Work then with steadfast hope and hand;
Yoke goodwill to the sturdy plough;
Cut the deep furrow through the land;
On high the ridges throw.
So shall increase thy labours crown,
And joy bring in thy harvest home;
Yet faint not should thy fortunes frown,
Thy harvest is to come.
Constant in this, take heart and breath;
These cannot fail whate’er befall—.
Duty and Love, and Truth and Faith,
And Pure-Intent withal.
—Kington.
Mark Wilton, with the impetuosity natural to his character, had, after his last interview with Lotte Clinton, determined, on leaving her residence, that another twenty-four hours should close his account with England and all it contained.
The first ocean-going steamer bound for a distant port should convey him—no matter whither it was destined. A selfish, inexorable parent, a too-scrupulous love, he would leave behind him for ever; and in some wild, exciting service, under the flag of a nation on the other side of the globe, he resolved to endeavour to forget the cause of his present unhappiness.
In the heat of his wrath, against his parent especially, he encountered Charles Clinton, and from him learned that his father had been struck down by the bullet of an assassin, and, for all that was at the moment known, lay at the point of death.
The natural impulse of a generous and affectionate heart effected an instant revulsion of feeling, and the ocean-going steamer was at once abandoned for the train to Harleydale.
Before the night closed in he was, with an able surgeon, at his father’s bedside.
As he gazed upon the old man’s ashy face, his closed eyes, the furrowed wrinkles—traces of care and long suffering—all angry, rebellious animosity took wing; he knelt down by the couch, and, with falling tears, prayed earnestly for him against whom so few hours back his heart had been so fiercely moved.
The surgeon, after a careful examination, reported that the wound received by old Wilton, though severe, was neither fatal nor in itself dangerous, but the shock it had occasioned to the system of an aged and feeble man was essentially the latter; in fact, the prostration it had produced rendered his condition highly critical. The surgeon plainly said that extraordinary care and unceasing tending and nursing could alone save him; and he impressed it upon Mark’s mind that failure in the nurse’s duties would be fatal to his father.
It was necessary that Flora should be made acquainted with the directions of the surgeon; and Mark, surprised at not seeing her with her father, sent for her, believing that agony and fright had compelled her to retire to her chamber.
He was astounded to learn that she was not in the house. That she had quitted the Hall in the morning, and had not returned; and though messengers had been despatched in every direction in search of her, she could not only not be found, but no tidings could be gained of her.
This was a new blow to him. He felt distracted and bewildered; he could suggest to himself nothing to account for her absence but some frightful and fatal accident. He dare not leave his father’s side to search for her, and the people by whom he was attended or to whom he might apply appeared to have done all in their power, but in vain, to gain tidings of her.
While racking his brain to devise a means of instantly instituting a fresh search for her, his father roused himself from his previous lethargic condition, and gazed feebly around him: as his dull eyes fell upon Mark they brightened up, a smile of affection passed over his ghastly features, and he pressed the hand with which Mark clasped his.
Again his eyes wandered round the bedside twice ‘or thrice, then he turned to Mark with a disappointed look. His lips moved, and in a faint tone he murmured—“Flora.”
What was to be said?
With an air of embarrassment, Mark responded—
“She is in her room—she is not well—frightened, unable to support this shocking event.”
The old man shook his head feebly.
“I have been harsh and selfish to her,” he said. “I have endeavoured to enforce my will against her hopes of future happiness, and she does not forget it now.”
He turned his face away with an air of pain and sorrowful discontent.
“Beware of exciting his mind in any shape,” whispered the surgeon. “He is too exhausted to sustain it.”
Mark bent over his father, and whispered in his ear—
“Do not wrong Flora, dear sir,” he said; “she will be here shortly, and her absence shall be satisfactorily explained to you.”
As the surgeon imposed implicit silence, Mark sat down to reflect upon what course was to be pursued respecting Flora’s unaccountable disappearance. It suddenly occurred to him that his friend Harry Vivian would be the individual to apply to for assistance. There was no doubt on his mind that he would do his utmost to ascertain what had befallen her, and to restore her in safety, if such happy issue was to attend the mystery of her absence.
As soon as the suggestion presented itself, he despatched a servant to the station with a telegraphic message to Vivian, paying for the return message, instructing him to come down to Harleydale at once, even to engage a special train, the cost of which he, Mark, would defray, for the matter on which he desired to confer with him admitted of no delay.
An answer was received in a brief period, which ran thus—
“Vivian from home. Gone, not known where; return, not known token.”
This was a climax; and he reseated himself by the invalid’s bedside, his mind tortured by doubts respecting the fate of his father and of his sister, and agonized by his remembrances of his parting with Lotte Clinton.
The surgeon had retired for the night, having given his parting directions. Old Wilton lay in a motionless slumber, produced by an opiate. The old housekeeper flitted about the room like a phantom, and Mark, with folded arms and eyes fastened on vacancy, still continued successively calling up dreamy visions.
Inspired by a new hope, communicated to his heart by his father’s fond smile and affectionate manner to him he shaped out schemes to conquer his repugnance to marriage with Lotte Clinton. What if he were to present her with the whole of the money he had brought from abroad with him? A girl with a dowry of upwards of six thousand pounds was hardly one even for his father to reject.
But would she accept it, if he offered it to her!
This sempstress, so proud, so single-minded, so clear in her perceptions, so firm in her resolves, so undeviating in her spirit of rectitude.
Well, he might bestow it upon her anonymously, and then contrive an accidental meeting with her. He might——
Hark!
Carriage-wheels rolling over the gravelled path, and stopping before the hall-door.
Mark sprang to his feet. It must be Flora returned.
It was Flora and Hal too. He met them in the hall, both entering in with grave faces and soft step.
And the temptation?
It had been triumphed over. Hal had battled with it manfully; but love and passion, and fears of losing so dear a treasure, had fastened upon honour, and all but strangled it.
In his dire extremity, Hal called upon Flora, and unfolded the conflict going on within his heart to her view. He asked her for counsel and for argument to combat the incentives tugging at his heart-strings, urging him to do with her free consent what Colonel Mires had sought to do without it.
She could only weep and tremble; and alas!—for she, too, could not bear to think that they must part for ever—leave in his hands the momentous decision.
