crowd, excited and tumultuous, had -gathered round the steps, some pushing in to the very threshold of the -open door. It did not seem wonderful to the ladies that the crowd should -be here. It seemed of a piece with all the rest. A thing so -extraordinary and out of nature had happened, it was nothing strange if -the common people about raised a wonder over it, as everyone who knew -must do. They forgot that this affair was interesting only to -themselves, and that nobody here was aware of their existence. They made -their way with heavy hearts to the edge of the crowd. - -‘Is there anything wrong? What is the matter?’ Trix asked of one of the -throng. - -‘They say as she’s dying, ma’am,’ said the woman to whom she spoke. - -‘Ah, poor thing!’ cried another, anxious to give information. The crowd -turned its attention at once to the two ladies. - -‘Just a-going to take her first drive out,’ said one. ‘All in the grand -fur cloak he gave her.’ - -‘A man as grudged her nothing.’ - -‘It’s like on the stage,’ said another. ‘Ladies, a rich gentleman, and -grudged her nothing. And she’s never got time to enjoy it. Oh, she’s -never got time to enjoy it!’ - -These voices ran altogether, confusing each other. They conveyed little -meaning to the minds of the two ladies, who heard imperfectly, and did -not understand. - -Grace was the one who pushed through the crowd. ‘Let us pass, please. We -have come to see someone,’ she said, clutching Trix’s dress with her -hand. - -‘Oh, is that the doctor? Stand back and let the doctor pass,’ said a -voice from within the door of the little parlour. The speaker came out -as she spoke. She was the mother, with a pale and frightened face -surmounted by a bonnet gay with ribbons and flowers. ‘Oh, ladies, I -cannot speak to you now! Oh, if it’s anything about the dressmaking, -Matilda will come to you to-morrow. We’re in great trouble now. Oh, -doctor, doctor, here you are at last!’ - -Then a man brushed past, hurrying in. Grace followed, not knowing what -she did. She never forgot the scene she saw. In an arm-chair, the only -one in the room, sat propped up a young woman wrapped in a fur cloak, -with a white bonnet covered with flowers. Her eyes were half open; her -jaws had dropped. Another young woman, apparently her sister, stood -stroking her softly, calling to her: ‘Oh, wake up, Ally!--oh, wake -up!--there’s the carriage at the door, and here--here’s the doctor come -to see you.’ Through the sound of this frightened, half-weeping voice -came the sharp, clear tones of the doctor: ‘How long has she been like -this? Lay her down--lay her down anywhere. Yes, on the floor, if there’s -nowhere else. Silence, silence, woman! Can’t you see--’ - -There was an interval of quiet, and then the voice of the mother, ‘I’ll -get a mattress in a moment. She can’t lie there on the floor, her that’s -been taken such care of. Doctor! is it a faint? is it a faint? is it--’ - -Another moment of awful suspense, the silence tingling, creeping; the -voices of the little crowd sounding like echoes far off. Then the doctor -rose from where he had been kneeling on the floor. - -‘Why did you let her do this?’ he said, sternly, ‘I warned you she must -not do it.’ - -‘Oh, doctor, her heart was set upon it--and such a beautiful morning, -and her new, beautiful fur cloak as she couldn’t catch cold in. Doctor, -why don’t you do something? DOCTOR!’ cried the mother, seizing him by -the arm. - -He shook her off. He was rough in his impatience. ‘Can’t you see,’ he -said, ‘that there is nothing to be done? Take off that horrible finery; -the poor girl is dead.’ - -‘The poor girl is dead.’ Grace thought it was her own voice that -repeated those awful words. They went to her heart with a shock, making -her giddy and faint. Her voice sounded through the confused cries of the -woman about that prostrate figure. ‘Dead!’ The doctor turned to her, as -if it was she to whom explanations were due. - -‘I warned them,’ he said, ‘that her life hung on a thread. I told them -she must make no exertion. I knew very well how it would be. The wonder -is that she has lasted so long,’ he added, after that momentary -excitement sinking into professional calm. ‘No, no, there’s nothing to -be done. Can’t you see that for yourself?’ - -‘And the cab at the door to take her for her airing!’ cried the mother, -in shrill tones of distraction. ‘Oh, doctor, give her something! The -brandy, where is the brandy, Matilda? I’ve seen her as far gone--’ - -‘You have never seen her like this before. She is dead,’ said the -doctor, in the unceremonious tones in which he addressed such patients. -‘You had better get a sofa or something to lay her on, poor thing! -nothing can hurt her now; and send and let her husband know.’ He -followed Grace out into the passage, where she had withdrawn, unable to -bear that awful sight. - -‘It is a strange story. I don’t understand it. Sounds like a novel,’ he -said. ‘I don’t think he’ll be very sorry. He’ll bear it better than -most--though he only married her about three weeks ago. It was the -strangest thing I ever heard of. A gentleman--no doubt of that. What he -could ever have to say to a girl like her, God knows. But he suddenly -appeared on the scene when she was at the last gasp, and married her. I -had given her up; but afterwards she made a surprising rally. Even I was -taken in. I thought that she might still pull through. But you see I -was mistaken,’ he added cheerfully. - -Grace stood and leaned against the wall. Everything swam in her eyes, -and all the sounds, the voices of the women lamenting within, the cries -and questions without, the sharp, clear sentences of the doctor, all -mingled in a strange confusion like sounds in a dream. In the midst of -all this tumult came the voice of Trix calling to her to come out into -the open air, and a touch on her arm, which she felt to be that of the -doctor, leading her away. She made a great effort and recovered herself. -‘We want to know,’ she said, faintly, grasping at Trix’s hand. ‘We came -to see--we belong to Mr. Wentworth,’ and then with a rush of gathering -energy her sight came back to her, and she saw the face of the man who -stood, curious yet indifferent, between her and the chamber of death. - -‘Ah, the husband!’ he said. - -‘We came--to see her: is it truly, truly--? He has been ill, and we -have to act for him. We have--his authority. Trix, speak for me! Is -it--? Is that--?’ There came a strange, convulsive movement in her -throat, like sobbing, beyond her control. She could not articulate any -more. - -‘I am his sister,’ said Mrs. Ford; ‘is it true?--is the woman--dead? Oh! -it’s dreadful to be glad, I know. If you are the doctor, tell us, for -Heaven’s sake! Is she dead--is it she--the woman--’ - -‘The poor girl,’ said Grace, softly; ‘the poor, poor girl!’ - -This she said over and over again to herself as they drove away. She -made no reply to the questions, the remarks, the thanksgivings of her -companions. They drove straight to the Temple in direct contradiction of -Mr. Ford’s orders, and went up into the chambers where Oliver had -suffered so much, from which he had escaped in the half delirium of his -despair. Mr. Ford was there, still inquiring vaguely, endeavouring to -find some clue. He met the ladies, as was natural, with suppressed rage, -asking what they wanted there; but the news they brought was sufficient -even in his eyes to excuse their appearance, though even that threw no -light upon the other question, which now became the most important: -where Oliver had gone. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -When Oliver left his rooms on that terrible night, it could scarcely be -said that he was a sane man. The strange, confused tinkling and pealing -of the bell had seemed to him a supernatural call. When he had come to -himself a little, out of the strange, wild fit of ridicule of himself -and his pitiful intention of escaping from fate, which had overcome him, -he had risen mechanically and gone to the door. When he found no one, -the impulse of half-mad derision seized him again. It was as if he had -gone through every possibility of the anguish and misery that were real, -and had come out on the other side where all is distorted and -fantastic, and nothing true; where there were voices without persons, -calls, and jarring summonses that meant nothing, a chaos of delusion and -self-deceit, in which fever and shattered nerves and reverberations out -of a diseased brain were the only elements, and every impression was -fictitious, ridiculous, mad and false. He went out without knowing what -he was doing, the echoes of the pistol-shot circling through his head, -and moving him again and again to wild laughter: to think that he should -have found himself out so! that he was such a poor creature after all, -capable of running away, not good enough to stand and be executed, which -was his just due. Was it to be executed that he feared, or to be -banished, or put in prison, tied, yes, that was it--tied to a dead body, -as other men had been before him? Whatever it was, he had not been man -enough to bear his punishment, but had tried to run away. And then he -had been frightened, and failed. - -By this time he had forgotten altogether what expedient he had intended -to adopt to make his escape by, and the report, which still echoed -through his head, seemed to him rather the punishment he was attempting -to escape from than the means of escape. But anyhow he was running away, -and was afraid to do it. He was running away and could not do it. He was -somehow caught by the foot, so that all his running and walking were -vain, and he was only making circles about the fatal spot in which the -executioner was waiting for him--steadily, patiently waiting--until the -meshes should be drawn tighter and he should be brought back. The bell -continued to peal in his brain, a mocking summons, and the report of the -pistol to break in at intervals, sharp, like a refrain, bringing back -more or less the first effect of re-awakening, but not to reality, only -to that ever-renewed derision of his own efforts to get away. The fool -that he was! How could he escape with the bands ever tightening, -tightening about his feet, as he kept on in his vain round, back and -back in circles that lessened, every round leading nearer and nearer to -the spot where Fate awaited him, grimly looking on at his vain -struggles, laughing in that fierce ridicule which he re-echoed though he -carried on those sickening efforts still? - -He must have carried out in reality the miserable confusion in his -brain, for it seemed afterwards that he had done nothing but go round -and round a circle of streets and lanes, surrounding the point where his -chambers were, and where he was seen by various people, appearing and -reappearing, always at a very rapid pace, through the lingering darkness -of the night. After a while, in all probability, recollection failed -him, for his horrible sensations seemed to fade into a dull, fatigued -consciousness of circling and winding, of always the band on his ankles -tightening, drawing him nearer; but no longer any clear idea of what -was the impending doom, from which only this perpetual movement, this -effort to keep on, saved him for a time. Finally, when daylight had -come, surprising and alarming him back into some effort of intelligence, -he found himself at the door of his club, where the servants were but -beginning to open the shutters, to sweep and clean out, in preparation -for the day. He crept in there somehow as a dog might creep into a barn, -or take refuge in an empty kennel, and threw himself shivering into an -easy-chair, and had a cup of coffee brought him by a compassionate -waiter, who saw that he had been up all night. The same kind hands -covered him up when he began in his exhaustion to doze. And there he lay -and slept through all the early morning hours, while still there was -nobody to comment upon his appearance or to disturb him. The servants of -the club chattered indeed among themselves; they shook their heads, and -said he had been up to something or other as he hadn’t ought to. They -suggested to each other that he had been in bad company, that he had -been drugged, which was the most likely thing to account for his dazed -appearance. But he lay and slept through it all, unconscious in the -profound sleep of entire exhaustion. Most likely it was that exhaustion -and the constant physical movement and keen air of the night which saved -his brain after all. - -He woke at about eleven o’clock, having slept four or five hours, -shivering with a nervous chill, and in all the bodily misery of a man -who has slept in his clothes on a chair, cramped and wretched; but yet -in full possession of his senses, and knowing everything that had -happened. It all came back to him slowly, the standing trouble first, -the horror of those circumstances in which he was involved, the awful -question what he was to do: how live and endure his existence since he -could not abandon it? He asked himself the question almost before he -remembered that he had intended to abandon it. And then the scene of -last evening slowly rolled back upon him like a scene in a tragedy, the -crack of the pistol, the violent jarring and jingling of the bell. He -could not have dreamt or imagined the bell: it must have meant some -messenger or other, someone bringing him news. What news could any -messenger be bringing? Nothing but one piece of news. Nothing else was -worth sending now, worth the trouble of sending--his release, perhaps. -Oh, Heaven! if that might be! - -Oliver got up quickly in the sudden gleam of possibility thus presented -to him. It aroused him from the torpor of sleep and wretchedness and -exhaustion. But afterwards he dropped heavily into his chair again, -shaking his head, saying to himself that it was impossible, that release -did not come to a man so placed as he was, that he had no right to -release. And then it occurred to him that the messenger might return and -find the door open and go in, and that his letter lay on the table, the -letter addressed to his brother-in-law with its confession. By this -time, then, it would be in their hands and all would be known. When that -thought entered his mind, he rose from his chair, not impetuously, but -in the calm of despair: ah, that was best! that everything should be -known. It was all over then. Whatever might happen, Grace was lost to -him for ever. Whatever might happen, his own life and its hopes were -over, without any possibility of redemption. ‘So be it,’ he said to -himself, bowing his head almost solemnly: ‘so be it.’ What else was -possible? He would at least have discharged the dreadful duty of cutting -himself off, and leaving her free. - -This was his real awakening--which was, though the May morning was so -bright, an awakening into the blackness and darkness, into the quiet of -despair--no possibility now, no hope, all over and ended for ever and -ever. He took his hat and walked out without a word, without a thought -of his appearance, in the fresh daylight, in the open street, unshaven, -unkempt, miserable, with a misery which no one could mistake. How he -appeared was no longer anything to him. He saw nobody, took notice of -nothing. He might have been walking through a desert as he made his way -through some of the busiest streets of London, full of traffic and -commotion, and never saw one of the people who stared at the man who -seemed a gentleman, and yet had such an air of haggard misery, a -wanderer who had been out all night; nothing of this did Oliver see. He -went doggedly to give himself up to justice--no, that was the part of -the last night’s dream: but, at least, to meet at last whatever might be -coming to him, to ascertain that his letter had been sent away and that -all was over. Everything was over, in any case; but it would all be more -evident, more certain, if the letter had been sent away. - -He went up his own staircase and came to his own door with nothing but -this in his mind. The recollection of the bell, of the possible -messenger who could not get admission, of the news of his release which -might have come, all faded out of his mind. If that letter had been -sent, it did not matter whether he was released or not: now or -hereafter, what could it matter? so long as that letter had been sent. -Then indeed his tale would be told, his shrift over, his fate sealed. He -heard voices vaguely as he approached the room, but took no notice. What -did it matter who was there so long as the letter had been sent? He -stalked in like a ghost, his eyes fixed upon the table which seemed to -him as he had left it--all but one thing.--Yes, redemption had become -impossible and hope was over. The letter had gone. - -‘Oliver!’ said a voice, whether in a dream, whether in fact, whether out -of the skies, whether only sounding in the depths of his miserable -heart, how could he tell? He turned round towards it slowly, pale, -trembling, a man for whom hope was no more. And there she stood before -him, she who had been to him as an angel, whom he had seemed to abandon, -insult and betray. It seemed so; and never, perhaps, never would it be -known how different--how different! He could not bear the sight of the -brightness of her face. There was light in it that seemed to kill him; -he put up his hands to cover his eyes, and shrank back, back, until, his -limbs tottering under him, his heart failing him, he had sunk unawares -upon his knees. Oh, the brightness of the presence of outraged love, -more terrible than wrath! Is it not from that, that at the last the -sinner, self-convicted, will flee? - -‘Do not speak to me,’ he said, his voice sounding like some stranger’s -voice in his own ears. ‘I know all you would say. And there is no -excuse, no excuse.’ - -‘Oliver! you have no excuse for not trusting me. I was worthy of your -trust. Should I not have chosen for you to do first what was right?’ - -It seemed to him that once more his brain was giving way; he felt a -horrible impulse to laugh out again at the mockery of this speech. -Right! there was nothing right! What had it to do with him, a man all -wrong, wrong, out of life, out of hope--that there should still be some -one left in the world to whom that word meant something? He uncovered -his face, however, and looked up at her from out the humiliation of -despair. And then he began to see that there were other people in the -room, his sister, his brother-in-law, looking on at the spectacle of his -downfall. He rose up slowly to his feet, supporting himself against the -wall. - -‘I am in great distress,’ he said; ‘I am not able to speak. Ford, will -you take them away?’ - -Ford, who was only a man, nobody in particular, gave him a certain -sense of protection in the poignancy of the presence of the others, -before whom he could not stand or speak. - -‘Oliver, old fellow, you needn’t look so miserable; they wouldn’t go, -they know everything, they’ve got--news for you. I say they’ve got news -for you.’ - -‘Oh, Tom, God bless you! you have a feeling heart after all. Oliver, it -is all over--’ - -‘Oliver,’ Grace put out her warm hands and took his, which were -trembling with an almost palsy of cold; ‘I should have understood, for -you told me long ago--you told me there were things I would not -understand. But now I do understand. And all that you have done I -approve. I do not forgive you--I approve.’ - -He drew back ever further, shrinking against the wall. ‘I was mad last -night,’ he said, ‘and it was horrible: and now I must be going mad -again--and this is horrible too, but it is sweet--’ - -‘Oh, it is horrible,’ cried Grace, with tears; ‘for it comes out of -misery and mourning. Oliver, that poor girl--that poor girl, she is -dead.’ - -He fell down once more at her feet, with a great and terrible cry, and -fainted like a woman--out of misery, and remorse, and relief, and -anguish, and joy, and by reason too, since the body and the soul are so -linked together--of his sleepless nights and miserable days. - -He told her all afterwards, in those subdued and troubled days when -happiness was still struggling to come back. But Grace would never see -it as he did. To her it was an atonement, an almost martyrdom. She could -not understand those deeper depths of evil in which sin is taken -lightly, and called pleasure, and is but for a day. She could understand -passion and the deadly harm it wrought, and how life itself might be -laid down in the desire to atone. He held his peace at last, bewildered -by the dulness of that innocence which could not so much as imagine what -he knew. And happiness did struggle back through depths of humiliation -and shame to him, with which she was never acquainted. She did not -suffer, not having sinned; and he was still young. And after awhile the -hideous dream through which he passed faded away, and even Oliver -remembered it no more. - - -THE END. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVER'S BRIDE; A TRUE STORY *** - -***** This file should be named 63582-0.txt or 63582-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/5/8/63582/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this ebook. - -Title: Oliver's Bride; A true Story - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: November 03, 2020 [EBook #63582] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - available at The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVER'S BRIDE; A TRUE STORY *** -</pre><hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="550" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h1>OLIVER’S BRIDE</h1> - -<p class="c"><span class="eng">A True Story</span><br /><br /><br /> -BY<br /> -<span class="cspc">MRS. OLIPHANT,</span><br /> -<i>Author of “The Chronicles of Carlingford,” etc.