CHAPTER XXXVIII.—‘ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE’
On arriving at the inquiry office, Sutherland was at once shown in to the chief of the establishment, who looked truly concerned and anxious.
‘Glad you’ve come, sir,’ he said at once; ‘for perhaps you can help me out of my quandary. You got my little note? Well, the fact is, I think—I’m almost sure, in fact—that we’ve discovered the lady.’
‘So you wrote; but how? Where? 9 ‘Well, it’s a sad case!’ murmured the chief with a shake of the head. ‘How we’re to break it to the husband, who is half mad with grief and anxiety, is a puzzler. My great fear is that the news may get to him before we’ve time to break it.’
‘Explain!’ cried Sutherland impatiently.
The chief opened his desk, and took out a large handbill, which he unfolded.
‘Just look at this, sir,’ he said, while the young man read it with a shudder. ‘This is only a copy of the bill which the police will have all over London to-morrow, and perhaps in some of the papers. I’ve already been down to Chelsea to make an inspection, and I don’t think there’s any mistake about it. What makes it quite clear is the bracelets. Her Christian name—Madeline—is graven inside.—But you’re not well, sir. I don’t wonder it has turned you sick. Shall I give you a drop of brandy? I have it handy.’
Sutherland, who had turned faint and deadly pale, recovered himself with an effort.
‘Never mind me. Think of him, her husband. You say you haven’t communicated with him?’
‘No, sir. It was only found early this morning, and the moment I heard of the discovery I sent straight to you.’ ‘But the police——’
‘I’ve squared that. They won’t send to him to-night without communicating with me.’
‘The shock will be frightful—enough to kill him.’
‘No doubt of that, but there’s no help for it—he must know.’
‘The first thing to do is to make certain of the identity. The description may be misleading. I suppose I can see her?’
‘Yes, sir, returned the chief with alacrity. ‘If you like I’ll go down with you at once.’
A few minutes later Sutherland and the inquiry officer were rattling down towards Putney in a hansom cab. It was a dark and dismal afternoon in autumn, and as they rapidly passed the gates of Hyde Park the leafless trees looked desolate through a thin mist of rain. To the eye of Edgar Sutherland everything was sombre and dreadful, dark with tragic shadows of sin and death.
They drove through Knightsbridge to Hammersmith, then crossing Hammersmith Bridge, beneath which the river rolled black and sinister, came into the gloomy purlieus of a desolate waterside suburb. It was now growing dark, and the street lamps, which were few and far between, flashed dismally on cheerless brand-new villas, for the most part untenanted and faced with boards ‘To Let,’ gloomy gardens, dark brickfields, and spaces of damp meadow stretching down to the river side. Here and there a tavern opened its bloodshot eyes, and attracted one or two dreary moths to its dingy gleam.
After passing through a mile or more of this gloomy neighbourhood, the cab turned down a narrow street running at right angles to the river banks, and pulled up before a desolate stone building with the inscription—‘Police Station.’
The officer alighted and led the way into a whitewashed room, lit by a solitary gas jet, and occupied by a policeman in uniform, who stood at a desk writing. Wafered on the wall, close to the desk, was a placard similar to that which Sutherland had already seen, headed in bold capitals—
FOUND DROWNED!
and giving the description of the body of a female found that morning by a waterman in the near neighbourhood of Putney Bridge.
After a few hurried words with the inquiry officer, the police sergeant turned to Sutherland.
‘You wish to identify, sir? I’m afraid you’ll find it a difficult job. As far as I can make out, it’s been a long time in the water.’
Sutherland shuddered as the sergeant, in the most business-like way possible, took down a key from a nail and led the way to the back of the building, across a damp yard, and up to a low wooden door: this he opened leisurely with his key, and revealed a sort of rude mortuary, lit by a gas jet turned so low down as to leave the place almost in darkness. They entered, and when the sergeant had leisurely turned up the gas, saw, stretched out upon a wooden slab, what had once been a living woman.
She lay exactly as she had been found, with clenched hands and shoeless feet, clad in a plain dress of serge, partly torn and eaten away. Round her shoulders were the remains of a valuable shawl, firmly secured by a large common shawl pin. Her head was bare, and the loose, fair hair, tangled and twisted in moist knots, hung around the disfigured lineaments of a skeletonian face. So horrible was this face, so unrecognisable in its lost humanity, that Sutherland almost swooned as he looked upon it. Alas, what likeness of living flesh and blood could he discover there?
‘She must have been drifting up and down for weeks,’ said the sergeant with professional stolidity; ‘and I suppose last night’s high tide brought her up this way, and carried her into the shallows. There isn’t much remaining of the poor creature except clothes, sir; and her own father could scarcely know her. Seems to have been a fine woman, and quite young, though it’s hard to tell even that.’
There’s a ring on her finger,’ cried Sutherland—‘a wedding-ring?’
‘Yes,’ returned the sergeant, ‘and I understand the missing lady was married. But I shouldn’t go too much by that, sir. Most of the unfortunates who make a hole in the water wear wedding-rings. But these bracelets now, there’s no mistaking them. Just look, sir.’
As he spoke, the sergeant took from a slab at the corpse’s side one or two elegant bracelets, greatly tarnished by the water, but of solid gold.
‘We took them off and had them cleaned for identification; they were in a shocking state, sir, and had worked right into the bone.’
