CHAPTER XXVI. THE EVIL DRAWS NIGHER.
I rose early, and went to my uncle's room. He was awake, but complained of headache. I took him a cup of tea, and at his request left him.
About noon Martha brought me a letter where I sat alone in the drawing-room. I carried it to my uncle. He took it with a trembling hand, read it, and fell back with his eyes closed. I ran for brandy.
“Don't be frightened, little one,” he called after me. “I don't want anything.”
“Won't you tell me what is the matter, uncle?” I said, returning. “Is it necessary I should be kept ignorant?”
“Not at all, my little one.”
“Don't you think, uncle,” I dared to continue, forgetting in my love all difference of years, “that, whatever it be that troubles us, it must be better those who love us should know it? Is there some good in a secret after all?”
“None, my darling,” he answered. “The thing that made me talk to you so against secrets when you were a child, was, that I had one myself—one that was, and is, eating the heart out of me. But that woman shall not know and you be ignorant! I will not have a secret with her!—Leave me now, please, little one.”
I rose at once.
“May I take the letter with me, uncle?” I asked.
He rubbed his forehead with a still trembling hand. The trembling of that beloved hand filled me with such a divine sense of pity, that for the first time I seemed to know God, causing in me that consciousness! The whole human mother was roused in me for my uncle. I would die, I would kill to save him! The worm was welcome to swallow me! My very being was a well of loving pity, pouring itself out over that trembling hand.
He took up the letter, gave it to me, and turned his face away with a groan. I left the room in strange exaltation—the exaltation of merest love.
I went to the study, and there read the hateful letter.
Here it is. Having transcribed it, I shall destroy it.
“Sir,—For one who persists in coming between a woman and her son, who will blame the mother if she cast aside forbearance! I would have spared you as hitherto; I will spare you no longer. You little thought when you crossed me who I was—the one in the world in whose power you lay! I would perish ever-lastingly rather than permit one of my blood to marry one of yours. My words are strong; you are welcome to call them unladylike; but you shall not doubt what I mean. You know perfectly that, if I denounce you as a murderer, I can prove what I say; and as to my silence for so many years, I am able thoroughly to account for it. I shall give you no further warning. You know where my son is: if he is not in my house within two days, I shall have you arrested. I have made up my mind.
“Lucretia Cairnedge.
“Rising-Manor, July 15, 18—.”
“Whoever be the father, she's the mother of lies!” I exclaimed.—“My uncle—the best and gentlest of men, a murderer!”
I laughed aloud in my indignation and wrath.
But, though the woman was a liar, she must have something to say with a show of truth! How else would she dare intimidation with such a man? How else could her threat have so wrought upon my uncle? What did she know, or imagine she knew? What could be the something on which she founded her lie?—That my uncle was going to tell me, nor did I dread hearing his story. No revelation would lower him in my eyes! Of that I was confident. But I little thought how long it would be before it came, or what a terrible tale it would prove.
I ran down the stair with the vile paper in my hand.
“The wicked woman!” I cried. “If she be John's mother, I don't care: she's a devil and a liar!”
“Hush, hush, little one!” said my uncle, with a smile in which the sadness seemed to intensify the sweetness; “you do not know anything against her! You do not know she is a liar!”
“There are things, uncle, one knows without knowing!”
“What if I said she told no lie?”
“I should say she was a liar although she told no lie. My uncle is not what she threatens to say he is!”
“But men have repented, and grown so different you would not know them: how can you tell it has not been so with me? I may have been a bad man once, and grown better!”
“I know you are trying to prepare me for what you think will be a shock, uncle!” I answered; “but I want no preparing. Out with your worst! I defy you!”
Ah me, confident! But I had not to repent of my confidence!
My uncle gave a great sigh. He looked as if there was nothing for him now but tell all. Evidently he shrank from the task.
He put his hand over his eyes, and said slowly,—
“You belong to a world, little one, of which you know next to nothing. More than Satan have fallen as lightning from heaven!”