</i><br /><br /><br /> -<span class="smcap">Copyright</span><br /><br /><br /> -LONDON:<br /> -THE STANDARD LIBRARY COMPANY,<br /> -<span class="smcap">15 Clerkenwell Road</span>, E.C.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span> </p> - -<h1>OLIVER’S BRIDE.</h1> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="border:3px double gray;padding:.25em;"> -<tr><td><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"> II., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"> IV., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"> V., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"> VI., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"> VII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"> VIII., </a> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"> IX.</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2> - -<p class="nind">‘I <span class="smcap">have</span> not been always what I ought to have been,’ he said, ‘you must -understand that, Grace. I can’t let you take me without telling you, -though it’s against myself. I have not been the man that your husband -ought to be, that is the truth.’</p> - -<p>She smiled upon him with all the tenderness of which her eyes were -capable, which was saying much, and pressed the hands which held hers. -They had just, after many difficulties and embarrassments and delay, -said to each other all that people say when,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span> from being strangers, they -become one and conclude to part no more. They were standing together in -all the joyful agitation and excitement which accompany this -explanation—their hearts beating high, their faces illuminated by the -radiance of the delight which is always a surprise to the true lover, -even when to others it has been most certain and evident. Their friends -had known for weeks that this was what it was coming to; but he was pale -with the ineffable discovery that she loved him, and she all-enveloped -in the very bloom of a blush for pure wonder of this extraordinary -certainty that he loved her. She looked at him and smiled, their clasped -hands changing their action for the moment, she pressing his in token of -utmost confidence as his hitherto had pressed hers.</p> - -<p>‘I do not mean only that I do not deserve you, which is what any man -would say,’ he resumed, after the unspoken yet unmistakable answer she -had made him. ‘The best man on earth might say so, and speak the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> truth. -No man is good enough for such as you; but I mean more than that.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean flattery,’ she said, ‘which I would not listen to for a moment -if it were not sweeter to listen to than anything else in the world. You -don’t suppose I believe that; but so long as <i>you</i> do—’</p> - -<p>Her hands unloosed and melted into his again, and he resumed the -pressure which became almost painful, so close it was and earnest.</p> - -<p>‘Dear,’ he said, with his voice trembling, ‘you must not think I mean -that only. That would be so were I a better man. I mean that I am not -worthy to touch your dear hand or the hem of your garment. Oh, listen: I -have not been a good man, Grace.’</p> - -<p>She released one of her hands and put it up softly and touched his lips.</p> - -<p>‘All that has been is done with,’ she said, ‘for both of us—everything -has become new—’</p> - -<p>‘Ah,’ he said, ‘if you are content with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> that, it is so; it shall ever -be so. Yet I would not accept that peace of God without telling -you—without letting you know—’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘or I might have to confess, too.’</p> - -<p>‘You,’ he cried, seizing her in his arms with a kind of rage. ‘Oh, never -name yourself in such a comparison. You don’t know, you can’t imagine—’</p> - -<p>Once more she stopped his mouth.</p> - -<p>‘No more, no more; we are both content in what is, and happy in what is -to come.’</p> - -<p>‘Happy is too mild a word. It is not big enough, nor strong enough for -me.’</p> - -<p>She smiled with the woman’s soft superiority to the man’s rapture that -makes her glad. Superiority yet inferiority, admiring, yet half -disdaining, the tide that carries him away—all for her, as if she was -worth that! proud of him for the warmth of passion of which she is not -capable, at which she shakes her head, not even he able to transport her -to such a height of emotion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> as that to which she, only she, no other! -can transport him. She began to be his critic and counsellor on the -moment, as soon as it had been acknowledged that she was his love, and -was to be his wife.</p> - -<p>It had been a long wooing, much interrupted, supposed to be hopeless. -They had loved each other as boy and girl seven or eight years before. -It is to be hoped that no one will be wounded by the fact that Grace -Goodheart was twenty-five; not an innocent angel of eighteen, but a -woman who had her own opinions of the world. He was five years older. -When she was seventeen and he twenty-two there had been passages between -them which he had perhaps forgotten: but she had never forgot. At that -period they were both poor. She an orphan girl in the house of her -uncle, who was very kind to her, but announced everywhere that he did -not intend to leave her his fortune; he a young man without any very -definite intentions in life, or energy to make a way for himself. They -had parted then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> without anything said, for Oliver was a gentleman, and -would not spoil the future of the girl whom he could not ask to marry -him. He had gone away into the world, and he had forgotten Grace. But -there is nothing that a girl’s mind is more apt to fix upon than the -vague conclusion, which is no end, of such an episode. There is in it -something more delicate than an engagement which holds the imagination -as fast as any betrothal. He has not spoken, she thinks, for honour’s -sake. He has gone away, like a true knight, to gain fame or fortune, and -so win her: and she is consciously waiting for him for long years, -perhaps, till he comes back, following him with her heart, with her eyes -as far as she can, ever open to all that is heard of him, collecting -diligently every scrap of information. Grace had not been without her -little successes in that time; others had seen that she was sweet as -well as Oliver Wentworth; but she was so light-hearted and cheerful that -no one could say it was for Oliver’s sake, or for any reason<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> but -because she did not choose, that she would have no one in her own -sphere. And then came that strange reversal of everything when the old -uncle died without any will, and Grace, who it was always supposed must -go out governessing at his death, was found to be his heiress. She was -his next of kin; there was nobody even to divide it with, to fight for a -share; and instead of being a little dependent orphan, she was an -heiress and a very good match. How it was that Oliver Wentworth came -back after this, was a question that many people asked; but however it -was, it was not with any mercenary thought on his part. Whether his -sister was equally disinterested, who would take no denial, but insisted -on his visit, need not, perhaps, be inquired. He had come rather against -his will, knowing no reason why Trix should be so urgent; and then he -had met Grace Goodheart, whom he had not seen for so many years, again. -To her it was a little disappointing that he came back very much as he -had gone away, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span>out having achieved either honour or fortune. But -success is not dealt out in the same measure to every man; and if he had -failed, how much more reason for consoling him? He had only failed in -degree. He had not won either honour or fortune; but he was able to earn -his daily bread, and perhaps hers. And when he saw her again, his heart -had gone back with a bound to his first love, although in the meantime -that love had been forgotten. She was aware, more or less, of all this. -She was even aware, more or less, of what he had wanted to tell her. She -had followed him too closely with her heart not to know that he had not -always kept himself unspotted from the world. This had cost her many a -secret tear in the years which were past, but had not altered her mind -towards him. There are women who can cease to love when they discover -that a man is unworthy; indeed, it is one of the commonplaces both of -fact and fiction, that love cannot exist without respect. It would be -very well for the good people, and very ill<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> for those who are not good, -if this were always so. There are many, many, of women, perhaps the -majority, who are not so high-minded, and who love those they love—God -help them—whether they are worthy of love or not. Grace was one of -those women. She heard, somehow—who can tell how, being intent to hear -anything she could pick up about him—that he had not kept the perfect -way. She heard that he had gone wrong, and perhaps heard no more for a -year or two, and in her secret retirement wept and prayed, but made no -outward sign; and then had heard some comforting news, and then again -had been plunged into the anguish of those who know that their beloved -are in misery and trouble, yet cannot lift a finger to help them. When -he appeared again within her ken, she knew it was a man soiled with much -contact of the world that met her, and not the pure-hearted boy of old. -But he was still Oliver Wentworth, and that was everything. And when in -honour and honesty he would have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> told her how unworthy he was, her -heart leapt up towards him in that glory and delight of approbation -which is perhaps the highest ecstacy of a woman. His confession, which -she would not allow him to make, was virtue and excellence to her. She -was more proud of him because he wanted to tell her that he was a -sinner, and acknowledge his unworthiness, than if he had been the most -unsullied and excellent of men.</p> - -<p>Wentworth’s sister had always been Grace’s friend. She was older than -either of them, married, and full in the current of her own life. When -Oliver came back to her after all was settled, and made what he believed -was a revelation to her of his love and happiness, Mrs. Ford laughed in -his face, even while she shared his raptures.</p> - -<p>‘Do you think I don’t know all that?’ she said. ‘There never was -anything so stupid as a man in love. Why, I have known it for the last -eight years, and always looked forward to this day.’ Which, perhaps, was -not quite true, and yet was true in a way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> For Trix had all along loved -Grace for loving her brother, and had seen that, with such a wife, -Oliver would be all that could be desired; yet had thought it best -policy, on the whole, till Grace came into her fortune, to keep them out -of each other’s way.</p> - -<p>‘Trix,’ he said very gravely, pulling his moustache, ‘for eight years -she has always been the first woman in the world for me.’</p> - -<p>At which his sister, which was very unbecoming, continued to laugh. ‘The -first, perhaps, dear Noll,’ she said, ‘but we can’t deny, can we, that -there have been a few others—secondary? But you may be sure, so far as -I am concerned, Grace shall never know a word of that.’</p> - -<p>Oliver did not take the matter so lightly. From his rapture of content -he dropped into great gravity and walked about the room pulling at his -moustache, which was a custom he had when he was thinking. ‘On the -contrary,’ he said, ‘I should have liked her to know before she took the -last step that—that I haven’t been a good fellow, Trix.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Oliver, I shouldn’t like to hear any one else say so. Tom says’ (this -was her husband) ‘that you’ve always been a good fellow in spite of—’</p> - -<p>‘In spite of what?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, in spite of—little indiscretions,’ said Trix, looking her -brother in the face, though she coloured as she did so in spite of -herself.</p> - -<p>‘That means—’ he said, and walked up and down and pulled his moustache -more and more. It was a long time before he added, ‘There is nothing -that makes a man feel so ashamed of himself, Trix, as to feel that a -woman like Grace—if there is anyone like her—’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, nobody, of course!’ said his sister.</p> - -<p>He gave her a look, half angry, half tender. ‘You are a good woman, too; -and to think that two girls like you should take a fellow at your own -estimate, and pretend to think that he is a good fellow enough after -all: as if that were all that her—her husband ought to be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Well, Noll,’ said Mrs. Ford, ‘it is better not to go into details. Very -likely we should not understand them if you did, though I am no girl, -nor is she a baby either, for the matter of that; but whatever you have -been or done, the fact is that you are just Oliver Wentworth, when all -is said: and as Oliver Wentworth is the man Grace has been fond of -almost since she was a child, and who has been my brother since ever he -was born—’</p> - -<p>‘Strange!’ he cried, with a curious outburst, half laugh, half groan, -‘to think she should have kept thinking of me all this time, while I—’</p> - -<p>‘Have been in love with her, and considered her all the time the first -woman in the world. You told me so just now.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s not a lie, though you may think it so. I did -feel that when I thought of—’ and here he paused and gave his sister a -guilty look.</p> - -<p>‘When you thought of her at all; you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> needn’t be ashamed, Noll. That’s -the man’s way of putting it. We women all know that; but now that she is -before your eyes and you cannot help thinking of her—now it has come -all right.’</p> - -<p>Trix too gave a laugh which was half crying; and then she dried her eyes -and came solemnly up to him with a very serious face, and caught him by -the arm and looked into his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Oliver, now that all that’s over, and you’re an older man and -understand that life can’t go on so; and now that you are going to marry -Grace, the woman you have always loved—Oliver, for the love of God, no -more of it now.’</p> - -<p>He gazed at her for a moment with a flash of something like fury in his -eyes, and then flung her arm far from him with fierce indignation. ‘Do -you think I am a brute beast without understanding?’ he cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">For</span> a week or more after their betrothal these two lovers were very -happy. To be sure there was a great deal of remark and some remonstrance -addressed to Grace about the antecedents of the man she was going to -marry. Various people spoke to her, and some even wrote, which is a -strong step, asking her if she was aware that Oliver Wentworth had been -supposed to be ‘wild’ or ‘gay,’ or something else of the same meaning. -It is generally supposed that a village or a small town is the place for -gossip, but I think Society is made up of a succession of villages, and -that there is no place, not even London itself—that wilderness, that -great Babylon—in which people are not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> talked about by their Christian -names, and everything that can be discussed, with perhaps a little more, -is not known about them. Ironborough was a very large town, but the -Wentworths and the Goodhearts had both been settled there for a -generation or two, and they were known to everybody. And not only was it -known universally and much talked of that Oliver Wentworth had been -‘wild,’ and that he was poor, and consequently that he must be marrying -solely for money; but it also raised a great ferment in the place that -he should intend, instead of settling down (‘and thankful for that’) in -Grace’s charming house, which her old uncle, a man very learned in the -art of making himself comfortable, had made so perfect—to carry off his -wife to London with him, and live there for the advantage of his work, -forsooth! as if his work could be of any such consequence in the -<i>ménage</i>, or as if he would ever earn enough to pay the house rent. -Oliver was like so many other young men, a barrister with very little to -do. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> had managed to keep himself going by a few briefs and a little -literature, as soon as he had fully convinced himself, by the process of -spending everything else that he could lay his hands upon, that a man -must live upon what he can make. He was not of so fine a fibre as some -heroes, who feel themselves humiliated by their future wife’s fortune, -and whom the possible suspicion of interested motives pursues -everywhere; but at the same time he was not disposed to be his wife’s -dependent, and he knew the world well enough to be aware that with the -backing of her wealth he would probably make a great deal more of his -profession than it had hitherto been possible for him to do. As for -Grace herself, she talked of his profession, and of his work, and of the -necessity for living where it would be most convenient to him, as if her -entire fortune depended upon that, and Oliver’s work was to be the -support of the new household. A girl without a penny, whose marriage was -to promote her to the delightful charge of a house of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> own, and -whose every new bonnet was to come from the earnings of her husband, -could not have been more completely absorbed in consideration of all -that was necessary for his perfect convenience in his work. She -bewildered even Mrs. Ford by the way she took up this idea.</p> - -<p>‘I honour you for what you say, and I love you for it, Grace; but still -you know Oliver’s profession is not what you would call very—lucrative, -is it? and he could do his writing anywhere, you know!’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, I don’t know anything of the kind,’ said Grace, indignantly. -‘He has to be constantly in the House when it is sitting. He has to know -everything that is going on. Would you think your husband was well -treated if he was made to manage his work, say from the seaside or a -country house, for your sake and the children’s, instead of being on the -spot? You know you would not, Trix.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, well, perhaps that may be so; but then my husband—’ faltered Trix, -with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span> troubled look. She would have said: ‘My husband is the -breadwinner, and everything depends on him,’ but she was daunted by the -look in Grace’s eyes, and actually did not dare to suggest that Oliver -would be in a very different position. Mr. Wilbraham, the solicitor who -managed Miss Goodheart’s affairs, interfered in the same way, with -similar results. She was in a position of almost unexampled freedom for -so young a woman. She had neither guardians nor trustees. There was -nobody in the world who had a right to dictate to her or even -authoritatively to suggest what she ought to do—for the reason that all -she had had come to her as it were inadvertently, accidentally, because -her uncle, who always said he intended to leave her nothing, had died -without a will. Mr. Wilbraham was the only man in the world who had any -right to say a word, and he had no real right, only the right of an old -friend who had known her all her life, and knew everything about her. He -said, when the settlement was being discussed (in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> respect Mr. -Wentworth’s behaviour was perfect—for all that he wished was to secure -his wife in the undisturbed enjoyment of what was her own), that he -hoped Miss Goodheart meant to remain, when she was married, among her -own friends.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think you would like London after Ironborough,’ he said, with -perfect sincerity; ‘and to get a house like this in town would cost you -a fortune, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘It is not a question of liking,’ said Grace, with all the calm of -faith; ‘of course, we must live where Mr. Wentworth’s work requires him -to live. He cannot carry on his profession in the country.’</p> - -<p>‘The country!’ said Mr. Wilbraham, with a sneer which his politeness to -an excellent client could only soften. ‘Does he call this the country? -and Mr. Wentworth’s profession, if you will permit me to say so, has, so -far as I know—’</p> - -<p>‘It is the country though, you know,’ said Grace, preserving her temper, -though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> with a little difficulty, ‘though not exactly what you could -call fresh fields and pastures new.’