Sutherland took the bracelet, and uttered a horrified exclamation, as he deciphered, cut clearly on the solid surface, these words—
To Dear Madeline.
A birthday gift from her sister,
—Margaret Forster.
At that very moment, as Sutherland stood looking at the bracelets and feeling his heart turn sick within him, a figure flitted in through the open door, and, pushing the two other men aside, gazed on the corpse with a face almost as terrible, almost as ghastly, as its own. The inquiry officer recognised James Forster in a moment, and made a movement as if to intercept his view of the dead woman, but in an instant he was on his knees, gazing wildly into the cold disfigured face, and stretching out his arms in horrified entreaty and recognition. ‘Madeline! My darling!’
The wild cry rang out in the desolate place, with a tone of infinite agony and woe.
CHAPTER XXXIX.—DUST TO DUST.
Let us draw a veil over the horrors and sorrows of that night. It is enough to say that the distracted husband, when he had recovered from the first paralysing shock of the spectacle, recognised without hesitation in the distorted and disfigured mass the remains of his beloved wife. But, indeed, there was no room for doubt. The form and complexion were the same, and the bracelets with their inscription placed the identity beyond question. Not without difficulty did Sutherland and the police officials persuade Forster to leave the corpse’s side. He would fain have remained by it, watching and praying, till daybreak; but at last they prevailed, and Sutherland helped him home. His grief was, indeed, piteous to behold. After the first wild ebullition, he scarcely wept; his face was like a stone, set in horror and despair; only from to time he uttered a wild, heart-rending moan, and shivered through all his frame like a man struck by ague. So he was led home to his lonely house, to the care of his sister, who was stirred to the depths for his sake, and watched him with infinite tenderness.
Early the next morning Sutherland called, and Miss Forster rejoiced to see him and accepted with eagerness his offer of personal assistance. All night long her brother had remained like one physically crushed and broken, always conscious and uttering intermittent cries of pain. At daybreak he would have flown down to Putney, but they restrained him almost by main force, yet with less difficulty than might have been anticipated, for his strong will seemed shattered and all his spirit clouded as by a frightful dream.
Of course, under the circumstances, a public inquest was unavoidable. At the inquest, evidence of identity was given. Forster claimed the remains as those of his wife, and a sympathetic jury returned a verdict of ‘Accidentally drowned.’ Society was for some days slightly agitated on the subject, the general impression being that the unfortunate lady, for some unexplained reason, had committed suicide. For a marvel, the so-called society journals preserved a decent silence; the fact being that Sutherland, in his capacity of self-constituted champion, had interviewed both Lagardère and Yahoo, and extracted from them, jointly and severally, a promise to abstain from any immediate allusions to the case. How he effected this object has never been disclosed; but he was, as we know, a determined man, and possibly the gentlemen perceived that publication would make a corporal chastisement inevitable. They were the more willing to forego their usual carrion as they were greatly exercising their readers at that time in speculations as to whether a certain Italian prima donna who shall be nameless was or was not the daughter of an itinerant pieman in the Seven Dials, and as to what were the precise relations between the Prince of Scotland and Mademoiselle Schwangau, the charming topical singer of the Parisian cafés chantants.
So it came to pass that the poor remains, in a sealed coffin, were taken to Queen’s Gate, and remained there until the day fixed for a quiet funeral. Most of the necessary arrangements were superintended by Sutherland, who had, as if almost by right, quietly established himself as a friend of the family. The brother and sister accepted his services gratefully, and almost without a word of explanation.
The funeral took place at Kensal Green. The only followers were Forster and his new acquaintance. At the grave the former utterly broke down, his wild tears flowing for the first time.
The two men returned to Forster’s house together.
‘I shall never forget your kindness,’ said Forster, during an interval of comparative calmness. ‘May God bless you for it! I am a broken man now, and have nothing left to live for; but while I live let us be friends.’
And he wrung the young man’s hands.
‘You have nothing to thank me for,’ replied Sutherland. ‘What I have done for you, I would, of course, do for any fellow-man in distress. But I had a deep respect, a profound sympathy, for your wife.’
‘Though, as I understand, you scarcely knew her,’ said Forster, not without a certain wistful curiosity.
‘I could not be said to know her at all. We met twice or thrice, almost as strangers, and then I saw her performances at the Parthenon.’
‘We were so happy,’ cried Forster, with a sudden access of passionate emotion; ‘and she was so good! All goodness—all goodness! God knows under what misconceptions she left my roof. But I know she had an enemy, and perhaps——’
‘Can you bear to speak of that!’ interrupted Sutherland. ‘Hitherto I have forborne from touching on the subject, but with your permission I should like to say a few words now.’
‘Do so—I will try to attend.’
‘You are aware that Mrs. Forster was acquainted with a Frenchman, named Gavrolles, now in London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know—forgive me if I pain you—the nature of her relations with him?’
‘I think I do,’ returned Forster. ‘Before my darling’s guardian died, he confided to me that, when quite a child, she had been betrayed into a mock marriage with a foreigner, who almost immediately abandoned her. I knew this when I married her. I have no doubt that this Gavrolles is the same man; that he again thrust himself in her way; that, in order to avoid him, and dreading some misunderstanding on my part, she yielded to a wild impulse and—and——’
But here Forster broke down sobbing, and hid his face in his hands. Deeply moved, Sutherland touched him gently on the shoulder, as he said:—
‘I think it has all been as you say. With regard to Mrs. Forster’s first acquaintance with this man, I can myself tell you something which will, I think, convince you of her innocence in the matter.’ Sutherland thereupon briefly recounted his first meeting with Madeline in the hotel at Fecamp, his suspicions of her companions, his offers of assistance; and explained also briefly the part he had taken afterwards, when they met again in Paris—saying nothing, however, of his own temporary misconception of Madeline’s true character, but describing the manner in which, on her abandonment by her pseudo-husband, he had restored her into the hands of her guardian.