His honour was, however, of stubborn material; it continued its exertion in spite of the formidable antagonists it had to contend with, and there stepped to its aid at an opportune moment the remembrance of the wound inflicted on old Wilton by Chewkle.
Hal at once broke to Flora the event of the morning.
It saved them both.
They continued their journey to Harleydale, scarce a word passing between them.
When at the Hall they met Mark, Flora flung herself upon her brother’s neck, and sobbed—from more causes than one.
“Be not alarmed, Flo’, dear,” whispered Mark; “the surgeon says there is no danger. He only wants good nursing; you will do all that, I know.”
Flora almost sank to the earth.
“If I had left him!” she thought, and, only waving her hand to Hal, tottered to her father’s room.
“If I had induced her to fly with me,” thought Hal, and instinctively smote his breast.
Mark wrung his hand warmly.
“You have saved her,” he said; “from whom?”
“Mires,” replied Hal, laconically.
“And from myself,” he might have added.
Mark started in astonishment.
“From him?” he ejaculated. Then he said—“No matter whom—she is back safe again. You are pale and fagged; you must have some rest. I will hear you recount what has passed after you have risen in the morning.”
They separated; for Hal was only too glad to be alone—too glad to have the opportunity of making his acknowledgments of joy at having conquered his great temptation. And when he flung himself exhausted on his bed, Mark returned to his father’s room to find there Flora upon her knees in prayer, and ruthful, though silent, self-upbraiding.
Among the faithless faithful only she,
Among innumerable false, unmoved,
Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified,
Her loyalty she kept, her love, her zeal:
Nor number nor example with her wrought,
To swerve from truth or change her constant mind.
—Milton.
And now Lotte Clinton was again alone in the world—-again with her face confronting her situation, prepared to sustain her cross with the meek fortitude she had always hitherto displayed.
She had nourished in secret her hope that one day she should meet with some sound-hearted singleminded youth, who would love her for herself, and whom she should love, and heartily too, for the selfsame qualification. It was only the natural promptings of a young girl’s heart; it would, indeed, have been unnatural for her not to have entertained some such notion.
She had met the man who had gained her heart—her first love, her soul’s idolatry.
He was not the man she had pictured. She had never sketched out such a figure, such a face as Mark possessed. She had never, indeed, created a model. She had hoped only for a manly loving heart, and Mark presented himself, carrying off her affection by a coup de main, without any of those considerations she had deemed essential to love being consulted in the matter.
Oh, she loved him truly, dearly, faithfully, and with the most pure unselfishness. No greater happiness could she conceive than being his wife. Yet to her clear mind there were duties superior to her deep affection, and she bent to them. She swerved not from them, even though her heart broke in the task.
The night that Mark went away she prayed for his happiness with earnest sincerity, and though she might never, never see him more, and her future life be thus made sad and cheerless, she sent up an entreaty that their separation might never sit heavy on his heart.
A week had passed away. She was pale, and a dull settled expression had fastened itself upon her once lively, intelligent open face. She had not seen her brother Charley since Mark’s departure, and her only solace had been Helen Grahame’s child.
She had hitherto loved it—now she doated upon it. It seemed all that she had left to love, and to love her; for that the child was most fondly attached to her there could be no doubt. She had had him christened by the name of Hugh Riversdale Grahame, and she had stood as godmother to him, resolving to fulfill firmly, faithfully, and justly that sacred responsibility in the absence of his own mother, of whom, since the night she left her so strangely, she had nothing heard.
One morning she was seated alone; she had laid the little Hugh down in his tiny bed for his morning’s sleep, and she was bending over her work with her accustomed close application. She thought of Mark; it was not possible to keep down thoughts of him. He never would come back to her—there seemed little doubt of that. How, indeed, she hardly hoped for it, hardly wished for it; for, despite her adoration of him—-it was no less—she seemed to feel acutely disparity of their positions, and that it would have proved an effectual barrier to their peace if united. She thought of his parting words, and her eyes filled with tears. He would not bid her adieu—he felt their parting so deeply—yes, he loved her; she was sure of that, and an involuntary “God bless him,” escaped her lips as her head sank upon her bosom, and the fast falling tears bedewed the work in her trembling hands.
“Sweet! sweet! sweet!” chirruped the little canary.
“Dear little dick!” she thought, as the bird’s rapidly repeated call attracted her attention, “the little darling sees that I am sad and would comfort me.”
She raised her eyes, and, lo, a woman stood before her.
One glance—it was Helen Grahame.
With an almost suffocating cry, Lotte rose to her feet.
Helen clasped her hands and cowered before her.
“Oh, Lotte, Lotte,” she murmured.
Had she have spoken, and explained for a thousand years, she could not have so clearly convinced Lotte that her mysterious absence had been involuntary, as she did by the utterance of those two words.
“I see it all! I see it all!” she exclaimed, with
Jut quivering lips. “You are not to blame, Miss Grahame.”
Helen, with a gasp of ecstacy, caught Lotte in her arms. She embraced her passionately.
“Oh! Lotte, my sweet, faithful, enduring friend,” she sobbed, “what do I not owe to you? Only teach me how—in some way—I may try to repay you for all the suffering I have occasioned you; for your faithfulness; for your blessed charity; for your dear, dear womanly sympathies; and for that service, inestimable in its value, which—never, never fainting under its sharp exactions—you have rendered me. Oh! Lotte, my own darling Lotte, had you been my sister, a fond, unselfish sister, I might have expected some such ministering; but from you, on whom I had no claim—not even that of mere acquaintanceship—how can I sufficiently appreciate it?—how strive to evince to you the feeling it has raised up in my heart toward you. Heaven bless you, dearest! I will try to show you how I estimate you, for I am rich, Lotte, and—and I can look the world in the face now bravely—ay, like a queen—but not unless you share it with me. No, Lotte, my love, my truest, dearest friend! You shared with me all you had in the world when there was no prospect—ay! and no wish on your part that I should return it—and now I am wealthy again, you shall share it all with me. It is my husband’s wish—my husband, Lotte, my husband—my little child’s father, Lotte.”
Her voice sank low, and she hid her weeping eyes on Lotte’s neck.
What! not a word, Lotte—not one little word to say?
No—not one!