</p> - -<p>And when he looked up at her, Mr. Wilbraham made up his mind that it was -best to say no more. A willful woman will have her way. Perhaps it was -only the lavish and tender generosity of her nature, which would let no -one see that she was conscious her position was different from that of -the majority of women: but I think it went even a little further than -this, and that Grace had got herself to believe that Oliver’s work was -all in all. She talked to him about it, till he believed in it too, and -they planned together the localities in which it would be best to look -for a house, in a place which should be quiet so that he might not be -disturbed, and yet near everything that he ought to frequent and see; a -place where they would, have good air and space to breathe, and yet a -place where his chambers, and his newspaper office, and the House should -be easily<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> accessible; in short, just such a house as a rising -barrister, who was at the same time a man of letters, ought to have. -Grace, especially, was very anxious that it should not be too far away. -‘As for me, you know, it does not matter a bit—one place is just the -same as another to me; but everybody says a man’s work loses when he is -not always on the spot,’ she said. Sometimes Oliver himself was tickled -by her earnestness; but she was so very much in earnest that he fell -into her tone, and did not even venture to laugh at himself, which was a -thing he had been very apt to do.</p> - -<p>And those consultations were very sweet. It is doubtful whether anything -in life is so sweet as the talks and anticipations of two who have thus -made up their minds to be one, while as yet life keeps its old shape, -the shape which they feel they have outgrown, and all is anticipation. -Everything loses a little when it is realised. No house, to give a small -example, is ever so convenient,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> so delightful, so entirely adapted for -happy habitation, as the one which these two reasonable people actually -hoped to find <i>To be Let</i> in London. It was to have a hundred advantages -which never come together; it was to be exactly at the right distance -from the turmoil of town; it was to have rooms arranged just in this and -that way; it was to be very capable of decoration, and yet to have a -character of its own. Oliver’s library was to be the best room in the -house, and yet the other sitting-rooms were to be best rooms too. ‘I -will not endure to have you pushed into a dark room, as poor Mr. Ford -is,’ said Grace. ‘The master of the house, on whom everything depends, -should always have the best. To be sure poor Mr. Ford does his work in -his office, which is some excuse; but your study, Oliver, will tell for -so much. You must let me furnish it out of my own head.’</p> - -<p>He laughed a little, and coloured, and said, ‘Seeing you will probably -furnish it out of your own purse, Grace<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span>—’</p> - -<p>At which she opened her eyes wide, and looked at him, then laughed too, -a little, but gravely, as if it were not a subject for a jest, and said, -‘Oh, I see what you mean. You mean me to be the accountant, and all -that. Well, I am pretty good at arithmetic, Oliver; and, of course, it -might disturb your mind while you are busy, and I shall have nothing -else to do.’</p> - -<p>This was the way she took it, with a readiness of resource in parrying -all allusions to her own wealth which was infinite, though whether she -succeeded in this by dint of much thought, or whether it was entirely -spontaneous, the suggestion of the moment, no one could quite make out. -The result upon Oliver, as I have said, was that he began to believe in -himself, too. Instead of laughing at his brief business, which had been -his custom, he began to take himself and his work very seriously, and to -think how he should apportion his time so as not to leave Grace too much -alone—as if he had ever found any difficulty in finding<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> time for -whatever he wished to do! ‘It is a pity,’ he said, ‘that this season is -just the busiest time, both in chambers and in politics; but I must make -leisure to take you about a little, Grace. To think of taking you about, -and seeing everything again, fresh, through your dear eyes, is almost -too delightful. Would the time were here!’</p> - -<p>‘It will come quite soon enough, Oliver. We have not even begun to look -for the house yet, and there is all the furnishing and everything to do. -Don’t you think you had better run up to town and begin operations? We -may not be able, you know, just at once, to light upon the house.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you think you had better come with me, Grace?’</p> - -<p>‘I? Oh! Why should I go with you? Surely,’ she said, with a laugh and a -blush, ‘you will be able to do that by yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘How could I do it by myself? I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> no longer myself. I am only half of -myself. Come and I shall go; but I am not going to leave myself behind -me, and stultify myself. I shall not even be one-half but only a fifth -or sixth of myself: for there is you, who is the best part of me, and -then my heart, which is next best, and my thoughts, which, along with my -heart and you, really make up myself—all the best part.’</p> - -<p>‘What an intolerable number of selfs!’ she said; though, perhaps, it was -not very clever, it pleased her in that state of mind in which we are -all so easily pleased. She said no more, however, and drew away from -him, while he jumped to his feet at the opening of the door. The old -butler came in with a letter on a tray. There was something sinister in -the look of the letter. It was in a blue envelope, and was directed in a -very common, informal hand—<i>Immediate</i> written on it in large letters.</p> - -<p>‘Please, sir, Mrs. Ford’s man has come<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> to say as they don’t know if it -is anythink of importance; but ‘as brought it seeing as immediate’s on -it, in case it should be business, sir; and here, sir, is a telegram as -has come too.’</p> - -<p>The butler gave a demure glance at his mistress, who was still blushing -a good deal, as she had done when she pushed away the chair.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, Jenkins!’ said Oliver.</p> - -<p>He took the letter and looked at it before he opened it. He thought he -had seen the handwriting before, but could not remember where. He felt a -little afraid of it; he could not tell why. He turned it over in his -hand and hesitated, and would have liked to put it in his pocket and -carry it away with him for perusal afterwards. What could be so -<i>Immediate</i> as to require his attention now—a bill, perhaps? He ran -over the list of possibilities in that way, and did not remember -anything.</p> - -<p>‘What is it, Oliver?’ said Grace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> ‘Haven’t you opened it? Oh, but you -must open it when it is marked Immediate. It must be business, of -course.’</p> - -<p>‘I should think it’s a hoax,’ he said slowly, ‘a circular, or something -of that sort’ and crushed it in his hand. Then as she made a little -outcry—‘Well, I’ll open it to please you. All women, I perceive, -believe in letters,’ he said, with a smile.</p> - -<p>The joke was but a small one at the best—it seemed smaller and smaller -as he opened the envelope and read what was written within. Grace had -gone away to re-arrange some flowers on the table, to leave him at -liberty. She bent over them, taking out some that were beginning to -fade, pulling them about a little till the moment should be over. It -seemed to run into two or three minutes, and Oliver did not say anything -or even move. He would generally say, ‘Oh, it is So-and-so!’—some -friend who sent his congratulations. That was the chief<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> subject of all -their letters at the present time. They were letters which were handed -from one to another with little notes of admiration. ‘Poor fellow, he is -as pleased as possible.’ ‘What a nice letter, Oliver! I am sure he must -be fond of you,’ and so forth, and so forth. But he said nothing about -this. To be sure, it was business.</p> - -<p>She turned round at last, not knowing what to do; wondering, when your -bridegroom does not tell you of a thing, what is your duty in the -circumstances. To ask, or to hold your tongue? Grace was not jealous, or -ready to take offence. And she was very anxious to do her duty. What -ought she to do?</p> - -<p>He folded up the letter, as he heard her move, and turned towards her, -but without raising his eyes. His face was clouded and dark. He put it -into his pocket, and they sat down and began to talk, but not as before, -though of the same subject.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span></p> - -<p>At last he said, abruptly, ‘I think I will go up to town, Grace. You -suggested it, you know,’ as if he had altogether forgotten all that he -had said, which she had chidden him for, and loved him for, all that -pleasant nonsense about himself.</p> - -<p>She was startled for a moment; then replied quietly, ‘Yes, Oliver, I do -think it will be the best way—’</p> - -<p>He continued hesitating—faltering. ‘It is not for that only, my -darling. This letter—I am afraid I shall have to go: a—a friend of -mine has got into trouble. I—can’t exactly tell what it is; but wants -me to go.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, how sorry I am!’ said Grace. ‘Dear Oliver, it is natural people -should turn to you when they are in trouble. Who is he? Do I know him? -Has he written to you about—’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t suppose—he—knows anything about it. It is a friend I haven’t -heard of for a long time. Not one for you to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> know, but in great -trouble. Dying, the letter says.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Oliver, go—go at once. Not for the world would I keep you from a -dying man. Don’t tell me any more than you wish, dear. But can I do -anything—can I send anything? Is he—oh, Oliver, forgive me—is he -poor?’</p> - -<p>‘Forgive you?’ he said. He held her close to him with a strain which was -almost violent, as if he could not let her go. Then he said, ‘No, my -darling, you can do nothing. I may have helped to make things worse, and -I am at the height of happiness, while this poor creature—this poor—’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Oliver, go and comfort him,’ she said, ‘Don’t lose a train; don’t -come back to any good-bye. Go—go!’ Then while he hold her in his arms -she said, smiling, ‘It need not be a very long parting, I suppose?’</p> - -<p>‘Any parting is long that takes me from you, Grace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘But it is for love’s sake. Good-bye. I’ll do all I can do, Oliver. I’ll -pray for you—and him.’</p> - -<p>‘God bless you, my dear love—not good-bye—till we meet again.’</p> - -<p>And then the door closed, and he was gone.</p> - -<p>The day had grown dark, surely, all at once. It was a day in early -spring, and very cloudy. A mass of dark vapour had blown up over the -sweet sky; and what a change it was all in a moment, from that pretty -fooling about himself and his other self to this sudden parting! But, -then, it was an errand of mercy on which he was going. God be with him! -And it could not be for long. Nothing, neither trouble nor suffering, -nor death of friends, nor any created thing could separate them long.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Trix</span> was not so quickly satisfied as Grace had been. ‘Going away!’ she -cried; ‘going to leave Grace! I thought you could not bear to have her -out of your sight.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope I was not such an ass as to say so, but I cannot help myself—it -is an old friend—’</p> - -<p>‘Who is he? Do I know him?’ she said, as Grace had said. ‘You men are so -ridiculous about your friends. Probably somebody that did you nothing -but harm, and whom you would be thankful never to hear of again.’</p> - -<p>‘You speak like an oracle. Trix; but I must go all the same.’</p> - -<p>‘And why don’t you say who he is? Ah,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> it was a great deal better for -you, Oliver, when you had no friends that your sister didn’t know of. -Tell me who he is—at least, tell me his name.’</p> - -<p>‘You would not be a bit the wiser. You know nothing whatever about—him. -Trix, take great care of her while I am away.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, as for taking care of her!—’ He went out of the room while she was -speaking to put his necessaries into his bag. And left alone, she began -to think still more doubtfully over the meaning of this sudden move. She -ran over every name she could think of, of people whom she knew he had -known. She, too, felt the influence of that sudden cloud which blotted -out the sky and brought the quick deluge of the spring shower pouring -about the ears of the wayfarers. The darkness assisted her womanish -imagination, as it had done that of Grace. It was like a sudden -misfortune falling when no one thought of it. And Mrs. Ford’s mind was -greatly exercised. When Oliver came into<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> the room again, ready to -start, she got up quickly and went to him with her two hands on the -lappels of his coat. ‘Oliver,’ she cried, breathlessly, ‘I hope to -goodness it <i>is</i> a him, and not—You couldn’t, you wouldn’t—it isn’t -possible.’</p> - -<p>‘Suspicion seems always possible,’ he said, harshly, putting her away -from him. Was it the natural indignation of one unjustly blamed? ‘If -that is all you think of me, what can it matter what I say?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh,’ cried Trix, who was very impulsive, ‘I beg your pardon, Noll. It -was only that I—it was because I am so anxious, oh, so anxious! that -everything should go well. You won’t be long—not any longer than you -can help?’</p> - -<p>‘Not a moment,’ he said. ‘If I can return to-morrow, I will. I hope so -with all I my heart. Going at all is no pleasure. Take care of her while -I am away.’</p> - -<p>It seemed to Trix that he was gone before she had known that he was -going. It was very sudden. He had not intended<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> to go at all till after -his marriage. He had said so only that morning: and why this change all -in an hour? A friend! It must be a very intimate friend, she concluded, -or he would not have thrown up all his plans to go and visit him. To be -sure, when a man is dying he is not likely to wait the convenience of -another who is about to be married. She told her husband when he came in -in the evening, and he, a good man, who was not wont to trouble himself -about hidden meanings, received the news with great placidity.</p> - -<p>‘Is it anyone we know?’ was his first question. ‘I hope it may be the -sort of friend who will leave him something—a legacy couldn’t come at a -better moment.’ This was a wonderful sedative to her alarms, and turned -her thoughts into quite a different channel. It would be indeed a most -suitable moment to have a legacy left him. Every time is suitable for -that, but when a man is about to be married, nothing could be more -appropriate. Mrs. Ford<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> went across in the evening, after dinner, to see -Grace. They lived quite near each other, and the Fords for that evening -had no engagement. She found her future sister-in-law sitting over a -little, bright fire, reading a novel, with papers beside her on the -table, lists from the furniture shops, and some made out in her own -handwriting of things that would be required in the new home. Miss -Goodheart received Mrs. Ford very cordially. ‘It feels so odd to be -quite alone again,’ she said, with a little laugh, which was slightly -nervous, ‘and when one didn’t expect it. So I was glad to find a new -book. Poor Oliver! he will not have pleasant journey. I hope he will -find his friend better. Is he a friend of yours, too?’</p> - -<p>‘He was in such a hurry he had not time to tell me, nor I to ask him,’ -said Trix, which was not, as the reader knows, quite true.</p> - -<p>There was a little pause after this, as if they each would have liked to -ask questions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span> of the other; and then, no questions being possible, as -neither knew, they plunged into furniture, which is a very enthralling -subject. Trix, having experience, was able to give many hints, and to -suggest a number of things Grace had left out—kitchen things, for -instance. How can anyone know about pots and pans, and how many are -necessary, without practical knowledge supplied by recent experience?</p> - -<p>They both subdued a little dull pain they had about the region of their -hearts by a good long talk on this subject, and parted quite cheerfully -when Mr. Ford—who never had any pains in that region except those which -are produced by a digestion out of order—came to fetch his wife.</p> - -<p>‘Oliver will take the opportunity to do several things on his own hook, -now that he has managed to tear himself away,’ that gentleman said. ‘The -great difficulty was to tear himself away. And I only hope his friend -will leave him something.’</p> - -<p>This, though it was so prosaic, gave a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> real comfort to the two women. -It brought his mission quite out from the mystery that hung about it to -the range of commonplace affairs.</p> - -<p>It was not till Wentworth was fairly gone from the station shut up by -himself in a compartment of a first-class carriage, and unapproached by -any spectator, that he took out from his pocket and read over again the -letter and telegram which had called him away thus hurriedly out of the -happiness of his new life. The letter was on blue paper, not without a -suspicion of greasiness, and very badly written in a hand which might -have been that of a shopman or a schoolboy. But it was signed by a -female name, and this is what it said:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind"> -‘<span class="smcap">Dear Mr. Wentworth</span>,—<br /> -</p> - -<p>‘Alice came home in bad health three months ago. She’s been very -bad ever since, and there is now no hopes of her. It’s consumption -and heart complaint, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span> what the doctor calls a complickation. -For the last fortnight she’s been weaker and weaker every day, and -yesterday was took much worse, and hasn’t but a day or two to live. -She says as she can’t die happy without seeing you. She calls for -you all the time she’s waking, both night and day. Oh, Mr. -Wentworth, you always was a kind gentleman, not like some; I know -as you would have nothing to say to her if she was well: but being -as she’s very ill and near her death, I do hope as you’ll listen to -me. You was the first as she ever took a fancy to, she says. But if -you come, oh come at oncet, for there is not a moment to be lost.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 4em;">‘Yours truly,</span><br /> -‘<span class="smcap">Matilda</span>.’<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>He unfolded the telegram afterwards and read, ‘If you want to find her -in life, come at once.’</p> - -<p>Wentworth remarked with a kind of horrible calm, and even a smile, that -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> telegraph people had corrected the spelling. This was the summons -for which he had left Grace. He had read both more than once. Now that -he had obeyed the call, he asked himself was it indeed so -necessary—ought he to have done it? There had been perhaps something in -the force of the contrast, something in the happiness which was so much -more than he deserved, in the purity and nobleness of the woman who had -given him her hand, and who was making her spotless atmosphere his, that -stung him with that intolerable, remorseful pity, the impulse of which -is not to be resisted. Standing by the side of his bride, and on the -edge of a life altogether above his deserts, he had felt that he could -not resist this appeal to him. To refuse to speak a word of comfort to a -dying creature—he to whom God had been so good—how was it possible? -Comfort! What comfort could he give? He might bid her repent, as he had -repented. But his repentance had been paid, it had been richly -recompensed, it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> setting open to him the doors of every happiness; -whereas to this sharer of his iniquities it was to be followed only by -suffering and death.</p> - -<p>Wentworth had never been callous or hard-hearted at his worst: and now -at his best, compassion and remorse overwhelmed him. That he should -receive that information, that appeal, with Grace’s hand in his, gave -his whole nature a shock. He felt that he must take himself away out of -her presence, and remove the recollections, the scenes that rushed back -upon his mind, the image thus thrust before his eyes, away from her at -least, even if he did not answer the appeal. He was not of the iron -fibre of some men. He could not carry these two images side by side.