‘That is all I know,’ he said in conclusion, ‘and I think it is enough to justify you in your noble faith in Mrs. Forster’s honour. From first to last, when a mere child, she was this man’s victim, and so sure as there is a God above us, her death lies at his door.’
Trembling with agitation, Forster rose to his feet.
‘Where is he? Let me see him! Yes, you are right—he has killed her. Tell me where he is, that I may find him out, and——’
At this moment a servant entered, bearing a card. A gentleman, he said, was waiting below desirous of seeing Mr. Forster on most important business. Almost mechanically Forster took the card and glanced at it. As he read the inscription upon it, he uttered a sharp cry and turned deathly pale.
Graven on the card, in fantastic letters, with many characteristic flourishes, was the name—
M. Auguste de Gavrolles.
The first shock of surprise over, Forster glanced up and found that Sutherland’s eyes were bent inquiringly upon his. He handed him the card.
‘My wish has been answered,’ he said with ominous calmness. ‘The very man I most wished to see is here, only I had rather the meeting had taken place beneath any roof but mine;’ then turning to the servant, he added, ‘Show the person into the drawing-room, and say I will come to him.’
The servant retired, and once more Sutherland and Forster were left alone. Sutherland stood as if transfixed, with the elegant piece of pasteboard bearing the Frenchman’s name held still before his eyes; while Forster, bereft now of all his calmness, paced excitedly up and down the room. The sight of the Frenchman’s name at such a time almost transformed him into a madman. Trembling from head to foot, yet pale as death, he at last rushed to the door, when Sutherland laid his hand upon his shoulder to detain him.
‘I see you have made up your mind to meet the man.’ ‘I have.’
‘Well, so far I think you have done well, but before you meet him will you listen to some advice from me?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Nothing against your own interest or hers. I know that if you had descended the stairs two minutes ago you would either have strangled this Frenchman or thrashed him within an inch of his life. Your conduct would have been justifiable, but not wise. You yourself would have regretted it before the morning. Be sure retribution shall come to him, though it may not come to-night. Now, I want you to forget for a time that this scoundrel ever intended the slightest harm to your dead wife.’
‘My God!’
‘I know the task will be a hard one, but remember it is for her sake. So far he has played his cards well. He knows even now that his person is sacred, because, if in your grief and anger you were tempted to assault him, you would only be the means of scandalising the name of the departed.’
‘Mr. Sutherland, what does all this mean?’
‘Only this. I want you to do me a favour. Will, you? Yes or no?’
‘Yes, certainly, if I can.’
‘Let me still be the champion of your wife?’
‘What!’
‘It is for her sake, remember. She shall be avenged but she must not be scandalised. This Frenchman has some deep motive in coming here. It would be well for both our sakes that I should learn what this motive is. Will you interview him in this room, and conceal me in some place where I can hear your conversation?’
At first Forster protested. To meet the Frenchman in a seemingly amiable spirit seemed beyond him, but Sutherland was so urgent in his pleading that at length his point was won. Forster yielded for Madeline’s sake.
There was a small lavatory adjoining the study—into this Sutherland retired, leaving the door ajar. Forster by a tremendous effort controlled his agitation, and, ringing the bell, ordered the Frenchman to be shown in to him.
Gavrolles entered the room.
He was neatly clad in black, and on his white face there was a grave look of sorrow. As the door closed behind him, he stepped daintily forward to where Forster sat, and as he did so a sickly perfume seemed to penetrate the whole atmosphere. Forster raised his head, looked at the Frenchman’s outstretched hand, but did not move.
‘Ah, monsieur,’ exclamed Gavrolles, ‘how shall I thank you for this interview? I know, monsieur, I must be de trop at such a time as this, but I am as it were a mere machine. I follow not my own inclinations, but the force of circumstances; they have brought me here.’
‘Is this what you have come to say to me?’ asked Forster coldly.
‘Not all, by no means all,’ returned the Frenchman eagerly; ‘but before we proceed to business I must express to you, monsieur, my deep condolence in a great affliction which has befallen you!’
Forster’s face grew livid, he half rose from his chair; then remembering his promise to Sutherland he sank back again with a groan.
‘Be careful,’ he said sternly. ‘If you come here on business, pray state it without further preamble; at all events be good enough not to allude again to my domestic affairs.’
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders and turned upon Forster a pair of eyes lit with a sickly sinister light.
‘Pardon, monsieur,’ he returned blandly. ‘I am sorry if I have pained you—but in this world it is not the fortune of any one that his path should be all sunshine. Though it is much against my inclination, it is of your affairs that I must speak. Listen, monsieur. A little bird has already whispered abroad that Auguste de Gavrolles and Madame Forster were acquainted. Having learned so much, the curious are naturally anxious to hear more. They love romances. Here is one ready made, they say, but there is only one man who can tell it truly; and that man is Gavrolles. Accordingly Gavrolles is besieged. Well, he does not wish to speak, for though he has been maligned he is a man of honour and an artiste. He is on the horns of a dilemma. The only course for him to take would be to travel far away, but he is a poor man, and without money one can do nothing—absolutely nothing. Do you understand, monsieur?’