At another time, she would have pressed some composure into her service, had it been ever so small; now she could not keep back her deep emotion, nor enlist a word to express even one of the many thoughts crowding, crashing through her brain.
Her whole frame appeared convulsed; she staggered as if she would sink to the seat, but Helen clung to her, sustained her, laid her weeping face upon her bosom.
“Rest thou there, darling!” she murmured. “Oh, Lotte, I am so happy to hold you again in my arms—no more struggles with the world, Lotte; no more unthreading of the web of life with a threaded needle. Dry your tears, my own darling and true heart, for if one mortal can ensure another’s happiness, I will compass yours.”
Happiness, and parted for ever from Mark!
Lotte could not refrain weeping, and Helen, finding it was so, hushed her own quivering voice, and wiped the trembling lids of Lotte; and kissed her pale cheek and forehead, pressing her again and again to her heart.
Lotte at length summoned her old strength of purpose, and putting down with a firm hand the uprising thoughts of her still desolate and lonely condition in life, she strove to obey Helen’s injunctions to light up her sweet pleasant eyes with a smile; and, after one or two efforts, she cleared her aching throat so as to speak.
“In all sincerity,” she said, “I am happy, oh, very happy to see you again and to hear such glad tidings, but I—I am sure I ought not to be thus encircled by your kind arms. You overrate what I have done, and our stations——”
Helen placed her hands over her mouth.
“Do not pain my heart, Lotte; do not wound me. If you talk to me in that strain, I shall fear that the old contemptible pride I once possessed had made me act so as to cause you to believe that I am hollow and deceptive, and eaten up with a fatuity of which I have long known the worthlessness. You have taught me that difference of station is levelled by human worth—what do I say—oh, Lotte, no station is so high as that held by one in right of truth and honour and virtue. Station, Lotte! If it were of us two to kneel to the one most elevated and entitled to the exercise of a noble pride, it would be for me to bend my knee——”
Lotte placed her hand before Helen’s mouth.
“It is my turn now,” she said, with a playful smile—sad though its expression still was. “Pray, do not speak to me about myself,” she added, almost mournfully, “for, indeed, it makes me feel embarrassed and uncomfortable, but let us talk of him in search of whom, in spite of your tender and kind words to me, your anxious eyes are wandering—little pet.”
“My boy! my dear, dear boy! where is he?” said Helen, with a spasmodic action of her throat, as she clutched Lotte’s shoulder.
Lotte smiled again one of her old, sweet smiles.
“He is so well, and so beautiful,” she whispered, “and such a dear, dear little darling.”
She took Helen’s hand, and on tiptoe they went together into the adjoining room. In a small wicker berceaunette, daintily trimmed with white muslin and pink ribbons, which had cost Lotte at least a dozen dinners, if not more, lay, sleeping, Helen’s child.
Rosy-faced, handsome-featured, and healthy-looking, he lay there a very picture. He slept lightly and pleasantly, and seemed a very cherub of happiness.
The devoted attention paid to him was evidenced in his own appearance and in everything surrounding him.
Once again Helen caught Lotte in her arms and passionately kissed her and sobbed wildly. Then she released herself and suddenly hurried from the room, to Lotte’s intense surprise.
She was about to follow her when she saw her hastening back, light of foot, bringing with her a gentleman. Lotte was at no loss to guess who he was.
Helen led her husband to the side of the sleeping child. She pointed to it, and in low quivering tones she exclaimed—
“Thus has she fulfilled her trust!”
Hugh gazed on his child, and then he turned to Lotte. She could see his eyes were humid, He caught her hands and sank on his knees with a sudden impulse before her.
She started; and as he pressed his lips almost impetuously on her hands, she struggled to withdraw them, crying—
“Pray rise, sir, pray do; I entreat you to do so. You distress me—you pain me, indeed you do.”
But Hugh still detained her.
“Pardon me!” he said, speaking rapidly and earnestly. “The position is not derogatory to me; it is a tribute to your worth. This is no occasion for cold form. I kneel to you in intense thankfulness; it is the prompting—the outpouring of a full heart. You saved my Helen! she who is dearer to me than life itself; you have saved and tenderly nurtured our child! By these two acts you have also rescued me from destruction and eternal perdition. I kneel to you that I may give some sign of the keen sense of my indebtedness to you—that you may in the coming time feel entitled to the position in which it is my intention to place you—justly entitled without one shrinking impulse or doubting impression. On my knees I thank you”—he rose up—“in my heart I treasure the memory of your service, and by my future acts I will strive to show how deeply and dearly I estimate it.”
Lotte faltered out some confused response, and ran out of the room to conceal her emotion.
By this time the little fellow, nestled in the cradle, had opened his infantile eyes, and turning them upon his mother, smiled.
To be sure she caught him up enraptured, and pressing him to her heart covered him with a thousand kisses; and then he was called upon to undergo the same process at the hands and lips of his father.
Then they adjourned, bearing their little treasure with them, to the adjoining apartment, where they found Lotte trying to get up an appearance as though she had no notion of tears.
Ah! Helen watched her expressive face, perused its lineaments with attentive scrutiny, and she saw there written a sadness too deep and settled to be ousted by any attempt to smile and seem gratified and overjoyed at another’s happiness. Not but that Lotte was delighted at Helen’s evident felicity, yet the surrender of her young pure heart to one who was gone no more to return to her, was a grief which resisted all her efforts to bury it deep in her own bosom without leaving an outward sign to mark its grave.
Helen, so well versed in the language of Lotte’s heart, interpreted by her sweet sad eyes and the play of her features that there was hidden anguish which, at whatever cost of pain, she sought to conceal, so that it might not disturb her new-found happiness.
“I will probe to that deep-seated sorrow,” thought Helen, “and if it is to be rooted out, it shall have no long-continued home in her dear heart.”
She, however, said nothing upon that subject now. She explained those causes for her absence and silence which which the reader is acquainted, adding that the sea-voyage her husband had taken her had rapidly produced the desired effect, for they had scarcely landed when she was fully restored to her intellect, remembered all that had happened, and did not rest until she was on her homeward voyage—indeed, until she had discovered Lotte, and presented herself before her.
Mutual revelations were made. Lotte furnishing a history of what had happened to her since Helen had left her, omitting from the narration the character of Mark Wilton.
