Rupert Godwin

THE CLERK’S STORY.

While Gilbert Thornleigh was employed in putting the case of Harley Westford’s disappearance into the hands of the police, Clara sat in her shabby lodging, brooding over the troubles which environed her, until it seemed as if there was not one ray of sunshine to illumine the darkness of her fate.

The mysterious disappearance of her daughter—her beloved Violet—was almost more horrible to contemplate than the dark fate of her brave and true-hearted husband.

Harley Westford might have died the victim of treachery—he might have perished by the pitiless hand of the assassin; but the fate of Violet might be something worse than death.

Shame—disgrace—degradation! These were the dangers which the mother dreaded for the daughter she loved. And she was quite helpless. She knew not what step to take—how to attempt a rescue of the lost girl. Sorrows had crowded upon her with a bewildering rapidity, and the sufferer succumbed beneath the force of a burden which hourly grew heavier and harder to bear. The revelation made by Gilbert Thornleigh had been the last overwhelming blow; and Clara Westford sat in a listless attitude, helpless, nerveless, apathetic, like a creature who had outlived all sense of sorrow. “Who am I? and where am I?” she asked herself; “are these troubles real, or are they part of some long feverish dream?”

There comes a stage in human sorrow when the sufferer seems to lose all hold upon reality. The victim cannot understand why the chastisement should be so heavy, the cup of anguish so bitter and so deep. The brain refuses to grapple with the horrible realities that crowd upon it. There is a merciful pause in life’s fever, a dull apathy, which may perhaps be designed to save the anguish-stricken sufferer from madness.

For Clara Westford this pause, this apathy, did not last long.

One joy, at least, was in store for the woman upon whom so many sorrows had come with crushing force during the last twelve months—one joy, so wild and deep in its intensity, that the overwrought brain could scarcely sustain the sudden shock of so much joy.

While Clara Westford sat by her bedside, with her head lying wearily upon the pillow, her tearless eyes fixed on the dingy ceiling above her with a blank unseeing stare, carriage-wheels sounded in the street below, and a vehicle drew up close at hand.

The bedchamber opened out of the sitting-room, and the door of communication between them was open. Clara rushed to the window, and looked down into the street. Her heart throbbed tumultuously. She was in that over-excited state in which every incident alarms the mind.

A very handsome close carriage, simple in its appointments, but drawn by a superb pair of horses, was standing before the door of the house. A bright face appeared at the window of the carriage—a lovely face, framed in clustering golden hair; a face which seemed like that of an angel to Clara Westford, for it was the face of her daughter.

A servant opened the door of the carriage, and Violet alighted. She rushed into the house, and her mother heard the light familiar footstep hurrying up the stairs.

She burst into a torrent of tears, the first she had shed since her daughter’s disappearance, and in the next moment Violet was clasped in her mother’s arms.

Clara Westford saw that this was no heart-broken, dishonoured girl, who returned thus, radiant and smiling, to bury her beautiful face on her mother’s breast, and to cry amidst her passionate sobs:

“Dear mother, I have come back to you! I have been rescued by a kind and noble friend; and we shall be happy together once more.”

As she spoke the door was opened, and an elderly lady entered—a lady with a pale gentle face that had once been beautiful, and smoothly banded silver hair. This lady was the Dowager Marchioness of Roxleydale.

“I have brought you back your daughter, Mrs. Westford,” said the Marchioness; “and I feel that I deserve your thanks, for the treasure I restore to you is a priceless one. If I have learnt to love this dear girl in a few hours, how tenderly must you love her who have known her for a lifetime!”

The mother’s heart was full to overflowing. She uttered no word relating to Gilbert Thornleigh’s return, or to the ghastly mystery involved in Captain Westford’s disappearance. Her child was restored to her, and she taught herself to smile, while her heart was still racked by anxiety, that no cloud should overshadow the joy of Violet’s return.

The Marchioness did not remain long with the mother and daughter.

“I will not intrude upon your happiness,” she said; “but I shall hope not to lose sight of this sweet girl, whom my son’s wicked folly, instigated, I am sure, by bad advisers, has involved in so much trouble. I shall pay some visits while I am in town, and return to Essex this evening. But whenever I come to London I shall make a point of calling upon you. Violet has told me a good deal of her history; and if I can find any way of serving either herself or her brother through the influence of my friends, I shall not be slow to do so. In the mean time, she has given me a promise not to return to the perilous life of a theatre, as with her attainments and accomplishments, assisted by my hearty recommendation, she cannot fail to obtain very remunerative employment as a daily governess. There are people in the world who know how to respect the ladies to whom they intrust the education of their children. I shall make it my business to find a lady in whose employment Violet will feel that she is respected and esteemed.”

The Marchioness pressed Clara Westford’s hand, and kissed Violet almost as affectionately as if the grateful girl had been indeed her daughter.

When she was gone, the mother and child sat down side by side, happy in the delight of being once more together; so happy in this, that the wife forgot for a few moments the mystery of her husband’s disappearance.