Forster shook his head.
‘I confess I do not.’
‘Then I must speak more plainly. Would it not be well, if you said to me, “Monsieur Gavrolles, since I am a rich man, it shall not be for the want of a little filthy lucre that my wife’s name is unpleasantly discussed. You shall not want the means to move away.”’
He paused, and for a moment there was silence. The Frenchman’s face went very pale, his smile became even more baleful, as he saw Forster rise slowly from his seat and point to the door.
‘That is enough,’ he exclaimed; ‘leave my house. If we stood face to face beneath any other roof but mine, I’d kill you like a dog.’
‘Monsieur, you do not understand.’
‘Not understand! You villain, I understand too well. I know what you have done. I know what you would do. You made my wife’s life a hell; you tortured her into her grave; and now instead of feeling any pity for your victim, you come to me and ask me to pay you money to keep you from slandering her name. Leave my house, or as sure as there is a God above us I’ll have you whipped like a cur into the street!’
Forster was trembling from head to foot with rage. The Frenchman, who was still cool, turned to speak, but one look in the other’s face silenced him. He made two steps towards the door; there he paused. He felt in his pocket, drew forth a card, wrote rapidly upon it, then turned to Forster again.
‘Monsieur,’ he said quietly, ‘that is my address for three days at least. I leave it, in case you may wish to write to me.’
So saying, and with a profound bow, he took his leave. Scarcely had the door closed upon the Frenchman when Sutherland burst excitedly into the room.
‘Mr. Forster,’ he said, ‘once more will you do me a favour for your wife’s sake?’
But Forster seemed deaf to his words. He sank into his chair, murmuring, in heart-broken tones—
‘Madeline! my poor murdered wife 1’
‘Pray, listen to me. Send the scoundrel the money—let him have his price—conditionally!’
‘You advise me to do this?’
‘I do.’
He bent down and whispered in Forster’s ear—Forster started—the two men looked at each other.
After some hesitation Forster spoke.
‘He shall have the money!’ he said.
‘And you will make those conditions?’
‘Certainly.’
Forster sat down at once, and wrote a note to Gavrolles. In it he said that he (Gavrolles) should be supplied with a certain sum, if he would pledge himself to return at once to France.
CHAPTER XL.—‘RESURGAM.’
On a sombre autumn afternoon, the solitary figure of a woman stood looking backward and westward, towards the round red ball of the sun, which was sinking slowly into the very heart, as it were, of the great far-away cloud which she knew was London.
All around her, on every side, stretched desolate marshes, silent save for the hoarse cry of a heron dapping slowly towards his crimson fishing pools, or for the faint forlorn whistle of a distant curlew. No other human figure was in sight, not even a human habitation; but over the trees of a lonely plantation, skirting the marshes to the southward, the spire of Grayfleet Church glittered back the rays of the setting sun.
The woman, though pale and haggard, was young and beautiful; and as she watched the far-off sunset its dim ray touched her cheeks with a faint tinge of red. She stood like one in a dream, shading her eyes and gazing on the dusky pageant—cloud, smoke, and mist irradiated into gloomy splendour, and assuming, as the fancy willed, strange forms of crumbling buildings, fiery streets, columns, roofs, arches, spires, and turrets, all duskily aflame.
It did not seem real; no more real than the city she had left behind her, than the grave from which she had risen into some dimmer and sadder life. Yet her eyes dimmed with tears as she thought of one solitary figure waiting lonely and despairing yonder, listening for a foot that came not, praying for a love cast away and lost.
Nothing seemed real; not the cloudy pageant, or the darkening sun, or the desolate earth; not the life that she had lived, or the life that she had voluntarily left behind; not the long years of a confused and broken experience, chiefly of helplessness and sorrow; nothing but the clinging, contaminating sense of some great sin and shame. As a creature half choked and drowned, just dragged living out of some watery ooze, with all the foul moisture and the slimy filth clinging to her garments, this woman seemed and felt. The consciousness of a complete moral contamination, from which she had barely emerged, still remained with her, and not all the perfumes of Arabia could have cleansed it away.
She had been wandering in that dreary district for days, sleeping at night in lonely farmhouses and squalid inns, and ever creeping out in the early dawn to follow some aimless pilgrimage she scarcely knew whither. Yet all that afternoon she had been hanging around Grayfleet, looking in vain for some face that she might know and remember. She had stood gazing sadly at the little row of white-washed cottages where Mark and Luke Peartree once had dwelt; but strange folk now lived there, and the name of Peartree was quite forgotten. She had looked at the shining river, and she had seen, in a dream, the boat rowing in with its maimed and broken burden, while Uncle Luke stood in the bow wringing his hands. She had wandered into the old churchyard and looked in upon the very tombs where a troop of merry girls were playing, one happy Sabbath, so many years ago. Ah, that sweet, that far-off, half-forgotten life—was it all a dream too?