</p> - -<p>And then how did he dare resist such an appeal. ‘You were the first.’ He -had said to himself that he was responsible for the ruin of no other -human creature. He was not a seducer. He had used no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span> wiles to draw -anyone from the paths of virtue. Is that a defence when life and death -are in the balance, and a man is arraigned before the tribunal of his -own conscience? When he went back into the recesses of his memory and -beheld all that was brought before him, as by a flash of lightning, and -then remembered the position in which he now stood, he covered his face -with his hands. He was ashamed to the bottom of his soul. The way of -transgressors is hard. To anyone who had known all the facts, it would -have appeared that Oliver Wentworth was the most striking example of -undeserved happiness. He had no right to all the good things that had -fallen into his lap. He had deserved a very different return for all -that he had done; yet when he set out upon that railway journey, with -the touch of Grace’s hand still warm in his, the shame and misery in his -mind were a not unfit representation of those tortures which to most men -are more real than<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> the fire and brimstone of the bottomless pit. How -was the recollection of what was passed ever to be washed out of his -memory? He might repent—he had repented—and never so bitterly as now: -but how was he to forget? In the great words of mercy it is proclaimed -that God forgets as well as forgives: ‘Their sins and iniquities will I -remember no more.’ But the sinner, how is he to forget, even when he -believes that he is forgiven?</p> - -<p>Yet, what he was doing was not shameful nor sinful. It was mercy that -carried him away from all he loved to give what consolation he could to -a dying creature whom he had never loved, who had been but the companion -of his amusements for a moment of aberration, a time which he looked -back upon with astonishment and disgust. How could he have forgotten -himself so far? How could he have fallen into such depths? His mind was -so revolted by the recollection, such a horror and loathing filled him -at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span> thought, that it was impossible to suppose that any softer -sentiment lay concealed beneath. Had he been a less tender-hearted man, -he would probably have thrown the letter into the fire, and perhaps sent -a little money as the common salve for all sufferings; but his very -happiness and elevation above those wretched recollections took from him -the power to dismiss such an appeal in this way. And was it not a -certain atonement, at least an offering of painful service such as the -heart of man believes in, whatever may be its creed, to do this? The -money he could have sent would have cost him nothing—this cost him what -was incalculable, a price almost beyond bearing. His agitation calmed a -little as he pursued these thoughts. He could not do her any good, poor -creature; but if it pleased her, if it eased a little the last steps -towards the grave?</p> - -<p>He arrived in London late on a wet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> and cold spring night; in town there -was little visible of the shivering growth which makes a sudden chill in -spring more miserable than winter; but the streets were wet and gleaming -with squalid reflections, and the crowds, even in the busiest -thoroughfares, were thinned and subdued. Wentworth took a cab and drove -through a part of London with which he was not familiar, through line -upon line of poor little streets, each one exactly like its neighbours, -lighted with few lamps, with a faint occasional shop window, few and far -between, and with only at long intervals a dark figure under an umbrella -going up or down. The endless extent of this net-work of streets, all -poor, mean, dark, yet decent, the homes of myriads unknown, gave him a -sense of weariness that many miles of country would not have produced.</p> - -<p>At last the cab stopped before one of the narrow doors, flanked with -little iron railings, the usual parlour window over-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span>looking a narrow -little area. In the room above a light was burning, and all the rest of -the house dark. A square printed advertisement of some trade was in the -parlour window, just visible by the lamplight, and a painted board of -the same description was attached to the railings. The door was opened -by a young woman with a candle in her hand, which nearly blew out with -the entry of the blast of night air, and flickered before her face so -that it was difficult to make out her features. She gave a little cry, -‘Oh, it’s Mr. Wentworth!’ and bade him come in. To describe the -sensation with which Wentworth realised his position, known and expected -in this house, going up the narrow stair which was all that separated -him from the sickroom, from the dying woman, between whom and himself he -was thus acknowledging a connection, is more than I can attempt. There -was no secret here—a man in the slipshod dress of a worker at home -looked out from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> little back room and asked, ‘Has he come?’ as he -passed. On the top of the stairs an older woman, with the dreadful black -cap of the elderly decent English matron of the lower classes, came out -to meet him, and put out her hand in welcome. ‘How do you do, Mr. -Wentworth? She’s that excited there’s no keeping her still: and I’m so -glad you’ve come.’</p> - -<p>In the face of all this, his heart sank more and more. He felt himself -no longer on a mission of mercy, but going to meet his fate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> room was small and dingy: opposite to the door an old-fashioned -tent-bed hung with curtains of a huge-patterned chintz, immense flowers -on a black ground: a candle standing on a small table by the bedside, -another faintly blinking from the mantelpiece beyond, the darkness of -everything around bringing into fuller relief the whiteness of the bed, -the pillows heaped up to support a restless head, a worn and ghastly -face, with large, gleaming eyes, which seemed to have an independent, -restless life of their own. The face had been pretty when Wentworth had -known it first. It was scarcely recognisable now. The cheek bones had -become prominent, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> lower part of the face worn away almost to -nothing, the eyes enlarged in their hollow caves. She looked as she had -been said to be—dying—except that the light in her eyes spoke of a -secret force which might be fever, or might be because they were the -last citadel of life. But though she seemed at the last extremity of -existence, a few efforts had been made to ornament and adorn the dying -creature, efforts which added unspeakably, horribly, to the ghastly look -of her face. The collar of her night-dress had been folded over a pink -ribbon, leaving bare an emaciated throat, round which was a little gold -chain, suspending a locket: and her hair, still plentiful and pretty, -the one human decoration which does not fade, was carefully dressed, -though somewhat disordered by the continual motion of her restlessness. -It was all horrible to Wentworth, death masquerading in the poor little -vanities which were so unspeakably mean and small in comparison with -that majesty, and all to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> please <i>him</i>—God help the forlorn creature! -to make her look as when he had praised her prettiness, she from whom -every prettiness, every possibility of pleasing, had gone.</p> - -<p>She held out her two hands, which were worn to skin and bone, ‘Oh, -Oliver, my Oliver! oh, I knew he would come. Oh, didn’t I say he would -come?’ she cried. Wentworth could not but take the bony fingers into his -own. He saw that it was expected he should kiss her; but that was -impossible. He sat down in the chair which had been placed for him by -the bedside.</p> - -<p>‘I am very sorry to see you so ill, my poor girl,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Ill’s not the word, Mr. Wentworth; she’s dying. She hasn’t above an -hour or two in this world,’ said the mother, or the woman who took a -mother’s place.</p> - -<p>He gave her a look of horrified reproach, with the usual human sense -that it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> cruel to announce this fact too clearly. ‘I hope it is not -quite so bad as that.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Oliver; oh, dear Oliver, yes, yes,’ said the sick woman. ‘This -is—my last night—on earth.’ She spoke with difficulty, pausing and -panting between the words, her thin lips distended with a smile, the -smile (he could not help remarking) that had always been a little -artificial, poor girl! at her best. But even at that awful moment she -was endeavouring to charm him still (he felt with horror) by the means -which she supposed to have charmed him in the past.</p> - -<p>‘Tell him, mother, tell him. I haven’t got—the strength.’ She put out -her hands for his hand, which he could not refuse, though her touch made -him shiver, and lay looking at him, smiling, with that awful attempt at -fascination. He covered his eyes with his disengaged hand, half because -of the horror in his soul, half that he might not see her face.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Wentworth,’ said the elder woman,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> ‘my poor child, sir, she’s got -one wish—’ the bony hands closed upon his with a feeble, yet anxious -pressure as this was said.</p> - -<p>‘Yes; what is it? If it is anything I can do for her, tell me. I will do -anything that can procure her a moment’s pleasure,’ he said.</p> - -<p>Fatal words to say! but he meant them fully—out of pity first, and also -out of a burning desire, at any cost, to get away. Anything for that! He -would have willingly given the half of what he possessed only to get -away from this place—to return to the life he had left, to hear this -woman’s name no more.</p> - -<p>Once more the wasted hands pressed his, and she gave a little cry. ‘I -knowed it—always—mother. I told you.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, hush, dear! Don’t you wear yourself out. You’ll want all your -strength. Mr. Wentworth, I didn’t expect no less from a gentleman like -you. If she hasn’t been all she might have been, poor dear! though<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> I -don’t want to blame you, sir, you’re not the one as should say a -word—for it was all out of love for you.’</p> - -<p>Wentworth had it not in him to be cruel, but he drew his hand almost -roughly from between the girl’s feverish hands. ‘What is the use of -entering into such a question?’ he said. ‘I do not blame her. Let the -past alone. What can I do for her now?’</p> - -<p>He had risen up, determined to make his escape at all hazards—but the -little cry she gave had so much pain in it that his heart was touched. -He sat down again, and patted softly the poor hand that lay on the -coverlet. ‘My poor girl, I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘You mustn’t be harsh to her,’ said the mother. ‘How would you like to -think that poor thing had gone miserable out of this world to complain -of you, sir, before the Throne? Not as she’d have the heart to do it, -for she thinks there is no one like you, whatever you may say to her. -Mr. Went<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span>worth, there’s just one thing you can do for her. Make an -honest woman of her, sir, before she dies.’</p> - -<p>‘What!’ said Wentworth, springing once more to his feet. He but dimly, -vaguely understood what she meant, yet felt for a moment as if he had -fallen into an ambush, as if he had been trapped into a den of thieves. -He thought he saw a man’s head appearing at the door, and heard -whisperings and footsteps on the stairs. This it was that produced the -momentary fury of his cry; but then he regained control of himself, and -looking round saw no one but the dying girl on the bed and an elderly -woman standing in front of him, looking at him with deprecating yet -earnest eyes.</p> - -<p>‘It’s a great deal,’ said the woman, ‘and yet it’s nothing. It’s what -will never harm you one way or another, what nobody will know, nor be -able to cast in your teeth—that won’t cost you anything (except, maybe, -a bit of a fee), and yet it’s everything to her. It would make all the -difference<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> between going out of this world honest and creditable and -going in her shame, which it was you that brought her to it.’</p> - -<p>‘That’s a lie!’ said Oliver. Was it to be supposed he could think of -civility at such a moment? A desperate tremor seized hold upon him. He -got up and turned, half blinded with horror and excitement, towards the -door. ‘I came here,’ he said, ‘because—because—’</p> - -<p>Ah! because—why? What could he say? He had meant to be kind—to make up -to her somehow, he could not tell how, for the fact that he was happy -and she dying. He stood arrested with those words upon his lips, which -he could not say, half turned from her, facing the door, as if he would -have broken away.</p> - -<p>And then there came a low, despairing cry from the bed—the cry as of a -lost creature. ‘Oh, Oliver, Oliver! you loved me once. Oh, don’t go and -leave me! You loved me, and I loved you.’</p> - -<p>He would have cried out that it was false,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> but the breathless voice, -broken by panting that sounded like the last struggle, the voice of the -woman who was dying, while he was full of life and force, silenced him -in spite of himself. The mother had flown to her to raise her head, to -give her something from a glass on the table, and he, too, turned again, -awe-stricken, thinking the last moment had come.</p> - -<p>‘And you can stand and see her like this,’ said the woman by the -bedside, in a low tone. ‘You that are well and strong and have the world -before you; and let her go out of it at five-and-twenty, a girl as you -made an idol of once, a girl as you have helped to bring to this, and -won’t lift a finger to satisfy her before she dies, to give her what she -wants, and what will make her happy for the last hour—before she dies!’</p> - -<p>The girl herself was past speaking. She lay back against her mother’s -breast, her own worn and emaciated shoulders heaving with convulsive -struggles for the departing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> breath. She could not speak, but those -eyes, which were so living while she was dying, turned to him with a -look of such appeal, such entreaty that he could not bear the sight. -They were large with fever and weakness, liquid and clear and dilated, -as the eyes of the dying often are, like two stars glowing out in sudden -light from the pale night of her face. He cried out, ‘What do you want -me to do?’ with despair in his voice, and a sense that whatever they -asked of him he could not now refuse.</p> - -<p>‘To do her justice,’ said the mother. ‘Oh, Mr. Wentworth, to make up to -her for all she’s suffered. To make her an honest woman before she -dies.’</p> - -<p>The girl’s dying lips moved, but no sound was heard: a pathetic smile -came upon her lips, her eyes held him with that prayer, too intense for -words. Oliver turned away his head not to see them, then turned back -again as if in them there was some spell. A passionate impatience -pricked his heart, for their in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span>ference was not true. They had not been -to each other what was said. Love! love was too great a word to be -mentioned here at all. It had been levity, folly; it had not been love. -She had been too slight for such a word; but she was not too slight for -death. For that solemnity nothing is too slight or too poor; and death -is as great as love is, and compels respect. She drew his eyes to her so -that he could not free himself. He said in an unnatural, stifled voice, -‘Whatever you want from me—this is not the—the time. There is nothing -to be done to-night—and after to-night’—he could not say the words—he -waved his hand towards the bed. She was dying now—now—before their -eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I know what you mean,’ said the mother, with dreadful calm. ‘She won’t -last out the night. Very likely she won’t, but that’s what nobody knows -except her Maker. If she don’t, you can’t do nothing, and nobody here -will say a word.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> But if she do—! Give her your word, Mr. Wentworth, as -you’ll marry her to-morrow if she lives, and she’ll die happy. She’ll -die happy; whether it comes to anything or whether it don’t. Mr. -Wentworth, sir, do, for the love of God!’</p> - -<p>The girl recovered a little gasping breath. ‘I’ll die happy. I’ll die -happy, whether it comes to anything or not.’ Even this little rally -showed more and more the nearness of the end.</p> - -<p>He had shrank at the word ‘marry’ as if it had been a blow aimed at him, -but he could not escape from the tragic persistence of those eyes. And -overwhelmed as he was, a little hope rose in him. He said to himself, -‘She can never live till to-morrow.’ Why should he resist if a promise -would make her happy? for she was surely dying, and she never could take -him at his word. ‘If that is all, I will promise,’ he said.</p> - -<p>The light in her eyes seemed to give<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> a leap of joy and triumph, then -closed under the flickering eyelids, he thought for ever, and he cried -out involuntarily, and made a step nearer to the bed. When her eyes were -closed, she looked like one who had been dead a day, nothing but a -faint, convulsive heave of the shoulders showing that there was life in -her still.</p> - -<p>The mother busied herself about the half-unconscious creature, putting -the cordial to her lips, supporting the pillow against her own breast. -‘You will have an easy bargain,’ she said, as she went on with these -cares; ‘but anyhow, we’ll bless you for what you say. Matilda, give me -the drops the doctor left for her when she felt faint. She’s very low, -now, poor dear! Mr. Wentworth’s behaving like a gentleman, as you always -said he would. He has promised to marry her to-morrow morning, if she -lives. She’ll not live, but she’s satisfied, poor dear!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Matilda had come so softly into the room that she startled him as if she -had been a ghost. ‘I knew as he would do it when he saw how bad she was; -but, Lord, what do it matter to the poor thing now?’</p> - -<p>This was his own opinion. In a few minutes more there was a bustle -downstairs, which Matilda pronounced to be the doctor coming, and -Wentworth went down to wait until he had paid his visit. The little -parlour below had one candle burning in it, for the benefit of those who -went and came. The young man was left there for a few minutes alone. To -describe the condition in which he was is impossible. His heart was -beating with a dull noise against his breast. All that had been so -bright to him a little while before had become as black as night. He -could not think; only contemplate what was before him dumbly, with -horror and disgust and fear. He had given a pledge,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> but it was a pledge -that never would call for fulfilment—no, no, it never could be -fulfilled—it would be as a nightmare, a dreadful dream, from which he -would awake by-and-by and find the sun shining and all well. After a -while he heard the doctor’s heavy foot come clamping down the wooden -staircase. He was angry with the man for having so little delicacy, for -making so much noise when his patient was dying. Presently he came in to -give his bulletin to the gentleman, whom he perceived at once to be -somehow very deeply concerned.</p> - -<p>‘Last the night? No, I don’t think she’ll last the night: but you never -can tell exactly with such nervous subjects. She might put on a spurt -and come round again for a little while.’</p> - -<p>‘Then,’ said Wentworth, with a sense that he was acquiring information -clandestinely, ‘there is no hope of any permanent recovery?’</p> - -<p>The doctor laughed him to scorn. If<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span> he had not been a parish doctor, -accustomed to very poor patients and their ways, he would not have -allowed himself to laugh in such circumstances.</p> - -<p>‘When she has not above half a lung, and her heart is—but you don’t -understand these matters, perhaps. She may make a rally for a few hours, -but I doubt if she will see out this night.’