But that bitter memory was very swift to return; and it was only by heroic self-control that Clara contrived to keep her daughter in ignorance of the anxiety which was gnawing at her heart.

While they were sitting together, talking of Violet’s escape from danger, and of the warm friend she had found at a moment when she seemed to be surrounded by enemies, the servant of the house came into the room, and handed a visiting-card to Mrs. Westford.

It was a dirty-looking, old-fashioned card, and upon it was inscribed a name that seemed vaguely familiar to Clara:

Mr. Jacob Danielson.
Who entreats Mrs. Westford to grant him a
private interview.

These words were written in pencil below the name on the card.

“Danielson!” murmured the widow; “I have an idea that the name was once familiar to me. And yet that may be only fancy—it is such a common name.”

“The persing seemed very anxious to see you, mem,” said the girl who had brought the card.

“What sort of person is he?”

“A little old man, mem; very shabby and common-looking, with a hump on his pore old back, mem. He said he had somethink very particular to tell you.”

“Something particular to tell me! If it should be—I will see him, Susan,” exclaimed the widow, with sudden agitation. “Go to your room, dear. I must see this man alone.”

The slipshod maid-of-all-work ran down stairs to admit the stranger; and Clara Westford half led, half pushed Violet into the inner room, before the anxious girl had time to inquire into the cause of her mother’s agitation.

In the next minute Jacob Danielson entered the little sitting-room, his hat in his hand, his head bent in a respectful attitude.

“What is your business, sir?” asked Clara Westford, looking at him very anxiously.

“You do not remember me, madam?”

“Remember you? No!”

“And yet it is only a day or two since you saw me. I am Mr. Rupert Godwin’s confidential clerk—the person of whom you and a young sailor made some inquiries respecting your missing husband.”

“Yes, yes!” cried Clara eagerly; “I remember. And you have something to tell me? For pity’s sake do not trifle with me! If you knew what I suffer—”

“I have something to tell you, madam—I have much to tell you. But I cannot yet give you any information about your husband. I came to you to-day to make you the offer of my friendship. But perhaps you will despise such an offer from such a person as I am?”

“Despise your friendship! No, indeed, Mr. Danielson; I am in too much need of friends to despise the kindly feeling even of a stranger.”

“You are changed, Mrs. Westford,” murmured the old clerk; “very much changed since I knew you.”

“Since you knew me!” exclaimed Clara. “Have we ever been known to each other? Your name just now seemed familiar to me; but I have no recollection of you.”

“No, Mrs. Westford!” cried Jacob Danielson, with a sudden burst of passion; “you cannot remember me, because the stamp of degradation is upon me. It is more than twenty years since I knew you. I was a man then, with some remnant of self-respect, though the world had begun to teach me how vile a thing I was, in my misshapen form, my low birth, my hopeless poverty. But I was a man then, with a man’s ambitious yearnings to climb some few steps of life’s great ladder. Now you look only upon a degraded ruin—the hideous wreck of that which was once a man. Mrs. Westford, do you remember, when you were completing your education at your father’s country seat, the humpbacked village schoolmaster who was employed to teach you classics? Do you remember reading Virgil during the summer afternoons, before you had grown too grand a lady to care about old Latin fables?”

“I do remember the schoolmaster at the dear old park!” cried Clara. “Yes; and he was called Danielson. I knew that the name was familiar to me. And you are that very Mr. Danielson? Ah, then indeed you are sadly changed. I should never have recognized you.”

“Yet I am not so much changed as the daughter of Sir John Ponsonby,” said the clerk, with an intensity of bitterness, “if she can deign to feel one spark of compassion for the wretch who stands before her.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Danielson? It has not been my habit to refuse pity to anyone who needed it.”

“Indeed!” cried Jacob Danielson, with sudden vehemence. “Ah! I see you have a convenient memory, Mrs. Westford. You have quite forgotten the day on which the humpbacked scholar was beaten like a rebellious hound at your bidding!”

“Beaten!” exclaimed Clara, “at my bidding! What, in Heaven’s name, do you mean?”

“O, Mrs. Westford, you have indeed forgotten the past,” said the clerk, in tones of quiet irony.

“I have forgotten nothing,” answered Clara. “Pray sit down quietly and explain yourself. There must be some mistake in all this.”

The clerk dropped listlessly into a chair.

“It is so easy for the person who strikes the blow to forget,” he murmured, “but not so easy for the victim on whom the blow falls.”

Clara looked at him, with perfect mystification in her countenance.

“I am weary of these enigmas,” she said coldly; “pray speak plainly, Mr. Danielson.”

“I will,” answered the clerk; “I will go back to the day when you were seventeen years of age—yes, it was your seventeenth birthday; and I had been teaching you for a year then, and had found you the brightest pupil whose apt intelligence ever sent a thrill of pride through a master’s heart. It was your birthday. You and some happy girls of your own age were to celebrate the day by a rustic fête. You were busy, decorating your favourite rooms with garlands of flowers, when I came that morning to give you your usual lesson. You told me that you were to have a holiday—there were to be no studies that day; but when I would have turned to leave you, Heaven knows how sorrowfully, you called me back, and invited me—me, the humpbacked, low-born, village schoolmaster—to share the day’s pleasure, to join in the simple festival.