When all these recitals had ended, Helen made known her intention of not leaving the apartments in which they were sitting without Lotte.
The latter shook her head, with a sad smile on her face, as the announcement was made to her; but Helen, with great decision, declined to accept any denial from her.
“I am prepared for all your objections,” she said; “in fact, Lotte, I have invented some for you, and have discussed them with Hugh only to most triumphantly defeat them every one.”
Then she ran hastily over them, suggesting all that Lotte really did feel in opposition to the scheme, with much more, but only to answer and refute all the adverse arguments.
And so Lotte was to be a lady after all—to have a fortune, and ride in a carriage of her own.
The wealth to which Hugh had succeeded would enable him to settle upon her an amount that would do this without in any degree inconveniently trenching upon his very large resources; and as there was really no consistent argument she could offer for its rejection, she, with swimming eyes of gratefulness, expressed her thanks and her hopes to be proved worthy such generous liberality.
Perhaps there was some latent incentive which might have helped to overcome her indisposition to accept an obligation so great, and perhaps a flush heightened the hue of her features as a passing thought suggested the poor sempstress passing before the eyes of old Mr. Wilton in her own carriage, even though he refused to receive her into his family.
Helen kissed her cheek affectionately, and said, delightedly—
“There is nothing, then, to step in between our arrangement.”
“Except your humble servant,” said a strange voice.
Both females uttered a startled cry, and Hugh jumped up and turned upon the intruder.
It was Nathan Gomer who stood near the door.
The same strange, almost unearthly grin was upon his face as usual, and he chuckled as he observed the utter surprise with which he was regarded.
Neither Helen nor her husband knew him; the former gazed on him with terror, the latter with haughty indignation at what he considered rude audacity.
Lotte knew him in an instant, though she had seen him but once, when he suddenly appeared as the friend of Flora Wilton, in the old abode at Clerkenwell.
In an instant she felt sure that his visit was to her; and she had a strange presentiment that whatever he directed her to do she must perform.
All remained silent for a minute—then Nathan smiled.
“You seem slightly astonished,” he said; “didn’t expect to see me. Ha! ha! I’m fond of creating a sensation. You don’t know me,” he said, nodding to Helen. “You do,” he exclaimed to Lotte, “and I have business with you both. Firstly, Miss Clinton, understand that I have had your character painted to me in most glowing language by a young man—nay, never turn so crimson, for the young lady by your side has just described you in highly favourable terms, and it is not the custom for young ladies to fall into extravagancies of encomium upon individuals of their own sex; so you ought not to look so very rosy when you hear that a young man extolled your virtues, even more highly than he did your pretty face and form. I don’t expect you, however, to continue the colour on your brow when I say, that having investigated the truth of his allegations, I have found not one over estimated—that you are truly worthy of and deserving the reward which your friend at your side has offered to your superior merits——”
“If you knew how distasteful to my ears are these praises,” interrupted Lotte, gravely, “indeed, sir, you would not follow the example of generous people, whose extreme kindness of heart leads them to speak and to think far too highly of me. It is as if truthfulness, faithfulness and singleness of purpose were not common to us all.”
“Ah, yes, very good,” returned Nathan, “the only thing is, that the possession of all those qualities by one individual is uncommon—a leetle—-I say, rather uncommon. But I won’t, if you wish it, tell you what I think, but I will ask you if you will be guilty of one more act of unselfish service. You have just entered into an arrangement fraught with every possible comfort and happiness: I have come to place myself between you and the realization of immunity from care, privation, and unwearying toil. To be brief, Mr. Wilton, senior, has been wounded by an assassin, and lies helpless and delirious upon his bed at Harleydale. His daughter Flora—you know her well, of course—also has been placed in a position of danger, which, together with the shock occasioned by the attack on her father, has placed her on a bed of sickness. Mr. Wilton has none but hired nurses therefore. Now, Mr. Mark Wilton——”
Lotte turned pale at the name; Nathan saw it. He cleared his throat.
“I say that Mr. Mark Wilton bethought himself of you. I will not pretend to enter on all the incentives which induced him to request you to take the unthankful and trying office of nurse to his father—at least, in tending him more as a daughter”—he laid a strong emphasis on that word—“than as a nurse. No doubt he will satisfactorily explain himself to you; but I may say that, knowing all the circumstances, I feel that the request is a strong one, its compliance hardly to be expected, and that some more than common motive has led to the suggestion. However, as requested, I put the proposition to you; it is for you to accept or decline it.”
Before he had finished, ten thousand reasons why she should not go had flashed through her brain, yet the one soul-possessing idea—her love for Mark—determined her to comply with Mark’s wish.
She was one who never let the sun go down on her wrath. She had forgiven old Wilton’s harsh words although they had so pained her. Now she had no hope that all the attention, care, and service she might be called upon to bestow would remove his objections to her; nevertheless she should be able to do some good for Mark’s sake; and if the parting with him for ever took place beneath the roof of his father, it would not be embittered, at least, by the remembrance that she had granted the aid he had asked of her.
She wiped hastily from her eyelids the tears which memories awakened by Nathan Gomer had gathered there, and said to him simply—
“I will go with you, sir, to Harleydale.”
For a moment the nostrils of Nathan were widely inflated, and he gave a very perceptible gulp.
“Hem!” he ejaculated, clearing his throat. “We will be off in two hours from this, so, lassie, make your preparations, and only one box, if you please—I say, only one box.”
Then he turned to Helen, and said—
“Madam, I know you, though you are unacquainted with me. Pardon me if I tell you matters are going on sadly in your father’s house. The family pride has had a dreadful fall. Your father is absent, your sister Margaret has—I say your sister Margaret has left her home, and your mother is confined to her bed in serious illness, with Evangeline, your sister, as her sole attendant; for the myrmidons of the law are in the house, and the servants have decamped.”
Helen listened to him like one in a dream; then she turned to her husband, and said to him—
“Hugh, we will proceed there this moment.”
He silently, but readily acquiesced; and with a few hasty loving words to Lotte concerning the future, Helen embraced her and departed, taking Lotte’s “pet” with her and her husband.
Two hours subsequently, Lotte Clinton, in the careful charge of Nathan Gomer, was on her way to Harleydale, wondering what new trial fate had in store for her.