He lay silent so long that I was constrained to speak again.
“Well, uncle dear,” I said, “are you not going to tell me?”
“I cannot,” he answered.
There was absolute silence for, I should think, about twenty minutes. I could not and would not urge him to speak. What right had I to rouse a killing effort! He was not bound to tell me anything! But I mourned the impossibility of doing my best for him, poor as that best might be.
“Do not think, my darling,” he said at last, and laid his hand on my head as I knelt beside him, “that I have the least difficulty in trusting you; it is only in telling you. I would trust you with my eternal soul. You can see well enough there is something terrible to tell, for would I not otherwise laugh to scorn the threat of that bad woman? No one on the earth has so little right to say what she knows of me. Yet I do share a secret with her which feels as if it would burst my heart. I wish it would. That would open the one way out of all my trouble. Believe me, little one, if any ever needed God, I need him. I need the pardon that goes hand in hand with righteous judgment, the pardon of him who alone can make lawful excuse.”
“May God be your judge, uncle, and neither man nor woman!”
“I do not think you would altogether condemn me, little one, much as I loathe myself—terribly as I deserve condemnation.”
“Condemn you, uncle! I want to know all, just to show you that nothing can make the least difference. If you were as bad as that bad woman says, you should find there was one of your own blood who knew what love meant. But I know you are good, uncle, whatever you may have done.”
“Little one, you comfort me,” sighed my uncle. “I cannot tell you this thing, for when I had told it, I should want to kill myself more than ever. But neither can I bear that you should not know it. I will not have a secret with that woman! I have always intended to tell you everything. I have the whole fearful story set down for your eyes—and those of any you may wish to see it: I cannot speak the words into your ears. The paper I will give you now; but you will not open it until I give you leave.”
“Certainly not, uncle.”
“If I should die before you have read it, I permit and desire you to read it. I know your loyalty so well, that I believe you would not look at it even after my death, if I had not given you permission. There are those who treat the dead as if they had no more rights of any kind. 'Get away to Hades,' they say; 'you are nothing now.' But you will not behave so to your uncle, little one! When the time comes for you to read my story, remember that I now, in preparation for the knowledge that will give you, ask you to pardon me then for all the pain it will cause you and your husband—John being that husband. I have tried to do my best for you, Orbie: how much better I might have done had I had a clear conscience, God only knows. It may be that I was the tenderer uncle that I could not be a better one.”
He hid his face in his hands, and burst into a tempest of weeping.
It was terrible to see the man to whom I had all my life looked with a reverence that prepared me for knowing the great father, weeping like a bitterly repentant and self-abhorrent child. It seemed sacrilege to be present. I felt as if my eyes, only for seeing him thus, deserved the ravens to pick them out.
I could not contain myself. I rose and threw my arms about him, got close to him as a child to her mother, and, as soon as the passion of my love would let me, sobbed out,
“Uncle! darling uncle! I love you more than ever! I did not know before that I could love so much! I could kill that woman with my own hands! I wish I had killed her when I pulled her down that day! It is right to kill poisonous creatures: she is worse than any snake!”
He smiled a sad little smile, and shook his head. Then first I seemed to understand a little. A dull flash went through me.
I stood up, drew back, and gazed at him. My eyes fixed themselves on his. I stared into them. He had ceased to weep, and lay regarding me with calm response.
“You don't mean, uncle,—?”
“Yes, little one, I do. That woman was the cause of the action for which she threatens to denounce me as a murderer. I do not say she intended to bring it about; but none the less was she the consciously wicked and wilful cause of it.—And you will marry her son, and be her daughter!” he added, with a groan as of one in unutterable despair.
I sprang back from him. My very proximity was a pollution to him while he believed such a thing of me!
“Never, uncle, never!” I cried. “How can you think so ill of one who loves you as I do! I will denounce her! She will be hanged, and we shall be at peace!”
“And John?” said my uncle.