</p> - -<p>After this, Wentworth went home to the closed-up chambers, where nobody -expected him, and to which he got admittance with difficulty. He had to -walk miles, he thought, through those dreadful streets, all like each -other, all gleaming with wet, before he could even find a cab. There was -no strength left in him. He went on and on mechanically, and might, he -thought, have been wandering all night, but that the sight of a slowly -passing cab, which he knew he wanted, brought him back to a dull sense -of the necessity of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span> shelter. The cold rooms, so vacant and unprepared, -which were just shelter and no more, were scarcely an improvement upon -the mechanical march and movement, which deadened his mind and made him -less sensible of his terrible position. It had been arranged that if she -was still alive in the morning, a messenger was to be sent to him, and -that then he was to take the necessary steps to redeem his pledge. But -he said to himself that it was impossible—that she could not live till -morning. It was a horrible moment for a man to go through—a man whose -life had blossomed into such gladness and prosperity. But still, if he -could but be sure that nothing worse was to come of it—and what could -come of it when the doctor himself was all but sure that she could not -see out the night?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Oliver</span> spent a disturbed and sleepless night. He went to bed as a form, -one of those things that people do mechanically, and because the cold of -the shut-up rooms went to his heart. But he was astir very early, before -it was daylight. He had not slept but only dozed, miserably repeating in -dreams which that film of half sleep made into mere distortions of his -waking thoughts, the circumstances of the past evening, the journey, the -leave-taking with Grace, the horror at the end. It was a relief to be -fully awake and only have reality to contend with, miserable as that -was. Dawn came<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> slowly stealing, filtering in marred and broken light -through the clouds and the rain which had continued through the night. -His whole being was concentrated in expectation of a sound at his door. -Every moment which passed without a summons encouraged him. He said to -himself, ‘It must be all over, all over.’ A dozen times the tension of -his great excitement seemed to produce a tingling in the silence which -simulated the sound of the bell. But it was nothing, and the cold dawn -gradually developed into full but colourless day. He was saying to -himself for the hundredth time, ‘It must be all over,’ and feeling for -the first time a little ease in his mind as if it might really be so, -when suddenly the bell rang. Ah! that was no vibration of excitement in -the air; it was the bell, very distinctly, loudly rung, and pealing into -the stillness. It rang and echoed into Wentworth’s very heart, the -brazen tinkle wounding him like a knife, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> sudden, so sharp and keen. -There was no one to open the door but himself, no one in the place to do -anything for him. He did not move for a moment, finding that he needed -time to recover from the sting of that blow, when it was repeated more -sharply still, not without impatience. It occurred to him, then, that it -might be something else than the messenger of fate—the postman, -perhaps—some one who had nothing to do with this tragedy. These hopes, -if hopes they could be called, were dissipated, however, when he opened -the door. Outside stood a young man in shabby clothes with a face which -reminded him of poor Alice at her best. ‘Mother sent me to tell you that -Ally’s living and a little better. If you’ll come at eleven, she’ll have -the parson there as visits in our street.’</p> - -<p>‘If I come at eleven!’ Oliver said, with a gasp.</p> - -<p>‘She said you would understand. I don’t know as I do. I think the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span>y’d a -deal better let you alone. What good can you do her?’</p> - -<p>Here seemed a help, an advocate—and Oliver looked at him with an -eagerness that was almost supplication. ‘That is what I think,’ he said; -‘what good can I do her? It can only agitate her and hasten the end.’</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ said the young man, ‘it’s none of my business. Mother and the -rest will have it their own way. But as for hastening the end, that’s -the best thing that could happen, for she do nothing but feel bad -lingering there. At eleven o’clock: and to look sharp, for the parson -will be waiting, mother says. ‘Good-morning!’ the youth said, turning -quickly and going off down the stairs. He began to whistle after a few -steps, then stopped, briefly, with an oh! of recollection, as if -remembering that to whistle was indecorous in the present position of -affairs.</p> - -<p>Oliver went back to his cold and empty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span> rooms with a sense that life was -over and his heart dead within him. It seemed to fall down to some -impossible depths, down to a grave of silence and darkness. He shut the -door mechanically, and went back and sat down where he had been sitting -before, and stared with blank eyes in front of him into the vacant air. -God had not interposed to deliver him. But why, he asked himself, should -God have interposed? God had not been consulted or referred to in all -this connection—in anything that had passed—and why, unasked, -undesired, should He step in now like a heathen god or a tutelary deity -to set all right? Oliver did not feel that he could make any appeal even -to Him who was all righteousness and purity to help him out of the -consequences of his own folly and sin. Oh, yes, it was true many men had -done as much whom no judgment overtook, who lived fair before the world, -and had no shame put upon them, and forgot that they had ever stepped -aside<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> from the paths of virtue. He had himself almost -forgotten—almost—till contact with a purer life and the gift of it to -be his companion, and all the happiness to which he had so little right, -had brought compunction to his soul. He remembered now how he had told -Grace that he had not been a good man: and how she had stopped him as -the father in the parable stopped the Prodigal in his confession—she -had stopped him, putting her pure hand upon his lips, throwing her -whiteness over him like a mantle. But there had been judgment waiting -behind. Justice had been standing watching his futile attempts at -escape, with a face immovable, holding her scales. He had been weighed -and found—— ah, no one but himself knew how entirely wanting! And now -here was the price to pay. He had promised and he could not escape.</p> - -<p>After a moment he tried to say to himself that these solemn thoughts -were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> inappropriate, that after all it was not much of a matter—to -please a dying woman, whom he had been supposed to love once—to give -her a little pleasure, poor soul! a little poor mimicry of pleasure on -the day of her death; where was there a man so hard-hearted that would -not do that? And then he had not any time to think; if he were to fulfil -this miserable appointment, he must do what was necessary at once. He -rose and got his bank-book out of its drawer and looked over it -carefully, calculating how much he had. He had gone over the calculation -so often, enough for the wedding trip which Grace and he had arranged to -make, and in which, at least, he felt that her money must not be -touched. He had enough for that and to pay a few little debts, those -little foolish things that accumulate without thinking—enough to wind -up everything honourably and start fair. He seemed to be tearing the -heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> out of his breast when he tore out the cheque which he must -presently pay for a special licence—a licence! to marry, Heaven help -him! to marry: he who was the bridegroom of Grace Goodheart, his name -already publicly linked with hers. The horror of these names and words -gave him each a new sting and stab; but what were words in comparison -with the thing which he was about to do? He set out presently, pale, -with his eyes red like those of a midnight reveller, his face haggard -with misery, with want of rest and food and sleep, and got a cab and -drove to the place where the licence had to be procured. That done, he -turned his face again to the monotonous, endless streets, the dismal, -shabby quarter where his business was. Finding he had a little time to -spare, he dismissed the cab, and walked and lost himself in the -fathomless maze, and arrived late at the house. The young woman, -Matilda, was standing at the door looking out for him, the youth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> who -brought the message stood within the area rails, the mother, with the -blind a little polled aside in the room above, was looking out too. -There was a ray of pleasure and welcome when he appeared.</p> - -<p>‘I knew as you’d come,’ cried Matilda, ‘and so did she: but mother was -frightened a bit, not knowing you, Ol—Mr. Wentworth like her and me—’ -Oliver grew sick as he stepped into the narrow passage. The half-sound -of his own name, which she had not ventured to pronounce fully, seemed -to open another vista before him. He would be Oliver to this woman, -too—a member of the family. He went in, scarcely knowing where he went. -In the parlour was the clergyman, who met him severely, saying that he -had been kept waiting for nearly half-an-hour.</p> - -<p>‘And my time is precious; not like that of an idler.’ He was a severe -young man in the High Church uniform, thin and meagre<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span> with overwork and -earnestness. ‘I am glad,’ he said, ‘that you have made up your mind to -do justice to your victim at the last.’</p> - -<p>‘My victim!’ said Oliver.</p> - -<p>But what was the use of any explanation? He began to recognise that in -ordinary parlance she was his victim, and that it might be considered an -act of justice; and also that to explain to a severe purist, a man -burning with the highest canons and sentiments of morality, how such a -thing could be without any victim in the matter, or any personal wrong, -however hideous the sin, would be an offence the more. He stood by -almost stupidly while the young priest, with his keen, clear-cut, -Churchman-like face, put on his surplice and prepared himself for the -ceremony; then, with a sinking of heart beyond description, followed him -up the narrow wooden stairs, which creaked at every step. He said to -himself that this was the fiend endowed with every virtue who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> had put -it in the woman’s head to drag him to his undoing; but so miserable was -he that he felt no anger, no resentment against the meddling priest, as -men are so apt to do. He recognised that it was no doubt his nature, -that he thought it his duty; that to this man he himself was a vile -seducer, and that the poor victim upstairs was the confiding, loving -girl, whose fame had been ruined and her heart broken! These thoughts -were so strangely out of keeping with the facts, and he regarded them -with such a dazed impartiality, that when he entered the room in which -this dreadful ceremony was to take place, there was a smile upon his -lips. But the smile was soon driven away by the sight which now met his -eyes. In the soft suffusion of the daylight the dying woman was scarcely -so ghastly as by the light of the candle on the night before, but the -spectacle she presented was more dreadful than anything that Oliver had -been able to conceive. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span> decorations of a bride dressed for her -wedding, or, rather, a hideous travesty of those decorations, surrounded -the worn and sunken face. Some dreadful artificial flowers—orange -blossom, of all things in the world! no idea of the meaning of it being -in their minds, but only a grotesque acquaintance with its general use -at weddings—were placed in a bristling wreath about her head. The pink -ribbon was withdrawn, and bows of ghostly white placed at her throat and -hands; and over all there was thrown a veil costly worked with huge -flowers, through which the gleaming eyes, the mouth distended with its -ghastly smile, showed like a living death.</p> - -<p>A cry of horror burst from Oliver in spite of himself; and even the -rigid priest was moved.</p> - -<p>‘Why did you do her up like that?’ he said, in a sharp tone to Matilda, -who stood admiring her handiwork.</p> - -<p>The poor creature herself had a look of delighted vanity in her terrible -gleaming<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> eyes. The mother had a mirror in her hands, in which she had -been displaying her own appearance to the bride. The bride! Oliver -turned away and hid his face in his hands.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot—I cannot carry out this farce,’ he said.</p> - -<p>The curate placed his hand upon Wentworth’s arm. ‘You must,’ he said, -with his severe, unpitying voice. ‘Whose fault is it that this is a -farce? Stand forward, sir, and give this poor wreck, this creature you -have ruined, what compensation you can at the last.’</p> - -<p>Oliver raised his eyes to his uncompromising judge with a wonder which -paralysed all effort. ‘You are mistaken,’ he said: but to pause now was -impossible; he went forward doggedly and placed himself by the bed, and -listened with a dull horror, as under a spell, to those words—those -words which he had thought of under so different a meaning—words of -solemn joy and devotion, words<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> that could only be endured for the sake -of the pledge they sanctified. He listened and he took his part like a -man in a dream. He had provided no ring, and the ceremony was -interrupted till an old, shabby little trinket, set with some -discoloured turquoises, was hunted up from a drawer. But it was -completed at last, and she was his wife—his wife! She put back the veil -with a nervous movement, and inclined her head towards his. Was that -necessary, too? Was there to be no end to these exactions? ‘Oliver!’ she -cried.</p> - -<p>He turned from her, sick to the heart. ‘Take those fooleries away—don’t -you see how horrible it is?’ he said to Matilda, and hurried downstairs, -flying from the look and the touch of the woman who—oh, Heaven!—was -now his wife.</p> - -<p>The little priest followed him. He was as severe as ever. ‘You have done -something in the way of atonement,’ he said, ‘but if this is how you are -to follow it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> up, I warn you that such an atonement will not be -accepted. It must be from the heart.’</p> - -<p>Oliver turned upon him. He seemed to be coming to life again after the -dismal paralytic fit through which he had passed.</p> - -<p>‘Did it ever happen to you,’ he said, ‘to make a mistake?’</p> - -<p>The clergyman had begun to take off his surplice. He turned round in the -act, and looked at Wentworth. But the question did not daunt him as it -would have daunted many men, ‘Possibly,’ he replied, ‘but very seldom, -as a man. In discharge of my office I make no mistakes.’</p> - -<p>‘You have made one now,’ said the bridegroom. ‘Oh, I do not excuse -myself. I know well enough how hideous, how paltry, how miserable it -is:—but it was not for me to make atonement. I was no deceiver, no -seducer—’</p> - -<p>‘You are a man of education and intelligence,’ said the other in his -keen, clear<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> tones, ‘and that was an ignorant, foolish girl. Is that not -enough—did you ever meet on equal terms? And now you are not on equal -terms, for you are well and strong and she is dying—perhaps with only a -few hours to live.’</p> - -<p>Oliver drew back without a word. It was the argument that had moved him -at first, which he had found irresistible. He at the height of -happiness, and she dying: but he was not at the height of happiness now. -A more miserable man could not be. How was he to explain this day’s work -when all was over, when he was free? Was it possible that Grace would -understand him, that she would still accept his hand which had been -pledged under such different circumstances, which had been given away -from her to another, and such another! He could not go back into the -room where it had been done, or see the poor creature who was his bride -with all that dismal paraphernalia about her. He went out and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> walked -and walked till his limbs trembled under him. Then he remembered that he -had not eaten anything that day. By this time it was afternoon, -darkening towards evening, still drizzling, wet and miserable. He got -himself some food, a kind of hasty dinner, in the first tavern he came -to. And then, strengthened a little and calmed, went back. Perhaps, -dreadful hope, it might be all over by the time he had traversed the -many streets and had reached again that miserable place of fate.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a dreadful hope to lie down with at night, and rise up with in -the morning—that morning or night might bring him a message to say that -all was over, and that he was free. But it was still more dreadful that -this message never came. When he saw her next she had rallied, rallied -amazingly, the doctor said; but he added that it was only a flicker in -the socket—only a question of time—a day or two, perhaps an hour or -two. Oliver had revulsions of pity, attended with a loathing which he -could scarcely keep under. He had to suffer himself to be drawn towards -her, to feel his neck encircled by her arms, to kiss her cheek, to -listen to her as long as he could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> bear it, while she told him how often -she had thought of him; how she had never loved any man but he, how she -had felt that she could not die in peace till she had seen him again. It -required all his pity for her to strengthen him for these confessions, -to enable him to meet that meretricious smile, those ghastly little -tricks of fascination which he could remember to have laughed at even in -other times. How horrible they were to him now no words could say. He -went through the same miserable streets daily till he shuddered at his -own errand and at the dreadful hope that was always in his heart in -spite of himself, the hope that he might hear that all was over. His -mind revolted from his fate with a self-indignation and rage against all -that had brought it about, against the wrong done to the most miserable -of human creatures by wishing her death, and at himself for the weakness -which had brought him into this strait. To live with no desire so strong -in him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> as that this poor girl should die, to make his way to the poor -little house that sheltered her day by day, sick with hope that he might -hear she was dead—oh! what was this but murder—murder never coming to -any execution, but involved in every thought? But afterwards there came -upon this unhappy man something more dreadful still, the moment in which -a new thought sprang up in him—the thought that it was never to be -over, that she was not going to die, that the flicker in the socket of -which the doctor had spoken was the filling in of oil to the flame, the -rising of new force and life. When this thought came to him, what with -the horror of the possibility, and the horror of knowing that he grudged -that possibility, and would take life from her if he could, Oliver’s cup -seemed full, despair took possession of him. Everything grew dark in -heaven and earth. She was going to live, not to die; and what, oh! what, -most miserable of men, was he to do?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span></p> - -<p>The first thing that enlightened him was a change in her phrases when -she talked to him of her own devotion, of her longings after him.</p> - -<p>‘I knew as it would give me a chance for my life if I could see you once -again.’</p> - -<p>It had been at first only to die in peace after she had seen him that -she proposed. And when his eyes, quickened with this horrible light, -began to observe closely, he perceived that she spoke more strongly, -that her emaciation was not so great nor her breathing so difficult. She -was going to live, not die; and what was to become of him? What was he -to do?</p> - -<p>All this time—and it went on, gliding day after day, and week after -week, he scarcely could tell how—he was receiving letters and calls -back, and anxious inquiries and appeals from those he had left behind. -Grace wrote to him—first a letter of simple love and anxiety, hoping<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span> -his friend was better, anticipating news from him; then more serious, -fearing that the illness was grave indeed, that he was absorbed in -nursing, but begging for a word; then anxious, alarmed lest something -should have happened to him; then with an outburst of feeling, -entreating to know what it meant, imploring him only to tell her there -was a reason, even if he could not say what that reason was. Then -silence. But even this lasted but for a few days. She wrote again to say -that she could not believe he had changed, that it was to her -incredible; but should it be so, imploring to know from himself that so -it was. The dignity and the tenderness, and the high trust and honour -which would not permit any pettiness of offence, went to his very heart. -He sent her a few miserable lines in reply, imploring her to wait. ‘Some -of my sins have found me out,’ he said; ‘the sins I acknowledged to you. -But oh! for the love of God, do not abandon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> me, for then I shall lose -my last hope.’