Tramps and wanderers of all kinds were common in those parts, and few had paid any attention to the pale worn woman, plainly and poorly clad, who haunted the old village that afternoon. Now and then she had received a country greeting, and quietly replied. She had entered the Ferry Inn, and bought some bread and cheese, and while making her poor meal she had tried to question the landlord, a rough waterside character, about people she remembered. But he was a stranger where all seemed strangers. Then her feet had strayed again to the old churchyard, and this time she had strolled through the gate and searched among the graves. But she found no headstone or memorial to show her where Mark Peartree was lying, or where slept the kindly dame who had followed him so soon.
So the day passed, and in the afternoon she had come out again upon the lonely marshes, where she now stood watching the smoky sun.
Ah, yes, it must all have been a dream. Wandering out of the great city, fearful of pursuit, with no definite aim or hopes save that of forgetting and of being forgot, she had strayed half unconsciously towards the old landmarks—towards the only spot in the world where she had known a happy and peaceful time. What impulse had brought her thither she could scarcely divine; it was an instinct that sometimes brings the bird to its deserted nest, the hare to its long-abandoned form. She herself quite knew that it was hopeless. She knew that the little household at Grayfleet had been desolate for years; and that the only surviving member of it, if indeed he still survived, was Luke Peartree, after whose whereabouts unavailing inquiries had been made again and again. After Madeline Hazelmere was sent to France she had heard nothing of her uncle; then her great trouble had come, and in its shadow, while it lasted, all else was forgotten; but once more, after her return to England, she had tried to discover poor Uncle Luke’s whereabouts—always in vain.
Turning her back at last on the sullen sunset, the woman wandered slowly along the narrow road which wound and wound for miles and miles, seaward, through the marshes. In the near distance on her right hand moved great sails, tall masts, smoking funnels, going and coming with a strange silentness; for the river was there, sunk so low down in its muddy bed that the traffic moving upon it had this curious appearance, as of ghostly objects moving to and fro, in silhouette, upon the solid earth.
She walked on and on still as if in a dream, and still with the sense of a suffocating taint. The sun sank into the sombre cloud of the distant city; darkness descended upon and rose from the marshes, save where here and there a roadside pool flashed duskily; and still she walked on.
The moon rose large and yellow out of the far-off sea, and the air became full of a visible and delicate dimness. So dense was the stillness, so sad the darkening prospect all around, that now, more than ever, the woman seemed walking in a dead world, a world of weariful dreams.
At last she reached another village, lying close down by the riverside. It was a small place, strongly saturated with brackish moisture, and much frequented by forlorn seagulls of a ragged species, too lazy and disreputable to earn a decent living out at sea. Here, in a peasant woman’s house, she procured a bed, or rather a ‘shake-down’ before the kitchen fire. The woman, a childless widow, stolid with ill fortune, dazed with a life of wretchedness, asked no questions, and seemed to note little difference between this delicate-skinned white-handed wanderer and tramps of the common sort.
Early next morning she was away again, in broken aimless flight.
But it was at last evident that the physical frame of this woman was unable to bear the strain put upon it by her impatient and apparently indomitable spirit. Her walk was weary and unsure, and very often she paused to rest; her breath came and went heavily; and in a word, her trembling frame and aching limbs betokened that her strength was failing fast.
About midday a country fellow, driving a light farm cart, passed her, looked back, paused, drove on again, paused once more, and finally waited till she came up; then, after looking at her curiously from head to foot, accosted her as follows:—
‘Missis! Be you a-going to Seachester?’
She did not know the name, but scarcely knowing what she did she answered in the affirmative.
‘Ah!—Do you know, missis, how far it be?’
She shook her head.
‘From London, I s’pose?’
She did not answer, and he continued:—
‘Well, it be seven miles, missis, to Seachester, and sure enough you seem dead beat. Telee what, missis! I’ll give you a lift along.’
Weary and overpowered, she accepted his offer, and with his assistance she climbed into they cart. They jogged along slowly, for the roads were heavy and clogged with mud. From time to time the man looked at her, surveying her quietly from head to foot, noting with no little surprise her delicate form, her small hands, her beautiful face. More than once he seemed about to question her, but refrained. To avoid meeting his inquisitive gaze, she closed her eyes, and presently, through sheer fatigue, she fell into a heavy doze.
She was wakened by a hoarse voice in her ear:—
‘Now, then, missis, here we be!’
She stirred, opened her eyes, and saw that they were standing near to a very small village, not far from a great water, the river or the sea. Shivering, and dazed, she alighted from the cart, and taking out a small purse offered the man a piece of silver.
‘Noa, keep your money, missis,’ he said, with a stern shake of his head. ‘Look, now, this be Seachester, and up there be the house where you’re a-going.’
He pointed as he spoke to a small cottage, like a lodge, standing surrounded by trees, at the gate of a kind of avenue.
‘The house?’ she echoed. ‘Do you mean where they will give me a night’s lodging?’
He looked at her with a curious expression, indicative of rural suspicion.
‘You’re like the rest on ’em, missis! You know well enough where you’re a-coming, but you won’t let on to know. Never mind, you ain’t the fust by many as has had a lift in my old cart. There, go up right through that gate, missis, and they’ll give you a night’s lodgings, never fear!’
So saying, with a grim nod, the countryman drove away, leaving the woman perplexed and even alarmed.
What could he mean? Could he have any suspicion that she was a fugitive? She was too dazed and weak quite ta understand, or even heed his mysterious allusions. A sickening weight was on her heart, and though her hands and feet were stony cold, her frame was on fire. She stood tottering, as if about to faint.