There is a kind of character in thy life,
That to the observer doth thy history
Fully unfold; thyself and thy belongings
Art not thine own so proper, as to waste
Thyself upon thy virtues, they or thee.
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,
Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touched
But to fine issues.
—Shakspere.
It is not easy to conceive nor to clearly explain the true motives which induced Lotte Clinton to give her assent to the unexpected proposition made to her by Nathan Gomer. In no view was it pleasing to her, or calculated to afford her aught but embarrassment pain—-perhaps ungenerous insult. What, indeed, was it less than insult to ask her to tend the man in his helplessness, who, in his strength and pride, had stigmatised her as low-born? Alas! she could not look upon the present request as a compliment to her—there was no phase in which it could take that shape. It held out no prospect of effecting the realization of what had once been—so recently too—afondly, though timidly cherished hope. There was no prospect indeed, but that she would be harassed by Mark’s appeals and urgings, and pained and sorely tried by the denials he would force from her lips.
What was she to expect when Mr. Wilton recovered his senses, and became conscious of her presence? Would he not believe that she had meanly and surreptitiously contrived to gain admission to his house during his prostration, with the object of availing herself of the opportunity to fix more indelibly his son’s passion for her in his heart? What would naturally be his conduct and his language to her under such an impression?
Respecting Flora she conjectured little. She knew her to be kind and gentle; but the same influences which had affected her father, when an alliance was the subject of consideration, might have their effect upon her too.
She wished Mark had not sent for her.
Yet, withal, she would not have rejected the entreaty for worlds. No! beset as the task would necessarily be—with possible vexations, trials and contumely, she determined to go through with it. Still she thought Mark should not have asked this of her.
To refuse was not, indeed, possible to her; no, even if it cost her that fortune and ease which Helen Riversdale had promised her.
She did not once ask herself—Why? If she would not have answered that question, who else should make the attempt?
She did not dream that Mark Wilton was wholly guiltless of the message Nathan Gomer conveyed to her, or that, in meeting with him, she should have to undergo an ordeal she could not, under the circumstances, have contemplated.
The journey to Harleydale was performed rapidly. Nathan Gomer rendered himself as amiable and as entertaining as he could, until Lotte thought it was a pity he was so short, so extremely yellow, and so ugly, for really he was a cheerful, kind-hearted, dear little old man. On reaching the Hall, Nathan learned that Mark was alone in one of the sitting-rooms, and, forbidding the servant to announce him—his usual custom—he took Lotte by the hand, and pressing it, as if to reassure her, he, with noiseless step, approached the room to which he had been directed.
He found the door ajar, and he peeped in. He raised his finger to Lotte to be silent; and, opening the door without a sound, he advanced with his trembling companion to the shoulder of Mark Wilton, who was seated, gazing abstractedly out of the window upon the lovely landscape which stretched far away into the distance.
Lotte did not like the process, but really Nathan had so much instinctive influence that she took part in the proceedings unresistingly and without remark.
She quickly wished she had not done so.
Mark, who was sitting with his arms folded, suddenly released them, pressed his hands forcibly together, and ejaculated—
“Oh! Lotte, Lotte! cruel girl, you have no faith in my endearing love. You have coldly sacrificed my heart—my life—to a chimera!”
Nathan instantly tapped him on the shoulder; he started up and turned round. Uttering an exclamation of astonishment, he staggered back several paces, for his rapid glance had fallen upon Lotte’s downcast and grave features.
“Bad practice, Master Mark, that of audibly soliloquising; it is a failing of mine,” exclaimed Nathan Gomer, sharply. “Take the results of my experience—-it has got me into scrapes which money has hardly succeeded in plucking me out of.”
“I am not dreaming!” cried Mark, pressing his hand to his forehead. Then he rushed forward and seized Lotte’s passive hand. “Oh, Lotte! sweet Lotte!” he cried, “to what happy turn of fate am I to attribute your dear presence here?”
With a crimsoned face she looked upon him, and said, faintly—
“Did you not expect me?”
“Much as I have wished for you, I could not,” he said, “after our last interview, expect the happiness of seeing you here.”
“Oh, sir!” said Lotte, turning with a face as white as death, to Nathan Gomer, “you could not have conceived the misery you have occasioned me, or you would never have placed me in so cruel a position as this.”
“You have no right to be miserable, and you shall not be miserable if I have any influence in the matter,” replied Nathan Gomer. “Mr. Mark did not expect to meet you here, because he was not consulted in the affair.”
Lotte turned her reproachful eyes upon him, and said—“But, sir”——
“I told you that it was his earnest request that you should, as his sister was very ill, come down here and take her place at the bedside of Mr. Wilton,” interrupted Nathan, speaking in rather a dogmatical tone. “Well, he did request you in his heart: I knew that, and made use of it. The fact is, Mr. Wilton the elder is a very obstinate old gentleman. A career of privation, instead of teaching him some useful lessons upon social relations, has hardened his heart, as prosperity does those of other men. I have a mind to teach him, with your aid, Miss Clinton, a lesson too. What that may be you will know in good time; but you, who I know never refused to do good to all within your reach, will not refuse me this request. By a subterfuge, which by-and-by you will pardon, I brought you here. By appealing to your unselfish nature, I hope to retain you here. Mr. Mark Wilton has a spirit too noble to take advantage of your presence to alter the respective positions in which you stand to each other. For the present he will see in you only his sister’s dear friend. He and you will, I trust, leave the rest to me. Under my guidance, I hope to bring present cross purposes to a happy unity. Will you, Mr. Mark, be so good as to lead Miss Clinton to your sister’s room, she is fatigued with her journey; and then be kind enough to return to me, for, though Dame Nature omitted to lengthen my proportions, she did not curtail my appetite, and before I commence other operations I would silence its admonitions.”
Mark took Lotte’s hand; his impulse was to press it, but he refrained. He led her from the room, and on his way, he said—
“Your presence here, Mi—Mi—Mi—hang it, I may say Lotte to my sister’s dear friend, and I must. So let me tell you, Lotte, your coming will light up this dull, gloomy old place with sunshine. It is, indeed; welcome to me, and you will find how dear it will be to Flo’. Let me say also, Lotte, I quite understand the peculiarity of the position in which Nathan Gomer has placed you, but I am sure it is for the best he has done it; besides, you know he can do just what he pleases here. Let me further beg you to discard all fear of being ill at ease, for nothing shall be left untried to make you happy and contented, even to my scrupulously fulfilling the suggestion of Nathan Gomer.”