</p> - -<p>He got from her in return these words, and no more, ‘I will never -abandon you unless I have it from your own hand that I must.’ And then -no other word.</p> - -<p>But Trix plied him with a thousand. What did he mean flying like this -from his betrothed and his family and all his prospects? What did he -mean, what was his reason, what in the name of all that was foolish was -he thinking of? Did he mean to break his word, to give up his -engagement, to break all their hearts? What was it? What was it? What -was it?</p> - -<p>He left her letters at last unopened. He could make no answer to them. -He could give no explanation. Every day he had hoped that -perhaps—perhaps. And now that his horror had come over him he was less -disposed to write than ever. If it should be as, God forgive him, he -feared, what was there in store<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> for him? What should he do? The veins -of his eyeballs seemed to fill with blood, and the air grew dark in his -sight; a blank, sinking void opened before him; he could perceive only -that he must be swallowed up in it, swept beyond sight and knowledge; -but for the others who loved him, he did not know how to reveal to them -the terrible cause.</p> - -<p>During all this time of suspense he was very kind to the woman to whom -he had linked himself like the living to the dead. He got her everything -she wished for—delicate food, fine wine, all that could afford a little -ease to her body or amusement to her mind. Such forms of kindness are -appreciated in regions where life is more practical than sentimental. -The mother and sister sang his praises. ‘Die! no, he don’t want you to -die,’ they said. ‘What would he send you all these nice things for, and -feed you up, and get you that water-bed that cost such a deal of money, -if he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> wanted you to die? But you’re that exacting now you’re Mrs. -Wentworth.’</p> - -<p>‘I <i>am</i> Mrs. Wentworth: that’s one thing none can take from me,’ she -said.</p> - -<p>He heard her as he came up the narrow stair, trying as no one else did -to make as little noise as possible, and that wave of loathing which -sickened his very soul came over him. How horrible it all was, -incredible, impossible, that she should bear that name! that it should -be bandied about in a place like this—his mother’s name, his wife’s. -Ah! but she, and no other, was his wife. This was the evening when she -said to him, ‘I feel I am really getting better, Oliver. I believe I’ll -cheat the doctors yet: and it will all be your doing, dear. You’ll take -me abroad, and my lungs will come right, and we shall be as happy as the -day is long.’</p> - -<p>He made no reply, but avoided the hand with which she tried to draw him -to her, and asked a few questions of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> mother, before he bade her -good night. He met the doctor as he was going downstairs, and waited to -hear his bulletin. The parish doctor had found his manners, which had -only been put aside when there was no need for such vanities: but he was -not used to fine words. He said,—</p> - -<p>‘That wife of yours is a wonderful woman; it seems as if it might be -possible to pull her through after all. She has such pluck and spirit, -and that’s half the battle.’</p> - -<p>‘You told me,’ said Wentworth, with a sternness which was almost -threatening, ‘that there was no hope of recovery.’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t seem best pleased with my good news,’ said the doctor, with a -laugh. ‘As for hope of recovery, there wasn’t a scrap in her then state. -And her life isn’t worth a pinch of snuff even now; but with a husband -that can take her abroad to a warm climate and give her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> every luxury, -why, there is hope for any woman; and I can but say I think it possible -that she may pull through. That should be good news for you—but perhaps -unexpected,’ he said, with a keen glance.</p> - -<p>Wentworth made no reply. He bowed his head slightly, and went out before -the doctor, walking out into the darkness and distance with a straight, -unobservant abstraction. He never looked to right or left; and went out -of his way for nothing, as if he saw nothing in his way. The doctor -looking after him observed this idly, as people observe things that -don’t concern them. He thought that on the whole it was a very curious -incident. He could not think of any motive that could have brought about -such a marriage. He wondered a little what the man could be thinking of -to do such a thing: a woman who had long lost any signs of prettiness, -if she had ever possessed any; poor, uneducated, and of damaged<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> -character. Why had he married her? and, having married her, was he -disappointed that she did not die? He stood and watched Wentworth till -he was out of sight, saying to himself that he should not be surprised -if that man were found in the river or on Hampstead Heath some of these -days. But it was no concern of his.</p> - -<p>Oliver went home to his chambers, walking all the way. It was a very -long way, and when he got there he was very tired, very tired and sick -to death. He ate a mouthful of the dinner provided for him, and drank a -glass or two of wine, dully, silently, keeping his thoughts, as it were, -at bay, not allowing himself to indulge in them. Afterwards he sat down -at his writing-table, and wrote a long, a very long letter, which he -closed and sealed, getting up to get matches to light his taper, and -searching in every corner he could think of for the sealing-wax;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> though -why he should seal it he could not have explained. It was a mark of -special solemnity, in keeping with the great crisis and the state of -mind in which he was. Afterwards he sat down and thought long and very -gravely. He went over the position in every possible point of view. -There could not be a more hopeless one. Betrothed to a woman he loved -and approved with every faculty of his being, yet married to one whom he -did not pretend to love for whom, at the best, he had no feeling above -pity—and at the worst—There began to penetrate into his brain, unused -to such thoughts, a dull suspicion that he might have been all through -the victim of a cheat; but it did not make much difference, and he felt -no resentment, nothing but a profound sensation of hopelessness, past -help or care. Whether it was deception all through, or whether it was -the judgment of God upon him, who had sinned and had not suffered,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> and -had been on the edge of winning, he so unworthy, the best that man can -have in this world—it did not seem to matter much. In either case the -result was the same—that here he stood with life made impossible to -him, with a blank wall before him, and nothing to be done, no way of -deliverance nor even of escape. He looked out in that curious blank way -over the future, asking himself what it would be his duty to do. It -would be his duty to take her away to a warm country, as her doctor had -said—to give her all the care that she required, ‘every luxury’—these -were the words—and so ensure her recovery. To do anything else would be -inhuman. And as for Grace—ah, for Grace! To him she must henceforth be -a sacred thing apart. He must not see her, speak to her, lean his heart -upon her evermore. That was all ended—ended and over. He had written a -long letter to his brother-in-law, telling him all the circumstances. He -was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> a man who could go on with deceits and false positions, trying -miserably to stand between one and another. He might have done that, -perhaps, for a time, might have beguiled Grace with letters, and -explained by any false excuse his detention in London, his absence from -her—but to what good? One day or other it would all have to be -disclosed, now that it was evident that this woman was not going to die; -however long he might fight it off, the necessity would come at last. -And it was better that she should know now, than only at the moment when -he should be leaving England with his wife. His wife! Oh, terrible word! -Oh, awful, impossible fate!</p> - -<p>This sudden realisation of what was before him made his mind start like -a restive horse, and he found himself once more before that blank wall. -It would be his duty to do it, and he could not do it. He did not trifle -with himself nor elude this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> question any more than he would deceive the -woman he loved. He looked out upon what was before him, and he said to -himself that he could not do it—he could not pretend to do it. Other -men might have the courage to struggle, but not he. There was only the -coward’s remedy remaining to him, only the base man’s way—to turn and -flee. He had written it all in his letter to Ford, although it seemed to -him that when he wrote that letter he had not so clearly perceived that -there was only one thing to do. He had bidden his brother-in-law to -secure a living somehow for this wretched creature who bore his name, to -use the little he would leave for her, and to eke it out—or finally, -with the boldness of a man whom earthly motives had ceased to sway, to -put this last inconceivable legacy into the hands of Grace.</p> - -<p>‘I know she will do it,’ he had said.</p> - -<p>He knew she would do it, God bless her! She would understand why of all -terrible things he dared to ask that of her; and she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> would do it. That -was all there could be to arrange before—</p> - -<p>Oliver was not of that mind that is the mode of the present moment. He -was no doubter. He believed in the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter, as well -as in righteousness and judgment to come; but there is something in the -unutterable sensations with which a man finds himself thus placed before -evils which are too many for him, driven to the last extremity, and -unable to move one way or other, which works a strange change upon the -mind on this as on other matters of faith. When we are doing any act in -our own person, it seems so much less strange to us, so much more -natural, than when we contemplate it from the point of view of another -man. He did not think either of the sin or of the cowardice. He thought -only of the last resort, the last way of escape from that which was -intolerable, which was more than man could bear. To describe the way by -which a man comes to this point, to entertain the idea of ending<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span> his -own life, is impossible. Those who are brought so far seldom survive to -tell how it has been. It seemed to Oliver something like the arising and -going to the Father of the prodigal. God, it seemed to him, would -understand it all; the confusion in his soul, the intolerableness, the -impossibility. If anyone else misunderstood, God would understand; and -as for the punishment that might follow, he thought that he could take -that like a man. No punishment could be equal to this. He would say that -he did not mean to avoid punishment, that he was ready for anything, -only not this; not the ghastly life which was insupportable, not the -falsehood, not the treachery. Suffering, honest -suffering—yes!—torments if God thought it worth the trouble—anything -except this, which was more than he could bear. His mind was all wrong, -confused, stupefied with all that had happened to him, and with the -turning upside down of all his purposes, and the bitter ending to what -had been a good impulse, surely a good impulse,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> an impulse of pity -without consideration of himself; also with the wretched state in which -he had been living, the want of food, the want of sleep, the sense of -treachery to all he loved, the union to all he loathed; it was all -intolerable, insupportable, turning his brain.</p> - -<p>He had a pair of pistols in his room—pretty toys, decorated with -silver, wrought in delicate designs—which someone had given to him. He -took them down and opened the box and examined them curiously to see how -they worked and that all was in order. He looked at the little bullet -which could do so much, and weighed it in his hand with a dazed smile, -and a kind of strange amusement. So little—and yet in it lay that for -which not all the wealth of the world could find an antidote. He charged -both weapons with a smile at himself for that too, thinking how very -unlikely it was that the two would be wanted, and feeling almost -something of the pleasure with which a boy prepares for his first shot, -with a half horror, half delight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> And then he thought how it would be -best to do it. He did not want to disfigure himself unnecessarily, to go -through all eternity with a bound-up jaw, like—who was it? Robespierre. -This brought a sort of smile upon his face; he knew that it was folly to -think of Robespierre; for all eternity—with his face bound up! and yet -it amused him to think of the awful, grotesque figure, and to determine -that he should not be like that. The temple or behind the ear; that was -the better way; and then there would be no disfigurement. The hair would -hide it, and Grace would see him and not be horrified—not -horrified—only perhaps broken-hearted. But that had to be, any way.</p> - -<p>Would he hear the report as sound travels before his senses were all -stilled? He heard something, a jar and tinkle, which made him start at -the very moment he felt that cold mouth of death. The touch of the -pistol and then a jerk of his arm and a clang<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span>ing world of sound, and -then—no more. It disturbed his arm and the steadiness of his touch; and -the report followed harmlessly, the bullet going somewhere, he knew not -where, leaving him sitting there with the jar of the concussion in the -finger which had pulled that trigger. The sound seemed to wake him up -like a clap of thunder. He sprang to his feet, flinging the little -weapon away with a burning sense of despising himself, of scorn for his -intention, scorn for his failure. Was he a coward too, doubly a coward, -ready to run away, yet weak enough to be stopped in the act? A sudden -heat of shame came over him; he burst into a laugh of scorn, -self-ridicule, derision—God in heaven! had he been frightened at the -last moment? by what, by his nerves, by a fancied sound, like a child?</p> - -<p>What? what? a fancied sound? No; but the commonest, most vulgar noise<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> -in the world: the bell at his door, pealing, tingling, jarring, with a -repeated and violent summons into the silence of the night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">They</span> had all been disturbed by it beyond expression; by his absence, by -his silence, his sudden, strange departure which, natural enough at the -minute, appeared now, in the light of subsequent events, so -extraordinary, which now looked like a flight, but—from what? From -happiness, from well-being, from everything that the heart of man could -desire. Mr. Ford was a person of a very sturdy mind, not given to -fancies like his wife, but after a fortnight had passed he was almost -more anxious than she was. He questioned her closely as to Oliver’s past -life. Had she ever heard of any entanglement?</p> - -<p>‘There must be some one who has a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> claim upon him, who would expose him -to Grace, if not worse,’ he said; at which Trix was naturally indignant.</p> - -<p>‘You men have such bad imaginations,’ she cried. ‘How should he have any -entanglements? He has been fond of Grace since—since—’</p> - -<p>‘Since he saw her here six months ago, Trix.’</p> - -<p>Trix grew very red, and the tears came into her eyes. ‘You mean, Tom, -that Oliver, that—that my brother got fond of Grace only when—’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t mean anything of the sort,’ said Tom Ford, ‘it is women who -have bad imaginations, though, perhaps, in a different way. I mean that -he had forgotten all about her. But when he saw her again, and saw how -nice she was—for she is a very nice woman, poor thing! far too nice to -be made a wreck of for the sake of some baggage—’</p> - -<p>‘Tom! you have taken leave of your senses, I think.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, you know well enough, just as well as I do, that Oliver hasn’t -been immaculate. But why the deuce didn’t he have the courage to tell -the truth? Why didn’t he speak to you, or me, if it comes to that? If he -had made a clean breast of it—’</p> - -<p>‘We don’t know yet that there is anything to make a clean breast of,’ -said Trix, beginning to cry. And she put on her bonnet in a disturbed -way and went over to Grace for comfort, who might be supposed to want -comfort more than she did. Grace was very pale, but composed, and met -her friend with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know anything,’ she said, ‘but he asks me to wait, and I mean -to wait. Why should we condemn him? There must be a reason, and when he -can he will tell us. It is not out of mere wantonness he is staying -away.’</p> - -<p>They had all given up tacitly the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> pretence about the sick friend. That -had been dismissed at a quite early date; the reality that was in it -being beyond any guesses they could make.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Grace, you are the best of us all! You are the one that is the -worst treated, and you are the most kind.’</p> - -<p>‘Trix, we don’t know that there is any ill-treatment at all,’ said -Grace. She was very subdued, very pale. It almost overcame her composure -altogether when a servant came in with a large packet, one of the many -wedding presents that were arriving daily. ‘I have not the heart to open -them,’ she said, leaning her head upon Trix’s shoulder, who flew to her -with instant comprehension: ‘and yet I want to open them that nobody may -suppose—Look,’ she said, pointing to a table covered with glittering -spoils. ‘Look at all that, and the congratulations that come with them. -And to think that I don’t know, I don’t know even<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span>—’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Grace, all will be well, all will be well! long before that.’</p> - -<p>Grace did not say anything, but she shook her head. ‘He does not even -say that all will be well; he says only—wait. But I will wait,’ she -said, composing herself. Trix did not get much comfort out of this -visit. She went home indignant, angry beyond telling with her brother, -though she could not bear that her husband should give utterance and -emphasis to her fears. And for some days after the talk of those two -people was of nothing but Oliver and what his meaning could be. Mrs. -Ford sent off a long and eloquent letter to him the night after these -discussions, but received no answer to that any more than to her former -letters. And Ford, too, wrote one, which was very much more serious. -Ford, who never wrote a letter except on business, leaving everything -else to his wife. Ford put before his brother-in-law indeed the business -view of the matter. He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> come under certain engagements, did he -intend or not to fulfil them? He told Oliver that his conduct was mere -madness, that it was against all his interests, that he was destroying -his own credit and cutting his own throat. What did he mean by it? but -adding that whatever he meant, which was his own concern, he ought not -to lose a moment in coming back, and doing what he could to repair the -fearful mistake he was making. The letter was curt and business-like, -but very much in earnest. Oliver had come by that time to a condition of -mind in which arguments of that or any other kind were of no avail. He -never read this letter; did he not know everything that could be said to -him? had he not said it all and twenty times more to himself?</p> - -<p>After this appeal, however, and that much more eloquent, certainly more -lengthy, one of Trix’s, silence fell again, and the days so anxiously -watched at every post for letters passed on and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> brought nothing. The -excitement, the tension, the fear of suspense grew hourly. As yet they -had managed to keep it to themselves. Nobody knew, unless it might be -the servants, who know everything. Grace was the best in this effort; -she replied with so composed a look, so steady a smile to the many -curious questions addressed to her as to Mr. Wentworth’s long absence, -that curiosity was baffled. Trix did not know how she could do it. She -herself grew red, the tears came to her eyes when she was questioned, in -spite of herself. It was always on the cards that she might break down -altogether, and take some sympathetic visitor into her confidence. She -was like her brother, not of so steady a soul as Grace, and this was to -her insupportable, as his more terrible anguish was to him.