“John must look after himself!” I answered fiercely. “Because he chooses to have such a mother, am I to bring her a hair's-breadth nearer to my uncle! Not for any man that ever was born! John must discard his mother, or he and I are as we were! A mother! She is a hyena, a shark, a monster! Uncle, she is a devil!—I don't care! It is true; and what is true is the right thing to say. I will go to her, and tell her to her face what she is!”
I turned and made for the door. My heart felt as big as the biggest man's.
“If she kill you, little one,” said my uncle quietly, “I shall be left with nobody to take care of me!”
I burst into fresh tears. I saw that I was a fool, and could do nothing.
“Poor John!—To have such a mother!” I sobbed. Then in a rage of rebellion I cried, “I don't believe she is his mother! Is it possible now, uncle—does it stand to reason, that such a pestilence of a woman should ever have borne such a child as my John? I don't, I can't, I won't believe it!”
“I am afraid there are mysteries in the world quite as hard to explain!” replied my uncle.
“I confess, if I had known who was his mother, I should have been far from ready to yield my consent to your engagement.”
“What does it matter?” I said. “Of course I shall not marry him!”
“Not marry him, child!” returned my uncle. “What are you thinking of? Is the poor fellow to suffer for, as well as by the sins of his mother?”
“If you think, uncle, that I will bring you into any kind of relation with that horrible woman, if the worst of it were only that you would have to see her once because she was my husband's mother, you are mistaken. She to threaten you if you did not send back her son, as if John were a horse you had stolen! You have been the angel of God about me all the days of my life, but even to please you, I cannot consent to despise myself. Besides, you know what she threatens!”
“She shall not hurt me. I will take care of myself for your sakes. Your life shall not be clouded by scandal about your uncle.”
“How are you to prevent it, uncle dear? Fulfil her threat or not, she would be sure to talk!”
“When she sees it can serve no purpose, she will hardly risk reprisals.”
“She will certainly not risk them when she finds we have said good-bye.”
“But how would that serve me, little one? What! would you heap on your uncle's conscience, already overburdened, the misery of keeping two lovely lovers apart? I will tell you what I have resolved upon. I will have no more secrets from you, Orba. Oh, how I thank you, dearest, for not casting me off!”
Again I threw myself on my knees by his bed.
“Uncle,” I cried, my heart ready to break with the effort to show itself, “if I did not now love you more than ever, I should deserve to be cast out, and trodden under foot!—What do you think of doing?”
“I shall leave the country, not to return while the woman lives.”
“I'm ready, uncle,” I said, springing to my feet; “—at least I shall be in a few minutes!”
“But hear me out, little one,” he rejoined, with a smile of genuine pleasure; “you don't know half my plan yet. How am I to live abroad, if my property go to rack and ruin? Listen, and don't say anything till I have done; I have no time to lose; I must get up at once.—As soon as I am on board at Dover for Paris, you and John must get yourselves married the first possible moment, and settle down here—to make the best of the farm you can, and send me what you can spare. I shall not want much, and John will have his own soon. I know you will be good to Martha!”
“John may take the farm if he will. It would be immeasurably better than living with his mother. For me, I am going with my uncle. Why, uncle, I should be miserable in John's very arms and you out of the country for our sakes! Is there to be nobody in the world but husbands, forsooth! I should love John ever so much more away with you and my duty, than if I had him with me, and you a wanderer. How happy I shall be, thinking of John, and taking care of you!”
He let me run on. When I stopped at length—
“In any case,” he said with a smile, “we cannot do much till I am dressed!”
CHAPTER XXVII. AN ENCOUNTER.
I left my uncle's room, and went to my own, to make what preparation I could for going abroad with him. I got out my biggest box, and put in all my best things, and all the trifles I thought I could not do without. Then, as there was room, I put in things I could do without, which yet would be useful. Still there was room; the content would shake about on the continent! So I began to put in things I should like to have, but which were neither necessary nor useful. Before I had got these in, the box was more than full, and some of them had to be taken out again. In choosing which were to go and which to be left, I lost time; but I did not know anything about the trains, and expected to be ready before my uncle, who would call me when he thought fit.