It was again afternoon, and the red sunlight fell on the little lodge and on the long avenue beyond, overshadowed with sere and yellow trees. The place seemed still and peaceful. She crept nearer, and presently stood with her face against the iron gate, looking in.
As she stood thus, there came on her ear the sound of female voices; and she saw approaching down the avenue, a troop of about thirty women walking in couples, talking and laughing as they came along. They were plainly dressed, for the most part in plain stuff dresses and dark shawls, and each wore a tight-fitting bonnet of the same description. On they came, chattering like children. Most of them, even in their not too becoming costume, showed the signs of personal comeliness, and a few were really pretty.
Suddenly they turned into a side path and disappeared. The sound of their voices died quietly away among the trees.
Trembling and wondering, the woman opened the iron gate and approached the door of the lodge. She knocked feebly, but in a moment the door was opened, and a goodlooking country dame, very clean and bright, stood on the threshold.
‘Can I—can I—’—the wanderer began feebly, but breath failed her, and she stood trembling.
‘Come in, my dear,’ said the woman compassionately, leading her to a chair in a cosy little kitchen. ‘Come in, and welcome. Lord, how pale you be! Have you come far?’
‘Yes. I want——’
‘Never mind about that, now—wait till I get thee a nice drink of warm milk, and then you can go on the Home.’
But even as she spoke the wanderer fainted away.
The good dame uttered an exclamation.
‘Poor dear, she’s fainted. How wet and draggled she be! Why, she must have tramped it all the way. Here, Johnnie—Johnnie!’
A flaxen-haired boy of about twelve appeared on the threshold.
‘Run up to the house, quick, and ask Sister Ursula, with mother’s compliments, to step down here at once. Poor unfortunate,’ she continued, chafing the woman’s fingers, ‘what pretty white hands she has! She looks like a lady born!’
CHAPTER XLI.—THE SISTERS OF MOUNT EDEN.
A considerable interval of time must have passed from the moment when the woman recovered consciousness; for on opening her eyes she found herself lying in bed, in a large, dimly lighted room. The bed was white and clean, with snowy hangings, and the chamber contained four other beds of the same description. The curtains of the window were closely drawn, and on the hearth there burnt a cheerful fire.
Seated close to the bedside was a young girl, dressed like a nurse, in clean white cap, white apron and cotton gown, and reading a book.
For some minutes the wanderer lay silent, not stirring, but looking vacantly around her; on the cleanly papered walls, cosily lit by the firelight: on the engraving of the Crucifixion, hanging over the mantelpiece on the snowy beds, at the head of each of which hung a picture of the Madonna—each different, but all copies from the works of Raphael; and finally, on the quiet, thoughtful-looking girl, who sat intent upon her book.
At last, thoroughly awakened, she uttered an exclamation. The girl looked up, and their eyes met.
‘Where am I? What place is this? Why am I lying here?’
The girl smiled, and, without answering, touched a handbell standing on a small table at her side. Scarcely had she done so when a tall, slight figure, also wearing a white cap, entered the room. Her hair was quite white, but her face seemed fresh and young; and her eyes had a cold virginal steadfastness which harmonised well with the lines of a mouth firm almost to hardness. No sooner, however, did her gaze fall upon the occupant of the bed than her face was lit by a smile of strange brightness and sweetness; the coldness passed from her eyes, the lines of her mouth grew soft and tender; and her whole expression was transformed into one of winning kindness and beauty.
The girl rose and curtsied as the newcomer advanced to the bedside.
‘You are better now?’
The wanderer looked up wildly, scrutinising the kind thoughtful face which was bending over her.
‘Where am I?’ she cried again. ‘What place is this?’
‘You are among friends,’ was the quiet reply.
‘In the hospital? Have I been ill?’
‘You were faint and weak when they brought you in, and afterwards you fell into a sleep.’
‘Yes, I remember—but this place, and you? I do not know you.’
‘I am Sister Ursula. Perhaps you have heard my name?’
‘No.’
‘Nor the name of this place—Mount Eden? 5
‘No! no!5 cried the wanderer, in surprise.
‘You are welcome all the same; but, before we talk any more, let Barbara’—here Barbara, as the young girl was called, curtsied—‘bring you some warm soup, or some tea and toast. I am sure you are weak from want of food.’
At first the invalid, confused and to some extent alarmed by her position, refused to take any sustenance, but Sister Ursula, with gentle firmness, at last persuaded her to drink some warm tea and eat a little dry toast. When she had done so, and Barbara, at a signal from her superior, had retired, Sister Ursula sat quietly down by the bedside.
‘And now, may I ask you a few questions about yourself? Do not think I speak from mere curiosity, and do not answer anything unless you please. In the first place, am I right in guessing that you are in trouble?’
‘Yes.’
As she answered, almost under her breath, the wanderer kept her large, wistful, watchful eyes fixed, with strange intensity, on the Sister’s face.
‘Next, may I ask your name?’
There was a long pause, but at last, in the same low tone, the answer came—
‘Jane Peartree.’
‘Well, Jane (may I call you Jane? it is our habit in this place to call each other by the Christian name), I do not wish to inquire into your history, until you choose to tell me it, or any portion of it. What I wish you to do is to regard me and all here as friends and sufferers like yourself, sisters in sorrow and in heavenly hope. You will rest here, certain of help and sympathy, until such a time as you feel strong enough to face the world again. By-the-bye, are you a Londoner?’