“Can I ever forget that day? Have I ever forgotten it? No, Mrs. Westford, not once in all these long dreary years has the memory of that bright summer morning faded away from me. I have drowned it in fiery drink—I have maddened my miserable brains with brandy; but I have never forgotten, and I never shall. Upon my deathbed the memory of my youth’s one passion will haunt me still, as it has haunted me all my life.

“I can see you now as I saw you that day, Clara. Ah, let me call you Clara once more, as I did on that fatal day—as I have called you in my dreams ever since, as I shall call you with my latest breath when I die! What can it matter to you if such a wretch as I am insolent in the madness of my idolatry? What am I but a worm beneath your feet? Yes, Clara, I can see you now as I saw you then, with your soft brown hair falling in ringlets to your waist, and shot with wandering gleams of gold; your large dark eyes, blue with the serene azure of the skies; your parted lips, more lovely than if they had been sculptured out of coral. I had Catullus and Horace at my fingers’ ends in those days, and all manner of poetic fancies used to arise in my mind as I looked at you. A garland of white lilies crowned your brow; but the loveliest of them was not fairer than yourself. You were pleased to be gracious to me; you bade me help you with the baskets of June roses, the honeysuckle, the seringa, which you were twining into wreaths and festoons to decorate your pretty rooms. The proud baronet’s lovely daughter did not know that the humpbacked schoolmaster was so mad, so presumptuous, as to love her with a devotion which the fairest of womankind does not always inspire even once in a lifetime—the devotion of the slavish idolater, who cries, Give me leave only to lie upon the ground under your feet, that I may be trampled out of life by the creature I adore!

“Clara!” cried the clerk, with subdued vehemence, “I went mad altogether that day—I lost all consciousness of who and what I was. I might have had the rank of a duke, the wealth of a millionnaire, the beauty of an Adonis, for all the recollection I had of the monstrous gulf that separated you and me. I remembered only that you were beautiful, and that I loved you. In an evil moment my folly reached its climax. I spoke. I told you all. In one instant I was reminded of the audacity to which my wild passion had urged me. The daughter of Sir John Ponsonby answered my mad burst of passionate prayer with quiet dignity. She did not rebuke my presumption, but she let me understand how much I had presumed. Had all ended here, Clara, I could have borne my deserved humiliation, and I should have cherished your image as that of the purest and best of womankind, as well as the loveliest. But my punishment did not so end. Your wrath was not appeased by my humble apology. I slunk away from you abashed, repentant, and, as I thought, forgiven. You had deceived me by an appearance of mercy which you did not feel. As I was crossing the park, dejected, miserable, with my heart bleeding, and tears that were not all unmanly in my eyes, I was pursued, seized roughly, violently, by a couple of lacqueys, and dragged by brute force to your father’s study, where the infuriated baronet sprang on me, and horsewhipped me until I was unable to crawl from his presence. Then only was his fury appeased. He sent for a surgeon, and under the cover of night I was carried home to my lonely dwelling, where I recovered from my wounds as I might, unnoticed and unaided—except by a deaf old village crone who succoured me in my helplessness, and never thought of questioning the nature of my illness, which I told her arose from rheumatism.

“Call it cowardice, if you like; I sought no redress from the man who had assaulted me; I kept the secret of my wrongs, and, as soon as I was sufficiently recovered, I threw up my situation and came to London, leaving my native place for ever, and leaving it a heart-broken man.

“You had found it impossible to forgive the wretch who dared to love you, Clara, and who in an evil hour told you of his love. You urged your father to avenge a wrong which some women would have been merciful enough to pardon—for even the love of a Caliban is a kind of tribute.”

“It is false!” cried Mrs. Westford, with passionate energy; “I never mentioned your name to my father on that day. I never knew until this moment that you had suffered an indignity, such a cruel wrong, at his hands. I remember, now, that my French governess was in the conservatory adjoining the room in which we were standing when you made that foolish avowal which I forgave as completely as I regretted that it should have been spoken. She overheard all, and threatened to tell my father. I implored her not to betray you, and I believed until this moment that she had kept your secret. For myself, I should have been the last to inflict humiliation upon a man whose learning I respected, and for whose patient kindness as a tutor I had good reason to be grateful.”

“Mrs. Westford, is this true?” asked the clerk earnestly.

“Look in my face, and doubt me if you can,” answered Clara.

“No, I cannot doubt you,” answered Danielson, with a burst of emotion. “Truth beams from the eyes whose loveliness has haunted me throughout a lifetime. O, how I have wronged you! But it is not yet too late to repair that wrong; and it shall be repaired. Trust in me, Clara Westford; you have found a friend who will restore you your rights—an avenger who will bring your enemy, Rupert Godwin, to justice.”