My thoughts also hindered my hands. Very likely I should never marry John; I would not heed that; he would be mine all the same! but to promise that I would not marry him, because it suited such a mother's plans to marry him to some one else—that I would not do to save my life! I would have done it to save my uncle's, but our exile would render it unnecessary!
At last I was ready, and went to find my uncle, reproaching myself that I had been so long away from him. Besides, I ought to have been helping him to pack, for neither he nor his arm was quite strong yet. With a heartful of apology, I sought his room. He was not there. Neither was he in the study. I went all over the house, and then to the stable; but he was nowhere, neither had anyone seen him. And Death was gone too!
The truth burst upon me: I was to see him no more while that terrible woman lived! No one was to know whither he had gone! He had given himself for my happiness! Vain intention! I should never be happy! To be in Paradise without him, would not be to be in Heaven!
John was in London; I could do nothing! I threw myself on my uncle's bed, and lay lost in despair! Even if John were with me, and we found him, what could we do? I knew it now as impossible for him to separate us that he might be unmolested, as it was for us to accept the sacrifice of his life that we might be happy. I knew that John's way would be to leave everything and go with me and my uncle, only we could not live upon nothing—least of all in a strange land! Martha, to be sure, could manage well enough with the bailiff, but John could not burden my uncle, and could not lay his hands on his own! In the mean time my uncle was gone we knew not whither! I was like one lost on the dark mountains.—If only John would come to take part in my despair!
With a sudden agony, I reproached myself that I had made no attempt to overtake my uncle. It was true I did not know, for nobody could tell me, in what direction he had gone; but Zoe's instinct might have sufficed where mine was useless! Zoe might have followed and found Thanatos! It was hopeless now!
But I could no longer be still. I got Zoe, and fled to the moor. All the rest of the day I rode hither and thither, nor saw a single soul on its wide expanse. The very life seemed to have gone out of it. When most we take comfort in loneliness, it is because there is some one behind it.
The sun was set and the twilight deepening toward night when I turned to ride home. I had eaten nothing since breakfast, and though not hungry, was thoroughly tired. Through the great dark hush, where was no sound of water, though here and there, like lurking live thing, it lay about me, I rode slowly back. My fasting and the dusk made everything in turn take a shape that was not its own. I seemed to be haunted by things unknown. I have sometimes thought whether the spirits that love solitary places, may not delight in appropriating, for embodiment momentary and partial, such a present shape as may happen to fit one of their passing moods; whether it is always the mere gnarled, crone-like hawthorn, or misshapen rock, that, between the wanderer and the pale sky, suddenly appals him with the sense of another. The hawthorn, the rock, the dead pine, is indeed there, but is it alone there?
Some such thought was, I remember, in my mind, when, about halfway from home, I grew aware of something a little way in front that rose between me and a dark part of the sky. It seemed a figure on a huge horse. My first thought, very naturally, was of my uncle; the next, of the great gray horse and his rider that John and I had both seen on the moor. I confess to a little awe at the thought of the latter; but I am somehow made so as to be capable of awe without terror, and of the latter I felt nothing. The composite figure drew nearer: it was a woman on horseback. Immediately I recalled the adventure of my childhood; and then remembered that John had said his mother always rode the biggest horse she could find: could that shape, towering in the half-dark before me, be indeed my deadly enemy—she who, my uncle had warned me, would kill me if she had the chance? A fear far other than ghostly invaded me, and for a moment I hesitated whether to ride on, or turn and make for some covert, until she should have passed from between me and my home. I hope it was something better than pride that made me hold on my way. If the wicked, I thought, flee when no man pursueth, it ill becomes the righteous to flee before the wicked. By this time it was all but dark night, and I had a vague hope of passing unquestioned: there had been a good deal of rain, and we were in a very marshy part of the heath, so that I did not care to leave the track. But, just ere we met, the lady turned her great animal right across the way, and there made him stand.