‘No; I was born in the country.’
‘And you have lived—-’
‘Do not ask me! I cannot tell!’
And as she spoke, she turned her face upon the pillow, crying.
‘You shall tell me nothing,’ said the lady softly, ‘until you wish it of your own freewill. I can see that you have had sorrow, great sorrow; and that, unlike so many who come here, your speech is gentle, and your manner that of a lady. Take courage! Whatever your offence has been, whatever pain you have undergone, you are as safe now as a little child on its mother’s breast—no one can tempt you, no one can harm you, here.’
The wanderer turned her face again, and looked long and wistfully at the Sister; then she sighed deeply, while her tears still fell.
‘You have not told me what place this is, but I suppose it is some religious home. Well, I am not religious; I scarcely know what religion is. All I ask is a night’s shelter, and then—I will pay you for it, and go away.’
Sister Ursula’s face looked very grave.
‘We never accept payment from those who take shelter here; and you are mistaken—this is not a religious house in the sense you mean. True, we believe in one God and one Redeemer, and our experience teaches us that, for the truly sorrowful and penitent, knowledge of Christ the Saviour is the only preservation.’
The wanderer sighed drearily.
‘You are Roman Catholics, I suppose?’ she said, with a curious indifference. ‘I have heard they are good people.’
‘We are of all religions,’ returned Sister Ursula, smiling; ‘that is to say, the unfortunate are welcome here, whatever their creed. I myself am a member of the Church of England, but some of our inmates are Catholics, others Dissenters, many, like yourself, of no particular persuasion. We do not insist on these things. Our love and sympathy are for all the world.’
‘And the house is—not a religious house? What then?’
‘A refuge for sisters who have fallen, and who repent.’
The wanderer shuddered, for she had read of such places; then, after a moment, she gave a low, faint, bitter laugh.
‘How stupid I was not to understand! And you think I am one of those—those women?’
‘I think, Jane, that you have a great trouble, whatever it has been; but do not think I am judging you, or wishing to proclaim your fault. Whatever you are, I am no better than yourself. Twenty years ago I left a good husband, and lived in wickedness and shame with another man, who afterwards abandoned me. I have suffered a great deal, though no more than I deserve.’
Raising herself upon her elbow, the woman calling herself Jane Pear tree gazed in amazement at the calm grey sister, who, without a tremor in her voice, coldly proclaimed her own sin to a stranger.
‘I am no better than the worst here,’ said Sister Ursula; ‘but my own experience has helped me to be of service to those who, like myself, have sinned and suffered. Many here are infinitely my superiors insomuch as they have suffered, and been dragged into pollution, through no fault of their own.’
As she spoke, a bell sounded in the distance, and a sound of footsteps was heard upon the staircase beyond the chamber. The door stood open, and Jane Peartree saw numerous female figures, all clad in white caps and aprons, pass quickly by. Several looked in, smiling at Sister Ursula, and cried, ‘Good-night.’ Then four young women, clad like the others, entered that chamber, curtseying and looking curiously at the stranger.
‘It is ten o’clock,’ said Sister Ursula, rising, ‘and bedtime. We breakfast early, at half-past seven, but you are weak and must not attempt to get up. Good-night, Jane.’
Stooping gently, the lady kissed Jane Peartree on the forehead, and then, with a bright good-night to the others, left the room, closing the door behind her.
Jane lay still, and looked at her companions, who were slowly undressing by the light of a small lamp. The eldest was about eight-and-twenty, the youngest not much over eighteen; and, with one exception, they showed no refinement either of appearance or of manner, and clearly belonged to that portion of the lower orders from which society recruits its domestic servants. The exception was a pale, slender girl, obviously in delicate health, who exchanged but few remarks with her companions, and spoke, when she did speak, with a strong French accent. She sat on the side of the bed, slowly removing her outer garments, and breathing heavily, while the others chattered in low tones to each other and occasionally gave vent to a vacant giggling laugh.
Presently her eyes met those of Jane Peartree, and after a moment’s hesitation she walked across the room and stood by the bedside.
‘Pardon, mademoiselle,’ she said gently, ‘but you are not well, and you are a stranger. Can I get you anything?’
Jane shook her head; then, seeing the other hesitate, and being attracted by her foreign grace, she asked, in her own tongue—
‘Are you French?’
The girl’s face brightened strangely at the sound of her native language.
‘No, mademoiselle; I am Belgian. I came from near Brussels.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Adèle, mademoiselle.’
‘Have you been long here—in this house, I mean?’
‘Not long—a few weeks. I was sick, and in need of country air, and a kind friend (ah, the kindest in the world) had me sent down here. It is very pleasant all around, and reminds me of my home, and Sister Ursula is so good, but there are many here whom you would detest. You, mademoiselle, are different; I saw that at a glance; for abroad we can tell a lady always from one of these canaille!’
The girl spoke rapidly in her own language, while her companions, attracted by the foreign speech, listened without understanding a word, whispered, and made signs to each other.
‘You mistake——, I am no lady,’ cried Jane Peartree, eagerly.
Without contradicting her in speech, the French girl smiled sceptically and shook her head. She then began to prattle on, with the fluency of her race, until the new comer, sometimes listening and sometimes questioning, was furnished at last with a tolerably complete account of the house into which she had accidentally been brought, and of the individuals by whom she was surrounded.