He released her hand as he concluded, tapped sharply at his sister’s room-door, and with a beaming smile of happiness, such as had not for some time illumined his face, he quitted her, and, hurrying along the corridor, returned to Nathan Gomer.
In one statement Nathan Gomer had been truthful. Flora Wilton was really very ill; her nerves had been shattered by the horrible event in which she had taken part, and by the sight of the ghastly face of her father, as he lay motionless in his bed on her return to Harleydale after her abduction. For a day or two she had contrived to devote herself to watching and waiting upon him, but when fever and delirium—the effects of his wound—exhibited themselves, her strength gave way, her nervous system was prostrated, and the physician attending her father insisted upon her not only keeping her room, but her bed, to prevent fatal consequences following her efforts to continue her self-imposed and natural office of nurse.
The chamber door was opened by Flora’s maid, who, without a word, admitted Lotte, assuming her to be a friend of her young mistress, and the latter walked up to the bedside to announce herself.
She could not forget in doing so that night when, rescued from the commission of a great crime, Hal Vivian presented her to Flora. She was not likely to forget her reception then, still she was not prepared for the cry of delight that Flora uttered when her feeble eyes rested on her face; still less did she look for the passionate action with which Flora flung her arms about her neck and kissed her many times. She had some difficulty in preserving her composure, and exerted herself to calm down Flora’s excitement and soothe her emotion. When the maid, intuitively comprehending that her absence would be desirable, retired, Lotte sought to elicit an explanation of this display of joy at her appearance. The more striking it was to her, as she expected only to be welcomed with a quiet courtesy, tempered by the reserve which did not acknowledge an equality of position between them.
To find herself so pleasantly in error was agreeable enough, but she needed, nevertheless, a cause for conduct at least improbable; and which, in the circumstances in which she was placed, she could hardly help looking at as a little more extravagant than the occasion warranted—grateful, so very grateful as she was for it.
She had yet to understand Flora’s actual position; and when she did so, her wonder at her reception was considerably modified. Flora had not one friend of her own sex. When old Wilton came to Harleydale, it did not occur to him to invite to his new home the gentry of the vicinity. He preferred seclusion; Flora thus had not even a female acquaintance. The events by which she had been rapidly surrounded were all of a character to render communion with a female friend all but imperative: one in whom she could confide, with whom she could consult, became in her isolation a want necessary to her present happiness.
With each succeeding phase of circumstances her need grew greater, and never did she feel more keenly, than at the moment when Lotte arrived, the desolation of having no ear in which to pour her sorrows, no gentle eye to beam with sympathy upon her sadness, no tender voice to guide her in the path she ought to take.
Of all the world, Lotte Clinton was the being she would have selected to fill up the void. Of all faces in the world to shine upon her now in her tribulation, Lotte Clinton’s was the most welcome. She knew Lotte’s kindly nature, and she knew her self-reliance. She knew that she loved, and that a cloud had settled on that love. She had faith in her pure, bright spirit; in its independence, in her clear sense of rectitude, and in that unwavering resolve which would maintain her in acting up to its dictates.
Here was a mind to direct hers, a soul to sympathise with her, and a breast which she could safely make the repository of her secrets.
Gradually Flora revealed the want under which she had so long suffered, and was not long in putting Lotte into possession of the fact that she looked upon her in the light of a very dear, dear friend.
Lotte knew Hal Vivian. Ah! how that smoothed the path to many a revelation! and she listened with such deep attention and sympathy to Flora’s confession—-though she had not sought it—that, in the fulness of her heart at finding at last a comforter and a counsellor in one of her own sex and of her own age—of her own cast of thought and feeling—Flora kept back nothing; and ere Lotte that night for the first time stood in the sick chamber of old Wilton, she was in full possession of all that Flora had to reveal.
It was not without a trembling hesitation, a nervous sense that she was in a false position, that Lotte entered Mr. Wilton’s chamber, but she felt, nevertheless, that she was borne along by the stream of circumstances, and she could not resist the force of the current. The sight of the invalid, however—his moaning, ravings, and feeble motions—at once dissipated all her personal feelings, and she applied herself to the duties she had undertaken with a promptness and tact which showed how much a willing spirit can supply to compensate for a want of knowledge. Thoughtfully suggestive, tenderly considerate, unwearied in application to her task, she elicited the warmest encomiums from the physician, who, at the end of the week, told her, in the presence of Mark and Nathan Gomer, that Mr. Wilton, if his life was spared, would be as much indebted for his recovery to her assiduous care and faithful performance of instructions as he would be to his own skill.
Mark, who had preserved towards her a very quiet and respectful demeanour, and never breathed a word about his love in her ear, regarded her now with grateful and affectionate glances; while Nathan Gomer, with shining face, grinned and rubbed his hands delightedly.
So, for a short time, matters went on. Flora, who shared, too, no mean portion of Lotte’s attention, fast recovered strength, and felt more placid and calm than she had been since the change in her circumstances had taken place.
Harry Vivian was not at Harleydale; he had gone to the scene of Colonel Mires’ fatal accident to attend, with Nathan Gomer’s agent, a coroner’s inquest. He had previously attended a preliminary examination of Mr. Chewkle before a magistrate, on which occasion the extremely chapfallen criminal was remanded for the recovery of Mr. Wilton, who, it was stated at the time, would soon be sufficiently well to give evidence. But Mr. Wilton at first grew rapidly worse instead of better, and therefore Mr. Chewkle was again remanded for a somewhat longer term than before.
The return of Mr. Wilton’s reason found him terribly enfeebled; but the danger having been surmounted, the recovery of strength was but a question of time. And now commenced the real difficulty Lotte had to encounter.
Mr. Wilton, as soon as he began to recognise anything, noticed Lotte’s presence; and, on making a remark respecting it, was informed by the physician that it was a young lady who had kindly undertaken to tend him with that earnest care which could not be obtained, save in exceptional instances, from a hired nurse, and he spoke in warm and praiseful terms of the service she had rendered.