“Ah,” thought I, “what could Zoe do in a race with that terrible horse!”
He seemed made of the darkness, and rose like the figurehead of a frigate above a yacht.
“Show me the way to Rising,” said his rider.
The hard bell-voice was unmistakable.
“When you come where the track forks,” I began.
She interrupted me.
“How can I distinguish in the dark?” she returned angrily. “Go on before, and show me the way.”
Now I had good reason for thinking she knew the way perfectly well; and still better reason for declining to go on in front of her.
“You must excuse me,” I said, “for it is time I were at home; but if you will turn and ride on in front of me, I will show you a better, though rather longer way to Rising.”
“Go on, or I will ride you down,” she cried, turning her horse's head toward me, and making her whip hiss through the air.
The sound of it so startled Zoe, that she sprang aside, and was off the road a few yards before I could pull her up. Then I saw the woman urging her horse to follow. I knew the danger she was in, and, though tempted to be silent, called to her with a loud warning.
“Mind what you are doing, Lady Cairnedge!” I cried. “The ground here will not carry the weight of a horse like yours.”
But as I spoke he gave in, and sprang across the ditch at the way-side. There, however, he stood.
“You think to escape me,” she answered, in a low, yet clear voice, with a cat-like growl in it.
“You make a mistake!”
“Your ladyship will make a worse mistake if you follow me here,” I replied.
Her only rejoinder was a cut with her whip to her horse, which had stood motionless since taking his unwilling jump. I spoke to Zoe; she bounded off like a fawn. I pulled her up, and looked back.
Lady Cairnedge continued urging her horse. I heard and saw her whipping him furiously. She had lost her temper.
I warned her once more, but she persisted.
“Then you must take the consequences!” I said; and Zoe and I made for the road, but at a point nearer home.
Had she not been in a passion, she would have seen that her better way was to return to the road, and intercept us; but her anger blinded her both to that and to the danger of the spot she was in.
We had not gone far when we heard behind us the soft plunging and sucking of the big hoofs through the boggy ground. I looked over my shoulder. There was the huge bulk, like Wordsworth's peak, towering betwixt us and the stars!
“Go, Zoe!” I shrieked.
She bounded away. The next moment, a cry came from the horse behind us, and I heard the woman say “Good God!” I stopped, and peered through the dark. I saw something, but it was no higher above the ground than myself. Terror seized me. I turned and rode back.
“My stupid animal has bogged himself!” said lady Cairnedge quietly.
Deep in the dark watery peat, as thick as porridge, her horse gave a fruitless plunge or two, and sank lower.
“For God's sake,” I cried, “get off! Your weight is sinking the poor animal! You will smother him!”
“It will serve him right,” she said venomously, and gave the helpless creature a cut across the ears.
“You will go down with him, if you do not make haste,” I insisted.
Another moment and she stood erect on the back of the slowly sinking horse.
“Come and give me your hand,” she cried.
“You want to smother me with him! I think I will not,” I answered. “You can get on the solid well enough. I will ride home and bring help for your horse, poor fellow! Stay by him, talk to him, and keep him as quiet as you can. If he go on struggling, nothing will save him.”
She replied with a contemptuous laugh.
I got to the road as quickly as possible, and galloped home as fast as Zoe could touch and lift. Ere I reached the stable-yard, I shouted so as to bring out all the men. When I told them a lady had her horse fast in the bog, they bustled and coiled ropes, put collars and chains on four draught-horses, lighted several lanterns, and set out with me. I knew the spot perfectly. No moment was lost either in getting ready, or in reaching the place.
Neither the lady nor her horse was to be seen.
A great horror wrapt me round. I felt a murderess. She might have failed to spring to the bank of the hole for lack of the hand she had asked me to reach out! Or her habit might have been entangled, so that she fell short, and went to the bottom—to be found, one day, hardly changed, by the side of her peat-embalmed steed!—no ill fitting fate for her, but a ghastly thing to have a hand in!