The house, as she had already been informed, was called Mount Eden, and it formed the centre of a small estate, consisting of woods, arable and grazing fields, farm buildings, and outlying cottages. Originally an old country manor, it had about ten years before come into the market, and had been purchased by the lady named Sister Ursula (partly out of a large inheritance of her own, and partly by means of voluntary subscription) for the purpose of founding in it a home for penitent and fallen women. The scheme on which the establishment was based was unusually wide and broad in its provisions. In the first place there were no religious barriers, and in the second place there was no attempt made to imitate the severe ethics of the penitentiary. The place was, in the truest sense, a Home. All the inmates, if in good health, were required to work in some way—generally in the way to which they had been best accustomed; some performing the higher or lower household duties; others working in the laundry; others, again, doing dairy and field work on the home farm—all in fact being occupied pleasantly and profitably, with a goodly share of interest in the result of their own labours. No attempt was made at any irritating supervision of the morals of the inmates; once admitted it was taken for granted that they were tired of evil doing, at any rate for the time being, and that it was unnecessary to preach to them, six days out of seven, on the wickedness of their ways. At the same time they were daily brought into contact with sound, sweet, and beautiful associations.
A special feature of the establishment, copied from some of the Magdalen institutions in France, was the reception—particularly in the summer season—of sick and delicate children, many of them babes in arms, from the neighbouring city. These children were distributed among the poor sisters, and it was wonderful to see with what eagerness they were received, with what tenderness they were guarded, by these kind foster-mothers. Many a helplessly degraded woman, on whom all their holy influences had been unavailing, was saved and consecrated by the necessity of tending a child; many an evil creature felt for the first time, with tiny arms clinging round her neck, the instincts of a pure maternity and the inspiration of a heavenly hope.
Another rule, to which indeed the foregoing was a pendant, gave to an inmate, if a mother, the privilege of bringing her own offspring with her, and of rearing it in the house. No attempt was made to separate mother and child. No penitentiary laws were in existence, based upon the assumption that the former was an alien, and the latter a ‘child of sin.’
Sister Ursula herself was the younger daughter of a peer of the realm. In her girlhood she had made a marriage, unfortunate in a worldly point of view, and had completed her folly by afterwards forming an attachment for an officer, with whom she eloped. Few, however, would have traced in that calm, cold face the record of strong passions and improprieties, if the lady herself had not, with a curious persistency, insisted on making no secret of her own sin; her theory being that one who had herself been a sinner, and sadly acquainted with the world’s sorrows and temptations, was better qualified to deal with fellow-sinners than the most irreproachable of female saints.
During the night the wanderer snatched a troubled sleep, starting up at times to listen to the wind which shook the windows, and to gaze wildly round the dark room; but towards morning she slept quite soundly. She was awakened by the loud ringing of a bell in the hall below; and, opening her eyes, she saw the four companions of her chamber busy dressing.
No sooner had she awakened than Adèle, who had been watching her, came over and said gently, in French:—
‘I am glad you have slept, mademoiselle.’
Jane Peartree thanked her, and, rising on her elbow, looked round her, as if preparing to rise also.
‘Ah! but you must not rise,’ continued the other. ‘It is very early, and Sister Ursula says you are to keep your bed. Shall I fetch you a cup of tea?’
Jane Peartree did not reply. She was looking around her in a vain search for the clothes she had worn the previous day, and of these there was no sign.
‘I must get up,’ she said impatiently. ‘Call the lady—tell her I wish to go. I have a long journey before me, and I cannot remain any longer in this place.’
But even as she spoke her head swam round, and she sank shivering back upon her pillow. On her cheeks there were two hectic spots, her eyes seemed wild and wandering, and the left pupil of one was widely dilated.
A minute afterwards Sister Ursula entered the room, and, after a quiet good morning to the other women, bent over the occupant of the bed.
‘Good-morning, Jane,’ she said, smiling.
Jane Peartree looked up; as she did so her face flushed and her teeth chattered in her head.
‘Please let me have my things,’ she cried. ‘I wish to go away.’
‘So soon?’
‘Yes. They are following me. It will kill me if they find me. I am quite well. Quick! Let me go, for God’s sake!’
Sister Ursula did not reply, but stooping over the bed took the girl’s hand and placed her fingers upon the pulse, which she found bounding with all the force of violent fever.
‘Take my advice,’ she said gravely, ‘and stay with us to-day; to-morrow, perhaps, you will be strong enough to go.’
‘I am quite strong. I must go now. You have no right to detain me!’ cried the wanderer; and as she spoke she sat up, looking wildly and even angrily at her protectress. But it was only for a moment. Her head swam again, and she sank back shuddering.
‘O, madame!’ cried Adèle, ‘I am afraid she is very ill.’
‘Hush!’ said Sister Ursula. ‘Go down, and leave us alone together.’
The girls, accustomed to obey, left the room in a body, and Sister Ursula sat down by the bedside.
Jane Peartree lay moaning, and it was soon evident that her mind was wandering. She made no more attempts to rise, but murmured wildly to herself. Presently, when Sister Ursula bent over to speak to her again, she remained with half-closed eyes and made no articulate reply.
‘Poor child,’ thought the lady. ‘How pretty she looks, and different to most of those who come to this roof for shelter. And she has a secret, which weighs upon her mind.’
She added, still to herself—
‘“Jane Peartree.” That was the name she gave me. Yet the initials upon her linen are “M. F.” Who can she be?’