Wilton fancied he had seen her face somewhere, but could not remember where; it was a passing thought, and he did not ask her name, assuming that it was some new-formed friend of Flora’s, residing in their neighbourhood; in truth, he was glad to think so, and satisfied himself with the supposition, for he felt too ill to pursue inquiries.
He quickly felt the value of Lotte’s presence and her services; there were so many little nameless attentions, such a close regard for his comfort and immunity from pain, such a constant anticipation of his wishes and his wants, that at length he could scarcely bear her from his sight.
He began to get strength to talk, and he conversed with her or listened while she read to him, eliciting occasionally her opinions upon the subject he had selected, and he was pleased with the evidence she gave of a sensible and practical mind, as well as of a pure taste. Soon his conversation, chatty and familiar, began to revert to herself, and became embarrassingly personal. Still he did not identify her.
He knew, indeed, that her name was Clinton, but the name itself struck him no more than if it had been Brown or Thompson, at least in connection with the individual whom his son frantically, as he considered, designed to marry. In fact it was not likely to occur to him that a young damsel, against whose admission into his family he had so vehemently and determinedly set his face, should have absolutely taken possession of his sick chamber, to act a daughter’s part. And as he had adopted, as soon as he began to be sensible of her kind attention, the appellation of “my little nurse,” in addressing or speaking of her, the name of Clinton quickly left his memory.
Only from her hand would he take his medicine; she never made any mistake, or gave him more or less than he ought to have had, and if she was not there to administer it, he insisted that it was not the proper time to take it. She gave him his food; it was always correct as to its quality, quantity, and fitness. Hers was the first face to greet his opening eyes in the morning, the last upon whom they closed at night. Ay, even in the night, at times, he would wake and find the same pleasant, patient face hanging over him, and when he asked why she had not retired, she was always ready to answer him with a plea, that during the previous day she had observed him to be not so well, and as a restless night usually followed those symptoms of retrogression, she was merely at hand to administer to him some soothing medicine which the physician had provided for such contingencies.
Her hand alone could smooth and arrange his pillow to his satisfaction. She was never impatient under the caprices of his temper or his ever-varying whims. She moved always with such alacrity—so light of foot when requested to do anything for him. She submitted so gently and patiently to his querulous testiness, and bore his peevish remarks, as she had throughout executed the task allotted to her, without a cloud upon her brow or a ruffle on her equanimity. “Of course,” cry the selfish, shrugging their shoulders, “such conduct was eminently politic; she had a deep game to play, and had the shrewdness as well as the ability to understand the part assigned to her, and to perform it well.” But “far-seeing” people are not always correct in their assumptions, and in jumping to a conclusion sometimes arrive only at the mire of their own ungenerous instincts; being as far from the truth as they are from the possession of tenderness of heart or magnanimity of soul.
The policy of such conduct formed no element in Lotte’s demeanour or action; it was in fact the result of her organisation, having undertaken such a duty, to so fulfil it.
Mr. Wilton, now rapidly approaching a state of convalescence, began, to weary of his chamber, and to long to inhale the fresh air without his stately dwelling. He sketched out to Lotte walks upon the terrace, and of the pleasure he should enjoy in again being enabled to take them, and how much that pleasure would be enhanced by her favouring him with the support of her kind arm. He promised to enlighten her upon many subjects of science and art, of which she knew nothing, and he promised himself also the pleasure of listening to her simple but always pertinent and sensible remarks.
Flora, too, had recovered her strength and her spirits. Communion with Lotte had toned down the perturbation of her mind, and rendered her far more contented and hopeful than she had been for some time past.
Poor Lotte! her own heart-canker exhibited no sign. The acute agony of her own thoughts was never suffered to display any influence upon her actions or manner in the presence of others; it was only when alone, and offering up her prayers to Heaven for strength to sustain her in the performance of her duty to others, no less than to herself, that the convulsions of a poignant sorrow bore down all opposition, and prostrated her.
Poor Lotte! if she had entertained any misgivings, even during Mark’s most sanguine representations to her of becoming his wife, they resolved themselves into a certainty now. She had only to cast her eyes upon the picturesque antique hall, with its saloons and its galleries, its rich appointments, its paintings, and its sculptures—upon the terrace-garden, with its fountains, its flowers, its rare shrubs, its elegant exotics and trees, and smoothly gravelled serpentine paths—upon the park, with its slopes and undulations of green sward—upon the plantation, and the woods beyond, to feel that it was not for her, so humble in her position, to share these grand and beautiful things.
It was a sorrowful conviction, but she did not quarrel now with Mr. Wilton’s opposition to her becoming Mark’s wife; it seemed, indeed, merely natural, taking life as she had found it, that he should do so, and not unreasonable. And it was to bear this conviction without repining that she prayed earnestly, and wrestled with her wishes ardently.
Flora was no sooner able to quit her room than she applied herself to the task of relieving Lotte of some portion of her labours. She did this with affectionate willingness, for she was desirous that Lotte should, after such continuous confinement to a sick chamber, be enabled to obtain rest, and such personal enjoyment as the beauties and advantages of the place afforded; and by the time Mr. Wilton was prepared to make his first visit down stairs, Flora was sufficiently recovered to resume her place at his side, and take up the position Lotte had so generously and so well filled.
There was quite a little excitement when Mr. Wilton came down for the first time since his attack to his library. Flora’s arm was used by him for support, because Lotte had not made her appearance. The old man was disappointed, and inquired sharply why his “little nurse” was not present. Flora replied that she had not quitted her room yet—that she was unusually late this morning—that she would, after having congratulated him upon his returning to his old place in the house, hasten to her chamber to ascertain the cause of her non-appearance.
“The sooner the better,” said Wilton, drily.
Flora quitted the room; and Mark now offered his father his congratulations upon his having quitted his invalid chamber, and his reappearance in his library.
“Thank you—thank you,” responded his father, quickly; and added, somewhat peevishly, “I miss the congratulations of one who has done so much to restore me to my place here; I quite expected to have had her help to get here, or, at least, her pleasant face to welcome me.”
“She’s a tender, kind-hearted, good girl, sir,” said Mark, trying to curb enthusiasm of tone and manner.