She might, however, be on her way to Rising on foot! I told two of the men to mount a pair of the horses, and go with me on the chance of rendering her assistance.
We took the way to Rising, and had gone about two miles, when we saw her, through the starlight, walking steadily along the track. I rode up to her, and offered her one of the cart-horses: I would not have trusted my Zoe with her any more than with an American lion that lives upon horses. She declined the proffer with quiet scorn. I offered her one or both men to see her home, but the way in which she refused their service, made them glad they had not to go with her. We had no choice, therefore turned and left her to get home as she might.
Not until we were on the way back, did it occur to me that I had not asked Martha whether she knew anything about my uncle's departure. She was never one to volunteer news, and, besides, would naturally think me in his confidence!
I found she knew nothing of our expedition, as no one had gone into the house—had only heard the horses and voices, and wondered. I was able to tell her what had happened; but the moment I began to question her as to any knowledge of my uncle's intentions, my strength gave way, and I burst into tears.
“Don't be silly, Belorba!” cried Martha, almost severely. “You an engaged young lady, and tied so to your uncle's apron-strings that you cry the minute he's out of your sight! You didn't cry when Mr. Day left you!”
“No,” I answered; “he was going only for a day or two!”
“And for how many is your uncle gone?”
“That is what I want to know. He means to be away a long time, I fear.”
“Then it's nothing but your fancy sets you crying!—But I'll just see!” she returned. “I shall know by the money he left for the house-keeping! Only I won't budge till I see you eat.”
Faint for want of food, I had no appetite. But I began at once to eat, and she left me to fetch the money he had given her as he went.
She came back with a pocket-book, opened it, and looked into it. Then she looked at me. Her expression was of unmistakable dismay. I took the pocket-book from her hand: it was full of notes!
I learned afterward, that it was his habit to have money in the house, in readiness for some possible sudden need of it.
CHAPTER XXVIII. ANOTHER VISION.
That same night, within an hour, to my unspeakable relief, John came home—at least he came to me, who he always said was his home. It was rather late, but we went out to the wilderness, where I had a good cry on his shoulder; after which I felt better, and hope began to show signs of life in me. I never asked him how he had got on in London, but told him all that had happened since he went. It was worse than painful to tell him about his mother's letter, and what my uncle told me in consequence of it, also my personal adventure with her so lately; but I felt I must hide nothing. If a man's mother is a devil, it is well he should know it.
He sat like a sleeping hurricane while I spoke, saying never a word. When I had ended,—
“Is that all?” he asked.
“It is all, John: is it not enough?” I answered.
“It is enough,” he cried, with an oath that frightened me, and started to his feet. The hurricane was awake.
I threw my arms round him.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“To her” he answered.
“What for?”
“To kill her,” he said—then threw himself on the ground, and lay motionless at my feet.
I kept silence. I thought with myself he was fighting the nature his mother had given him.
He lay still for about two minutes, then quietly rose.
“Good night, dearest!” he said; “—no; good-bye! It is not fit the son of such a mother should marry any honest woman.”
“I beg your pardon, John!” I returned; “I hope I may have a word in the matter! If I choose to marry you, what right have you to draw back? Let us leave alone the thing that has to be, and remember that my uncle must not be denounced as a murderer! Something must be done. That he is beyond personal danger for the present is something; but is he to be the talk of the country?”
“No harm shall come to him,” said John. “If I don't throttle the tigress, I'll muzzle her. I know how to deal with her. She has learned at least, that what her stupid son says, he does! I shall make her understand that, on her slightest movement to disgrace your uncle, I will marry you right off, come what may; and if she goes on, I shall get myself summoned for the defence, that, if I can say nothing for him, I may say something against her. Besides, I will tell her that, when my time comes, if I find anything amiss with her accounts, I will give her no quarter.—But, Orbie,” he continued, “as I will not threaten what I may not be able to perform, you must promise not to prevent me from carrying it out.”