</p> - -<p>It was from Tom Ford, however, the man without nerves, the cool-headed, -mercantile person whom Trix had so often<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> stormed at as unsensitive and -hard to move, that the touch of impatience came. He said one day at -breakfast suddenly, without warning, ‘I think, Trix, if there is no word -to-day, I shall run up to town and see with my own eyes what Oliver is -up to. We cannot let this go on.’</p> - -<p>‘Run up to town to-day? Tom, you have heard something; you know more -than we do—’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing of the sort: but I feel a responsibility. He is your brother, -and that poor girl met him in our house. I must see what it means. I -can’t let it run on like this. She has no brother to stand up for her. I -want to know what the fellow means.’</p> - -<p>‘Tom, you must not go and bully Oliver. He would never stand that, even -when he was a boy.’</p> - -<p>‘I have no intention of bullying him. I want to know what he means,’ Mr. -Ford repeated doggedly. And then Trix, what with fear lest his -interference should be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> resented, what with eagerness to solve the -mystery, insisted on going too; to which her husband did not object, -having foreseen it. She went out immediately and told Grace. The sense -of being about to do something is a great matter to a woman who in most -emergencies of her life is compelled to wait while others do what is to -be done. Action restores trust to her, and a sense that all must come -right.</p> - -<p>‘Tom and I are going. Tom has business of his own, and he takes this -opportunity: and he thinks I may as well go too, and then this mystery -will be cleared up. I shall telegraph to you at once, the moment I have -seen him, Grace.’</p> - -<p>Grace was greatly startled by this sudden resolution, though she said -very little. But when they started by the afternoon train, she was there -at the station to meet them.</p> - -<p>‘I think I will go, too,’ she said. ‘You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> know I have a great deal -of—shopping to do.’ And not a word was said by which a stranger could -have divined that this was an expedition, not of shopping, but of -outraged love and despair. They arrived late with a sort of -understanding that nothing could be done that night. But when the ladies -had been settled in their hotel, Mr. Ford went out to take, as he said, -a walk. He went through the gloomy streets; through the Strand, with all -its noise and crowd, to the Temple, where Oliver’s chambers were. He had -not told his wife even where he was going. He thought there might be -something to learn which it would be better these women should not hear; -and perhaps he thought, too, that it would be a triumph, without their -aid, to lead the wanderer back. He went all that long way on foot, -thinking within himself that the later he was the more likely he was to -find Oliver, and turning over in his mind what he should say. He would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> -represent to him the folly of his behaviour, the madness of throwing -thus his best hopes away. Ford was very anxious, more anxious than he -would have confessed to anyone. He did not, indeed, think of such a -possibility as that which had really happened; but his mind was prepared -for some complication, some entanglement that had to be got rid of; -perhaps even some tie made in earlier years which Oliver believed -himself to have got rid of, and which had come to life again, as such -things will. Who could tell? He might have married and have thought his -wife was dead, and have been roused out of his happiness by the terrible -news that this was not true. Such a thing is not uncommon in fiction, -for instance; and Mr. Ford, like many busy men, was a great novel -reader. He was ready even, terrible though it would be, to hear that -this was the cause of his brother-in-law’s disappearance. But, perhaps, -he hoped, it might be something not so bad as that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span></p> - -<p>He was a long time gone, so long, that Trix got alarmed, and in her -uneasiness burst into Grace’s room, who was going to rest, to wait with -what patience she might for the morning, which, she said to herself, -must end all suspense. Her self-restraint was sadly broken by the -irruption into her room of Trix in all her fever of alarm.</p> - -<p>‘Where do you think he can have gone? Oh, what do you think can have -happened to him?—such dreadful things happen in London,’ Mrs. Ford -cried, rising gradually into higher and higher excitement. She thought -of garroters; of roughs who might have followed him along the Embankment -(though she scarcely knew where that was), and already her imagination -figured him lying on the pavement senseless, perhaps unconscious, unable -to tell anyone where to carry him.</p> - -<p>‘The only address that would be found upon him would be our address at -home, and if they telegraphed there, and then tele<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span>graphed here, how -much time must be lost? And it is too late even to telegraph,’ she -cried, as these miserable anticipations gained upon her. But what could -two women do in a London hotel? They could not go out with a lantern and -search for his body about the streets, and they did not even know where -or in what direction he had gone. ‘He has gone to find your brother,’ -Grace suggested once; but Trix would not hear of this. ‘Never,’ she -said, ‘without letting me know.’</p> - -<p>At last, when it was long past midnight, a hansom drove up to the hotel, -and Mr. Ford appeared, exceedingly pale and with an air of great -agitation and distress. He told them that Oliver had been very ill: that -he would have to leave England, to get into a milder climate. He would -not be more explicit; a milder climate and to get out of England, that -was all he would say. He had a letter in his hand which he had been -reading as best he could by the lamplight as he drove back, and by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span> -dying candles in Wentworth’s room, into which he had forced his way. He -told his wife as soon as they were alone that he had found on Oliver’s -desk this long letter addressed to himself, and gave her an outline of -the story, which brought out such a shriek from Trix, as sounded through -the partition and startled Grace once more in the solitude of her room, -to which she had returned. She appeared between the husband and wife a -minute after in her white dressing gown, white as the gown she wore.</p> - -<p>‘There is something you have not told me. Tell me what it is,’ she said. -It had been a momentary relief to her to know that Oliver was ill. If -that was so, everything might be explained; but—And now she heard that -there was something more.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Grace, go to bed; oh, go to bed. We don’t know ourselves yet. -To-morrow morning, the very first thing, after you have had a night’s -rest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span>—’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot rest to-night,’ she said, with parched lips, ‘until I know. -There is nothing that cannot be borne,’ she added, a moment afterwards, -‘except not to know.’</p> - -<p>They made a curious contrast. Trix all flushed with excitement and -distress, her voice choked with tears, her eyes overflowing; and she who -was even more concerned, she who believed herself to be Oliver -Wentworth’s bride, in that breathless silence of suspense, afraid to -make a sound, to waste a word, lest perhaps she should miss some -recollection, some indication of what to her was life or death.</p> - -<p>‘I have something here to read, if you think you can bear it. It is not -good news.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Tom, for the love of Heaven, don’t! Grace, go to your room, dear! -Oh, go to bed, and I’ll come—I’ll come and tell you as soon as we -know.’</p> - -<p>‘It is Oliver’s hand,’ said Grace. ‘I can bear whatever he has written. -But let me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> hear it at once, for this suspense is more than I can bear.’</p> - -<p>‘Grace—Grace!—’</p> - -<p>But Mr. Ford interrupted his wife. He saw that Grace was not to be put -off any longer, and indeed was capable of nothing but knowing the truth. -He brought the easiest chair for her, with that pathetic instinct which -makes us so careful of the bodies of those whose hearts we are about to -crush. She made no opposition. She would have done anything—anything, -so long as it brought her nearer the end. Ford had the discrimination to -see this, and that the only thing she could not bear was delay. He began -at once to read the letter, of which he had already told the chief facts -to his wife. The two candles flickered, placed together on the -mantelpiece, and drearily doubled in the mirror behind, while the bare -hotel room, with its big bed and wardrobes, formed an indistinct, cold -background. Mr. Ford stood by the mantelpiece, and read slowly, in a -voice of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> he had not always command. Trix behind him, sobbing, -crying, exclaiming, unable to restrain herself, moved up and down, -sometimes stopping to look over his shoulder, sometimes throwing for a -moment herself into a seat. In the centre, the white figure of Grace, -all white, motionless, sat rigid, scarcely breathing. Grace was prepared -for everything. Except a start and shiver when she heard of the -marriage, she scarcely made a sign from beginning to end. The others -were distracted, even in their own horror and pity, by an anxious desire -to know how she would take it. But Grace was disturbed by no such -secondary feelings. At that point her hands, which had been lying in her -lap, closed in a convulsive clasp, but save this she made no sign, -listening to every word till the end. Even after the end, it was some -time before she moved or spoke. Then she pointed to it, and said -faintly, ‘It is a letter—is he—has he gone away?’</p> - -<p>‘You have heard all this. I must tell<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> you more—I must tell you all I -know,’ said Ford. He was much agitated, his lips quivering, his voice -now and then failing altogether. ‘I believe,’ he said, struggling to get -out the words, ‘that the noise I made at his door saved his life, that -he had thought for a moment of putting an end to everything; there was a -pistol on the floor.’</p> - -<p>She rose to her feet with a quick, sudden cry, ‘<i>That! That!</i>’ and -clutched for support at the mantelpiece, against which Mr. Ford was -leaning, and where there seemed to rise in the mirror a pale, white -ghost, facing the darker figure.</p> - -<p>‘Oliver,’ she cried, ‘Oliver! tell me everything. That is his last word, -and he is dead!’</p> - -<p>‘No, no, no—oh, no!’ came in Trix’s voice from behind.</p> - -<p>Ford took her hands from their clutch on the marble, and put her back -into her chair. All he was afraid of was that she might faint, or die, -perhaps, in their hands.</p> - -<p>‘He is not dead, so far as I know. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> has gone away. How could he meet -you? Oh, Grace, what can we say to you, Trix and I? It is our fault! My -poor girl, cry or something. Don’t look like that. You must put him out -of your thoughts.’</p> - -<p>She shook herself free of him with impatience. ‘I am asking you about -Oliver,’ she said. ‘Oliver! Where is he? Have you left him, with no one -near him, no one to comfort him? Trix, are you going to him, or shall -I?’</p> - -<p>The husband and wife looked at each other in dismay. Mrs. Ford stilled -in a moment her sobs and exclamations, not knowing what to reply.</p> - -<p>‘You are nearest him in blood, but I am nearest in—’ Grace paused for a -moment. ‘He will want to know that I—understand,’ she said slowly, as -if speaking to herself.</p> - -<p>‘He has no right to know anything about you,’ Ford said roughly, in the -agitation of his mind. ‘You must think no more of him, Grace. He has no -claim upon you. This miserable marriage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span>—’</p> - -<p>‘Marriage,’ she said, again rising, resisting his attempt to support -her. ‘You think a woman has no idea but marriage. What is that to me? I -have been fearing I knew not what—and now my mind is relieved, I -understand. It is not that I forgive him,’ she added, after a moment, -with an indescribable look of tender pride and dignity, ‘I approve. You -may blame him if you will—I approve. And if he should die, I accept his -legacy. I thank God he had that trust in me, and that he did what was -right. Though it should kill us both, what does that matter? He has done -only what was right, and I approve!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span>’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> was how she took it, as the young priest had taken it, as an -atonement, as a duty. Instead of the despair they had expected, she was -excited and inspired as people are who die for a great cause. She did -not and would not take into account all that made Oliver’s strange -sacrifice a thing without justice, without dignity—a mere hideous -postscript to a mere vulgar sin, repented of indeed, but not made less -vulgar and hideous even by repentance. Fortunately for Grace, nothing of -this entered her mind. He had made atonement, he had righted a wrong at -the cost of his own happiness. To be sure, it was at the cost of hers -also, but in her exaltation she never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> thought of that. What she did -mourn over was that he should not have told her; that he had suffered -bitterly and cruelly, and had been driven to the uttermost despair -rather than tell her; that he should have thought her incapable of the -same sacrifice as he was making, less noble than himself. This hurt her -in passing, but she had not time to think more of it. In the meantime he -must be comforted, reassured, cared for. He must know that she -understood him, that she—yes, she who was the victim, who had to bear -the penalty—approved. She was inspired with strength and courage to do -this. She was no victim—she was a martyr, sharing his martyrdom for the -sake of what was right.</p> - -<p>I need scarcely say that the Fords no more understood her than if she -had been speaking a foreign language. They gazed at her with horror and -bewilderment. They asked each other, had she not loved him after all? -That a woman who loved him could have so accepted this revelation was -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span> them incredible. Mr. Ford was almost angry with her in the -disappointment with which he saw this extraordinary and un-looked-for -effect. He said stiffly, that he was very glad that she could take it so -philosophically—more than poor Oliver had done—but that as for -comforting or helping him that was impossible. For Oliver had -disappeared, and, so far as was known, might be heard of no more. How he -had got out of his chambers, his anxious brother-in-law did not know; he -supposed it must have been at the moment when, receiving no answer to -his summons, he had gone to seek for help to break open the door. On his -return the door had been found open, the rooms empty, the letter on the -table, the pistol lying on the floor; but of Oliver no sign; and that -was all that anyone knew.</p> - -<p>It was evident, at least, that nothing could be done till next day. And -Grace withdrew from the troubled pair, who did not understand her any -more than they knew how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> to deal with the horrible crisis altogether. -She went slowly, steadily to her own room, not trembling and sick at -heart as when she had come. The suspense was over—now she knew -everything. Her heart was in so strange an exaltation, that for the -moment she seemed to feel no pain. It seemed to her as if Oliver and she -were martyrs about to come out upon some scaffold hand in hand, and for -the righting of wrong and the redeeming of the lost to die. Such a -crisis has an intoxication peculiar to itself. She did not sleep all -night, but lay down and thought over everything. The worst was that he -had not told her. If he had but trusted in her, it was she who should -have stood by him all along, and taken his part and justified him before -the world.</p> - -<p>She met Mrs. Ford in the morning as she left her room, putting a stop to -all those attempts to make an invalid of her, and treat her as if she -were ill, which is the common expedient of the lookers-on in cases of -grief or mental<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> suffering. Her face was pale but not without colour, -very clear, like a sky after rain; the eyes limpid and large, as if they -had increased in size somehow during the night.</p> - -<p>‘When you have had your breakfast,’ she said, with a smile,—‘I have -ordered it for you—then there are several things I wish you to do—for -me—’</p> - -<p>‘Grace!’ Mrs. Ford was astonished by her look, and felt herself taken by -surprise. ‘You—you don’t mean—shopping?’ she asked, almost -mysteriously, confounded by her friend’s calm.</p> - -<p>Grace gave her a reproachful look. ‘I have ordered a carriage, too,’ she -said, taking no notice of the suggestion. ‘Tell me when you are ready.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Ford, looking with guilty countenance at her watch, went quickly to -the table at which her husband was seated, eating a hurried, but not at -all an insufficient, breakfast.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what she means,’ Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span> Ford said. ‘She has ordered a feast. -There’s half a dozen things. No, no more; don’t bring any more. Trix, -I’m going off to the Temple, of course, at once, and if I can find out -anything or get any trace of where he has gone, I’ll telegraph. Mind -what I told you last night. You must try and get her sent home.’</p> - -<p>‘She is going to do her—shopping,’ said Trix. To tell the truth, she -did not herself believe this, but it was the first thing that occurred -to her to say.</p> - -<p>‘Her <small>SHOPPING</small>!’ Mr. Ford panted forth, with a great burst of agitated -laughter. ‘Great Heavens, you don’t say so! Her shopping! What a fool I -have been to put myself out about her. You women will do your shopping -on the Day of Judgment.’</p> - -<p>Trix thought it was perhaps better to let him go away with this idea; it -would leave him, she felt, more free. And when Grace joined her with her -bonnet on,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> and disclosed her design, Mrs. Ford was startled for the -moment, but yielded without much difficulty. They drove away in the soft -morning, when even the London streets look like spring, miles away -through the interminable streets, until at last they came to that one -among so many others where the pavement was worn by Oliver’s weary feet, -where he had gone with his heart bleeding, so that it was strange he had -left no trace. It seemed to both the women as if he had left traces of -these painful steps, as if the sky darkened when they got there, and the -air began to moan with coming storm. It did so, it was true, but not -because of Oliver. A sudden April shower (though it was in May) fell in -a quick discharge of glittering drops as they drove up to the house. Not -to the door—for already a cab was standing which blocked the way: but -the cab was not all. A little crowd, excited and tumultuous, had -gathered round the steps, some pushing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> in to the very threshold of the -open door. It did not seem wonderful to the ladies that the crowd should -be here. It seemed of a piece with all the rest. A thing so -extraordinary and out of nature had happened, it was nothing strange if -the common people about raised a wonder over it, as everyone who knew -must do. They forgot that this affair was interesting only to -themselves, and that nobody here was aware of their existence. They made -their way with heavy hearts to the edge of the crowd.</p> - -<p>‘Is there anything wrong? What is the matter?’ Trix asked of one of the -throng.</p> - -<p>‘They say as she’s dying, ma’am,’ said the woman to whom she spoke.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, poor thing!’ cried another, anxious to give information. The crowd -turned its attention at once to the two ladies.</p> - -<p>‘Just a-going to take her first drive out,’ said one. ‘All in the grand -fur cloak he gave her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘A man as grudged her nothing.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s like on the stage,’ said another. ‘Ladies, a rich gentleman, and -grudged her nothing. And she’s never got time to enjoy it. Oh, she’s -never got time to enjoy it!’</p> - -<p>These voices ran altogether, confusing each other. They conveyed little -meaning to the minds of the two ladies, who heard imperfectly, and did -not understand.</p> - -<p>Grace was the one who pushed through the crowd. ‘Let us pass, please. We -have come to see someone,’ she said, clutching Trix’s dress with her -hand.