“She’s an angel, sir!” cried Wilton, vehemently. “I repeat it—an angel. There, now, is a young, inestimable creature, who would—but we won’t recur to that now; another time. Well, well, Flo’, where is little nurse?” he cried, as Flora entered the library.
There was a grave expression on her face, and she held in her hand a letter.
Lotte had quitted Harleydale early that morning. Certainly, of the three, none appeared more completely thunderstruck at the circumstance than Mr. Wilton.
“Gone!” he cried; “left us without a word?” He looked fiercely at both son and daughter. “What is the meaning of so extraordinary an occurrence?” he continued. “She must have been, in some way, insulted—outraged—to have departed in so abrupt a manner. Whoever has dared to be guilty of aught which can have compelled her to act thus shall be visited by my most wrathful indignation.”
The old man spoke with great excitement. Flora, half-frightened at his manner, said, hurriedly—
“Here is a letter, father which she has left upon her toilet-table, addressed to me.”
“Read it,” cried Wilton, imperatively.
Flora opened the note, and, with genuine emotion, read the contents. They ran thus—
“My dear Miss Wilton,—-Do not think harshly of me for quitting you and your beautiful home thus abruptly, but, indeed, I could not summon fortitude enough to part with you for ever.”
[“For ever,” ejaculated Mark and his father in a breath. “With quivering lip. Flora repeated the word, and went on reading.]
“My mission is fulfilled. I was placed by your father’s bedside in the darkest hour of his danger, with no skill, but only a hopeful heart and willing spirit to help and guide me. It has pleased Heaven to place him on the threshold of health, and my services, with you by his side, are no longer needed, so I retire again into my own humble privacy——”
“But I won’t allow her to do anything of the kind,” roared old Wilton, excitedly.
“Hush, sir, for mercy sake, hush!” cried Mark; and, in an agitated manner, said to Flora, “Pray, go on.”
Flora brushed her tears away, and proceeded reading—
“I have imagined and feel rewarded by the thanks your generous heart and kind nature would prompt you to render me for what I have endeavoured to accomplish in my office of nurse. I have imagined those of the other members of your family, and so am amply repaid. You and they owe me nothing on that account; yet, if I might claim a favour quite to repay all obligation, it would be to ask of you all to forget me—or if you may not be able to remove all traces of her whose social grade renders her of little worth in the eyes of those in your position, from lingering in your memory, at least act as if I were no more remembered. Do not seek me, do not write to me more—”
Wilton uttered an ejaculation of wonder. Flora, with an unsteady voice, proceeded—
“I beg also to be spared from giving explanations, for what must seem strange conduct in the eyes of your parent, yourself—perhaps of others, but I trust you will rest content by the acknowledgment that I am weaker in spirit than I believed myself to le. That seeing hopes shown to be illusions and dreams dissipated by hard—perhaps cold facts, I am desirous of not having anything in future presented to my eyes to raise up recollections of my poor folly, but would pray to be permitted to pass my future life with resignation and in graceful obscurity. You may know all, or you may know nothing; in either case, I earnestly implore you to grant my request. And so, dear, dear Miss Wilton, unequal to the agony of parting with you personally, take now from me therefore, through the medium of this note, my farewell, and for ever. May the Almighty bless you, and those nearest and dearest to you—-”
“Ahem!” coughed a voice loudly preventing, by the interruption, Flora from adding the name appended to the note.
Old Wilton, whose eyes were riveted on Flora, turned sharply to the spot whence the sound proceeded, as did Mark and Flora. They beheld Nathan Gomer standing before them. He blew his nose almost fiercely, and we are not sure that his eyelids were not filled with water. He cleared his voice, which betrayed symptoms of huskiness, and muttering first something about “a plaguy cold,” he addressed Flora.
“I am sorry, Miss Wilton,” he said, “to interrupt you, or to intrude unannounced upon private family matters, but I have some very important business, which cannot be delayed, to transact with your good father, whom I congratulate upon being down here in his library once more. With the permission of yourself and your brother, I will proceed to my work at once.”
Both Flora and Mark were glad of the opportunity of retiring from the library, to confer together upon Lotte’s remarkable proceeding.
Flora was utterly overwhelmed with surprise at what had happened. Mark was not. He began to understand Lotte’s character better. Never did he honour her more highly, or love her more dearly than when he heard the contents of that letter, which he not only intended to read, but having obtained possession of, to keep.
When Mark and Flora had departed, old Wilton motioned to Nathan Gomer to be seated; all the time in a state of mystification and wonder at the behaviour of his pretty, kind, little nurse. There was something to unravel, he was sure of that. And, after all, who really was she, and why had she departed from his house in a manner so extraordinary?
“I say I hope you are satisfied now!” exclaimed Nathan Gomer, loudly repeating some words he had previously uttered. He had been talking for some little time, and Wilton had not heard a word.
The old man started, and apologised for his inattention.
“A singular circumstance has occurred beneath my roof to-day,” he said, “and it has surprised, mystified, and upset me—yes, much disturbed me, when I hoped to have been really more gratified and happy than I have been for a long time. When you have finished your communication, I will take your opinion upon the matter.”
Nathan Gomer peered under his eyebrows at him, and stroked his chin. He noted, with seeming pleasure, the vexed expression the old man’s features wore; but he made no allusion to it, nor even to the incident respecting which he was to be called upon to give his opinion. He said, in a dry manner—
“I stated to you the present position of Grahame, and I have come to consult with you upon our future course with respect to that unhappy man and his family.
“But I did not hear you, Gomer,” exclaimed Wilton, quickly; “pray repeat it! How stands now the proud man who would have destroyed me and mine?”
“Low, indeed; broken, beggared, and outcast!” returned Nathan, with emphasis.
A grim smile sat on Wilton’s features.
“Retribution!” he muttered, “retribution!”
“A heavy one, Eustace Wilton,” said Nathan, with a sharpness in his tone not usual with him. “He has been struck to the heart in his family as well as in his fortune. I have small pity for the man, for he paused not at the most foul crimes to accomplish his selfish ends; but I cannot look at the stain which has befallen the female members of the family without a feeling of pain and regret. They were, at least, innocent of harm to you, in thought or act.”