“I promise,” I said, “that, if it be necessary for your truth, I will marry you at once. I only hope she may not already have taken steps!”
“Her two days are not yet expired. I shall present myself in good time.—But I wonder you are not afraid to trust yourself alone with the son of such a mother!”
“To be what I know you, John,” I answered, “and the son of that woman, shows a good angel was not far off at your birth. But why talk of angels? Whoever was your mother, God is your father!”
He made no reply beyond a loving pressure of my hand. Then he asked me whether I could lend him something to ride home upon. I told him there was an old horse the bailiff rode sometimes; I was very sorry he could not have Zoe: she had been out all day and was too tired! He said Zoe was much too precious for a hulking fellow like him to ride, but he would be glad of the old horse.
I went to the stable with him, and saw him mount. What a determined look there was on his face! He seemed quite a middle-aged man.
I have now to tell how he fared on the moor as he rode.
It had turned gusty and rather cold, and was still a dark night. The moon would be up by and by however, and giving light enough, he thought, before he came to the spot where his way parted company with that to Dumbleton. The moon, however, did not see fit to rise so soon as John expected her: he was not at that time quite up in moons, any more than in the paths across that moor.
Now as he had not an idea where his rider wanted to be carried, and as John did for a while—he confessed it—fall into a reverie or something worse, old Sturdy had to choose for himself where to go, and took a path he had often had to take some years before; nor did John discover that he was out of the way, until he felt him going steep clown, and thought of Sleipner bearing Hermod to the realm of Hela. But he let him keep on, wishing to know, as he said, what the old fellow was up to. Presently, he came to a dead halt.
John had not the least notion where they were, but I knew the spot the moment he began to describe it. By the removal of the peat on the side of a slope, the skeleton of the hill had been a little exposed, and had for a good many years been blasted for building-stones. Nothing was going on in the quarry at present. Above, it was rather a dangerous place; there was a legend of man and horse having fallen into it, and both being killed. John had never seen or heard of it.
When his horse stopped, he became aware of an indefinite sensation which inclined him to await the expected moon before attempting either to advance or return. He thought afterward it might have been some feeling of the stone about him, but at the time he took the place for an abrupt natural dip of the surface of the moor, in the bottom of which might be a pool. Sturdy stood as still as if he had been part of the quarry, stood as if never of himself would he move again.
The light slowly grew, or rather, the darkness slowly thinned. All at once John became aware that, some yards away from him, there was something whitish. A moment, and it began to move like a flitting mist through the darkness. The same instant Sturdy began to pull his feet from the ground, and move after the mist, which rose and rose until it came for a second or two between John and the sky: it was a big white horse, with my uncle on his back: Death and he, John concluded, were out on one of their dark wanderings! His impulse, of course, was to follow them. But, as they went up the steep way, Sturdy came down on his old knees, and John got off his back to let him recover himself the easier. When they reached the level, where the moon, showing a blunt horn above the horizon, made it possible to see a little, the white horse and his rider had disappeared—in some shadow, or behind some knoll, I fancy; and John, having not the least notion in what part of the moor he was, or in which direction he ought to go, threw the reins on the horse's neck. Sturdy brought him back almost to his stable, before he knew where he was. Then he turned into the road, for he had had enough of the moor, and took the long way home.
CHAPTER XXIX. MOTHER AND SON.
In the morning he breakfasted alone. A son with a different sort of mother, might then have sought her in her bedroom; but John had never within his memory seen his mother in her bedroom, and after what lie had heard the night before, could hardly be inclined to go there to her now. Within half an hour, however, a message was brought him, requesting his presence in her ladyship's dressing-room.
He went with his teeth set.
“Whose horse is that in the stable, John?” she said, the moment their eyes met.
“Mr. Whichcote's, madam,” answered John: mother he could not say.
“You intend to keep up your late relations with those persons?”
“I do.”