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, is that the doctor? Stand back and let the doctor pass,’ said a -voice from within the door of the little parlour. The speaker came out -as she spoke. She was the mother, with a pale and frightened face -surmounted by a bonnet gay with ribbons and flowers. ‘Oh, ladies, I -cannot speak to you now! Oh, if it’s anything about the dressmaking, -Matilda will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> come to you to-morrow. We’re in great trouble now. Oh, -doctor, doctor, here you are at last!’</p> - -<p>Then a man brushed past, hurrying in. Grace followed, not knowing what -she did. She never forgot the scene she saw. In an arm-chair, the only -one in the room, sat propped up a young woman wrapped in a fur cloak, -with a white bonnet covered with flowers. Her eyes were half open; her -jaws had dropped. Another young woman, apparently her sister, stood -stroking her softly, calling to her: ‘Oh, wake up, Ally!—oh, wake -up!—there’s the carriage at the door, and here—here’s the doctor come -to see you.’ Through the sound of this frightened, half-weeping voice -came the sharp, clear tones of the doctor: ‘How long has she been like -this? Lay her down—lay her down anywhere. Yes, on the floor, if there’s -nowhere else. Silence, silence, woman! Can’t you see—’</p> - -<p>There was an interval of quiet, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> then the voice of the mother, ‘I’ll -get a mattress in a moment. She can’t lie there on the floor, her that’s -been taken such care of. Doctor! is it a faint? is it a faint? is it—’</p> - -<p>Another moment of awful suspense, the silence tingling, creeping; the -voices of the little crowd sounding like echoes far off. Then the doctor -rose from where he had been kneeling on the floor.</p> - -<p>‘Why did you let her do this?’ he said, sternly, ‘I warned you she must -not do it.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, doctor, her heart was set upon it—and such a beautiful morning, -and her new, beautiful fur cloak as she couldn’t catch cold in. Doctor, -why don’t you do something? <span class="smcap">Doctor!</span>’ cried the mother, seizing him by -the arm.</p> - -<p>He shook her off. He was rough in his impatience. ‘Can’t you see,’ he -said, ‘that there is nothing to be done? Take off that horrible finery; -the poor girl is dead.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘The poor girl is dead.’ Grace thought it was her own voice that -repeated those awful words. They went to her heart with a shock, making -her giddy and faint. Her voice sounded through the confused cries of the -woman about that prostrate figure. ‘Dead!’ The doctor turned to her, as -if it was she to whom explanations were due.</p> - -<p>‘I warned them,’ he said, ‘that her life hung on a thread. I told them -she must make no exertion. I knew very well how it would be. The wonder -is that she has lasted so long,’ he added, after that momentary -excitement sinking into professional calm. ‘No, no, there’s nothing to -be done. Can’t you see that for yourself?’</p> - -<p>‘And the cab at the door to take her for her airing!’ cried the mother, -in shrill tones of distraction. ‘Oh, doctor, give her something! The -brandy, where is the brandy, Matilda? I’ve seen her as far gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span>—’</p> - -<p>‘You have never seen her like this before. She is dead,’ said the -doctor, in the unceremonious tones in which he addressed such patients. -‘You had better get a sofa or something to lay her on, poor thing! -nothing can hurt her now; and send and let her husband know.’ He -followed Grace out into the passage, where she had withdrawn, unable to -bear that awful sight.</p> - -<p>‘It is a strange story. I don’t understand it. Sounds like a novel,’ he -said. ‘I don’t think he’ll be very sorry. He’ll bear it better than -most—though he only married her about three weeks ago. It was the -strangest thing I ever heard of. A gentleman—no doubt of that. What he -could ever have to say to a girl like her, God knows. But he suddenly -appeared on the scene when she was at the last gasp, and married her. I -had given her up; but afterwards she made a surprising rally. Even I was -taken in. I thought that she might still pull through.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> But you see I -was mistaken,’ he added cheerfully.</p> - -<p>Grace stood and leaned against the wall. Everything swam in her eyes, -and all the sounds, the voices of the women lamenting within, the cries -and questions without, the sharp, clear sentences of the doctor, all -mingled in a strange confusion like sounds in a dream. In the midst of -all this tumult came the voice of Trix calling to her to come out into -the open air, and a touch on her arm, which she felt to be that of the -doctor, leading her away. She made a great effort and recovered herself. -‘We want to know,’ she said, faintly, grasping at Trix’s hand. ‘We came -to see—we belong to Mr. Wentworth,’ and then with a rush of gathering -energy her sight came back to her, and she saw the face of the man who -stood, curious yet indifferent, between her and the chamber of death.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, the husband!’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘We came—to see her: is it truly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span> truly—? He has been ill, and we -have to act for him. We have—his authority. Trix, speak for me! Is -it—? Is that—?’ There came a strange, convulsive movement in her -throat, like sobbing, beyond her control. She could not articulate any -more.</p> - -<p>‘I am his sister,’ said Mrs. Ford; ‘is it true?—is the woman—dead? Oh! -it’s dreadful to be glad, I know. If you are the doctor, tell us, for -Heaven’s sake! Is she dead—is it she—the woman—’</p> - -<p>‘The poor girl,’ said Grace, softly; ‘the poor, poor girl!’</p> - -<p>This she said over and over again to herself as they drove away. She -made no reply to the questions, the remarks, the thanksgivings of her -companions. They drove straight to the Temple in direct contradiction of -Mr. Ford’s orders, and went up into the chambers where Oliver had -suffered so much, from which he had escaped in the half delirium of his -despair. Mr. Ford was there, still inquiring vaguely,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> endeavouring to -find some clue. He met the ladies, as was natural, with suppressed rage, -asking what they wanted there; but the news they brought was sufficient -even in his eyes to excuse their appearance, though even that threw no -light upon the other question, which now became the most important: -where Oliver had gone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">When</span> Oliver left his rooms on that terrible night, it could scarcely be -said that he was a sane man. The strange, confused tinkling and pealing -of the bell had seemed to him a supernatural call. When he had come to -himself a little, out of the strange, wild fit of ridicule of himself -and his pitiful intention of escaping from fate, which had overcome him, -he had risen mechanically and gone to the door. When he found no one, -the impulse of half-mad derision seized him again. It was as if he had -gone through every possibility of the anguish and misery that were real, -and had come out on the other side where all is distorted and -fantastic,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> and nothing true; where there were voices without persons, -calls, and jarring summonses that meant nothing, a chaos of delusion and -self-deceit, in which fever and shattered nerves and reverberations out -of a diseased brain were the only elements, and every impression was -fictitious, ridiculous, mad and false. He went out without knowing what -he was doing, the echoes of the pistol-shot circling through his head, -and moving him again and again to wild laughter: to think that he should -have found himself out so! that he was such a poor creature after all, -capable of running away, not good enough to stand and be executed, which -was his just due. Was it to be executed that he feared, or to be -banished, or put in prison, tied, yes, that was it—tied to a dead body, -as other men had been before him? Whatever it was, he had not been man -enough to bear his punishment, but had tried to run away. And then he -had been frightened, and failed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span></p> - -<p>By this time he had forgotten altogether what expedient he had intended -to adopt to make his escape by, and the report, which still echoed -through his head, seemed to him rather the punishment he was attempting -to escape from than the means of escape. But anyhow he was running away, -and was afraid to do it. He was running away and could not do it. He was -somehow caught by the foot, so that all his running and walking were -vain, and he was only making circles about the fatal spot in which the -executioner was waiting for him—steadily, patiently waiting—until the -meshes should be drawn tighter and he should be brought back. The bell -continued to peal in his brain, a mocking summons, and the report of the -pistol to break in at intervals, sharp, like a refrain, bringing back -more or less the first effect of re-awakening, but not to reality, only -to that ever-renewed derision of his own efforts to get away. The fool -that he was! How could he escape with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> the bands ever tightening, -tightening about his feet, as he kept on in his vain round, back and -back in circles that lessened, every round leading nearer and nearer to -the spot where Fate awaited him, grimly looking on at his vain -struggles, laughing in that fierce ridicule which he re-echoed though he -carried on those sickening efforts still?</p> - -<p>He must have carried out in reality the miserable confusion in his -brain, for it seemed afterwards that he had done nothing but go round -and round a circle of streets and lanes, surrounding the point where his -chambers were, and where he was seen by various people, appearing and -reappearing, always at a very rapid pace, through the lingering darkness -of the night. After a while, in all probability, recollection failed -him, for his horrible sensations seemed to fade into a dull, fatigued -consciousness of circling and winding, of always the band on his ankles -tightening, drawing him nearer; but no longer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> any clear idea of what -was the impending doom, from which only this perpetual movement, this -effort to keep on, saved him for a time. Finally, when daylight had -come, surprising and alarming him back into some effort of intelligence, -he found himself at the door of his club, where the servants were but -beginning to open the shutters, to sweep and clean out, in preparation -for the day. He crept in there somehow as a dog might creep into a barn, -or take refuge in an empty kennel, and threw himself shivering into an -easy-chair, and had a cup of coffee brought him by a compassionate -waiter, who saw that he had been up all night. The same kind hands -covered him up when he began in his exhaustion to doze. And there he lay -and slept through all the early morning hours, while still there was -nobody to comment upon his appearance or to disturb him. The servants of -the club chattered indeed among themselves; they shook their heads, and -said he had been up to some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span>thing or other as he hadn’t ought to. They -suggested to each other that he had been in bad company, that he had -been drugged, which was the most likely thing to account for his dazed -appearance. But he lay and slept through it all, unconscious in the -profound sleep of entire exhaustion. Most likely it was that exhaustion -and the constant physical movement and keen air of the night which saved -his brain after all.</p> - -<p>He woke at about eleven o’clock, having slept four or five hours, -shivering with a nervous chill, and in all the bodily misery of a man -who has slept in his clothes on a chair, cramped and wretched; but yet -in full possession of his senses, and knowing everything that had -happened. It all came back to him slowly, the standing trouble first, -the horror of those circumstances in which he was involved, the awful -question what he was to do: how live and endure his existence since he -could not abandon it? He asked himself the question almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> before he -remembered that he had intended to abandon it. And then the scene of -last evening slowly rolled back upon him like a scene in a tragedy, the -crack of the pistol, the violent jarring and jingling of the bell. He -could not have dreamt or imagined the bell: it must have meant some -messenger or other, someone bringing him news. What news could any -messenger be bringing? Nothing but one piece of news. Nothing else was -worth sending now, worth the trouble of sending—his release, perhaps. -Oh, Heaven! if that might be!</p> - -<p>Oliver got up quickly in the sudden gleam of possibility thus presented -to him. It aroused him from the torpor of sleep and wretchedness and -exhaustion. But afterwards he dropped heavily into his chair again, -shaking his head, saying to himself that it was impossible, that release -did not come to a man so placed as he was, that he had no right to -release. And then it occurred to him that the messenger might return and -find the door open and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> go in, and that his letter lay on the table, the -letter addressed to his brother-in-law with its confession. By this -time, then, it would be in their hands and all would be known. When that -thought entered his mind, he rose from his chair, not impetuously, but -in the calm of despair: ah, that was best! that everything should be -known. It was all over then. Whatever might happen, Grace was lost to -him for ever. Whatever might happen, his own life and its hopes were -over, without any possibility of redemption. ‘So be it,’ he said to -himself, bowing his head almost solemnly: ‘so be it.’ What else was -possible? He would at least have discharged the dreadful duty of cutting -himself off, and leaving her free.</p> - -<p>This was his real awakening—which was, though the May morning was so -bright, an awakening into the blackness and darkness, into the quiet of -despair—no possibility now, no hope, all over and ended for ever and -ever. He took his hat and walked out without a word, without a thought -of his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> appearance, in the fresh daylight, in the open street, unshaven, -unkempt, miserable, with a misery which no one could mistake. How he -appeared was no longer anything to him. He saw nobody, took notice of -nothing. He might have been walking through a desert as he made his way -through some of the busiest streets of London, full of traffic and -commotion, and never saw one of the people who stared at the man who -seemed a gentleman, and yet had such an air of haggard misery, a -wanderer who had been out all night; nothing of this did Oliver see. He -went doggedly to give himself up to justice—no, that was the part of -the last night’s dream: but, at least, to meet at last whatever might be -coming to him, to ascertain that his letter had been sent away and that -all was over. Everything was over, in any case; but it would all be more -evident, more certain, if the letter had been sent away.</p> - -<p>He went up his own staircase and came to his own door with nothing but -this in his mind. The recollection of the bell, of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> possible -messenger who could not get admission, of the news of his release which -might have come, all faded out of his mind. If that letter had been -sent, it did not matter whether he was released or not: now or -hereafter, what could it matter? so long as that letter had been sent. -Then indeed his tale would be told, his shrift over, his fate sealed. He -heard voices vaguely as he approached the room, but took no notice. What -did it matter who was there so long as the letter had been sent? He -stalked in like a ghost, his eyes fixed upon the table which seemed to -him as he had left it—all but one thing.—Yes, redemption had become -impossible and hope was over. The letter had gone.</p> - -<p>‘Oliver!’ said a voice, whether in a dream, whether in fact, whether out -of the skies, whether only sounding in the depths of his miserable -heart, how could he tell? He turned round towards it slowly, pale, -trembling, a man for whom hope was no more. And there she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> stood before -him, she who had been to him as an angel, whom he had seemed to abandon, -insult and betray. It seemed so; and never, perhaps, never would it be -known how different—how different! He could not bear the sight of the -brightness of her face. There was light in it that seemed to kill him; -he put up his hands to cover his eyes, and shrank back, back, until, his -limbs tottering under him, his heart failing him, he had sunk unawares -upon his knees. Oh, the brightness of the presence of outraged love, -more terrible than wrath! Is it not from that, that at the last the -sinner, self-convicted, will flee?</p> - -<p>‘Do not speak to me,’ he said, his voice sounding like some stranger’s -voice in his own ears. ‘I know all you would say. And there is no -excuse, no excuse.’</p> - -<p>‘Oliver! you have no excuse for not trusting me. I was worthy of your -trust.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> Should I not have chosen for you to do first what was right?’</p> - -<p>It seemed to him that once more his brain was giving way; he felt a -horrible impulse to laugh out again at the mockery of this speech. -Right! there was nothing right! What had it to do with him, a man all -wrong, wrong, out of life, out of hope—that there should still be some -one left in the world to whom that word meant something? He uncovered -his face, however, and looked up at her from out the humiliation of -despair. And then he began to see that there were other people in the -room, his sister, his brother-in-law, looking on at the spectacle of his -downfall. He rose up slowly to his feet, supporting himself against the -wall.</p> - -<p>‘I am in great distress,’ he said; ‘I am not able to speak. Ford, will -you take them away?’</p> - -<p>Ford, who was only a man, nobody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> in particular, gave him a certain -sense of protection in the poignancy of the presence of the others, -before whom he could not stand or speak.</p> - -<p>‘Oliver, old fellow, you needn’t look so miserable; they wouldn’t go, -they know everything, they’ve got—news for you. I say they’ve got news -for you.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Tom, God bless you! you have a feeling heart after all. Oliver, it -is all over—’</p> - -<p>‘Oliver,’ Grace put out her warm hands and took his, which were -trembling with an almost palsy of cold; ‘I should have understood, for -you told me long ago—you told me there were things I would not -understand. But now I do understand. And all that you have done I -approve. I do not forgive you—I approve.’</p> - -<p>He drew back ever further, shrinking against the wall. ‘I was mad last -night,’ he said, ‘and it was horrible:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span> and now I must be going mad -again—and this is horrible too, but it is sweet—’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it is horrible,’ cried Grace, with tears; ‘for it comes out of -misery and mourning. Oliver, that poor girl—that poor girl, she is -dead.’</p> - -<p>He fell down once more at her feet, with a great and terrible cry, and -fainted like a woman—out of misery, and remorse, and relief, and -anguish, and joy, and by reason too, since the body and the soul are so -linked together—of his sleepless nights and miserable days.</p> - -<p>He told her all afterwards, in those subdued and troubled days when -happiness was still struggling to come back. But Grace would never see -it as he did. To her it was an atonement, an almost martyrdom. She could -not understand those deeper depths of evil in which sin is taken -lightly, and called pleasure, and is but for a day. She could understand -passion and the deadly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> harm it wrought, and how life itself might be -laid down in the desire to atone. He held his peace at last, bewildered -by the dulness of that innocence which could not so much as imagine what -he knew. And happiness did struggle back through depths of humiliation -and shame to him, with which she was never acquainted. She did not -suffer, not having sinned; and he was still young. And after awhile the -hideous dream through which he passed faded away, and even Oliver -remembered it no more.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.</p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<pre style='margin-top:6em'> -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVER'S BRIDE; A TRUE STORY *** - -This file should be named 63582-h.htm or 63582-h.zip - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/5/8/63582/ - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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