“You mean to marry the hussy?”
“I mean to marry the lady to whom you give that epithet. There are those who think it not quite safe for you to call other people names!”
She rose and came at him as if she would strike him. John stood motionless. Except a woman had a knife in her hand, he said, he would not even avoid a blow from her. “A woman can't hurt you much; she can only break your heart!” he said. “My mother would not know a heart when she had broken it!” he added.
He stood and looked at her.
She turned away, and sat down again. I think she felt the term of her power at hand.
“The man told you then, that, if you did not return immediately, I would get him into trouble?”
“He has told me nothing. I have not seen him for some days. I have been to London.”
“You should have contrived your story better: you contradict yourself.”
“I am not aware that I do.”
“You have the man's horse!”
“His horse is in my stable; he is not himself at home.”
“Fled from justice! It shall not avail him!”
“It may avail you though, madam! It is sometimes prudent to let well alone. May I not suggest that a hostile attempt on your part, might lead to awkward revelations?”
“Ah, where could the seed of slander find fitter soil than the heart of a son with whom the prayer of his mother is powerless!”
To all appearance she had thoroughly regained her composure, and looked at him with a quite artistic reproach.
“The prayer of a mother that never prayed in her life!” returned John; “—of a woman that never had an anxiety but for herself!—I don't believe you are my mother. If I was born of you, there must have been some juggling with my soul in antenatal regions! I disown you!” cried John with indignation that grew as he gave it issue.
Her face turned ashy white; but whether it was from conscience or fear, or only with rage, who could tell!
She was silent for a moment. Then again recovering herself,—
“And what, pray, would you make of me?” she said coolly. “Your slave?”
“I would have you an honest woman! I would die for that!—Oh, mother! mother!” he cried bitterly.
“That being apparently impossible, what else does my dutiful son demand of his mother?”
“That she should leave me unmolested in my choice of a wife. It does not seem to me an unreasonable demand!”
“Nor does it seem to me an unreasonable reply, that any mother would object to her son's marrying a girl whose father she could throw into a felon's-prison with a word!”
“That the girl does not happen to be the daughter of the gentleman you mean, signifies nothing: I am very willing she should pass for such. But take care. He is ready to meet whatever you have to say. He is not gone for his own sake, but to be out of the way of our happiness—to prevent you from blasting us with a public scandal. If you proceed in your purpose, we shall marry at once, and make your scheme futile.”
“How are you to live, pray?”
“Madam, that is my business,” answered John.
“Are you aware of the penalty on your marrying without my consent?” pursued his mother.
“I am not. I do not believe there is any such penalty.”
“You dare me?”
“I do.”
“Marry, then, and take the consequences.”
“If there were any, you would not thus warn me of them.”
“John Day, you are no gentleman!”
“I shall not ask your definition of a gentleman, madam.”
“Your father was a clown!”
“If my father were present, he would show himself a gentleman by making you no answer. If you say a word more against him, I will leave the room.”
“I tell you your father was a clown and a fool—like yourself!”
John turned and went to the stable, had old Sturdy saddled, and came to me.
On his way over the heath, he spent an hour trying to find the place where he had been the night before, but without success. I presume that Sturdy, with his nose in that direction, preferred his stall, and did not choose to find the quarry. As often as John left him to himself, he went homeward. When John turned his head in another direction, he would set out in that direction, but gradually work round for the farm.
John told me all I have just set down, and then we talked.
“I have already begun to learn farming,” I said.
“You are the right sort, Orbie!” returned John. “I shall be glad to teach you anything I know.”
“If you will show me how a farmer keeps his books,” I answered, “that I may understand the bailiff's, I shall be greatly obliged to you. As to the dairy, and poultry-yard, and that kind of thing, Martha can teach me as well as any.”
“I'll do my best,” said John.
“Come along then, and have a talk with Simmons! I feel as if I could bear anything after what you saw last night. My uncle is not far off! He is somewhere about with the rest of the angels!”