Читать книгу Expiation - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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No sooner had Mr. Woodruff explained matters to the newcomer, a young lady whom he assisted to alight from the carriage, than she broke away, and, opening the library door, found herself face to face with its solitary occupant. She advanced no further for a moment, but stood as if spell-bound, gazing with a mingled expression of hope and timorousness into his face. She saw in the man before her all that she had taught herself to expect in her father. A man of upright and even majestic presence, with dark brows, resolute features, and iron grey hair, whose pale face, together with a restless look, appealed powerfully to her sympathy. There was nothing there to excite her apprehensions; much that appealed for her love. She remembered that, at last, the one great wish of her heart had come to her, that she was face to face with her father, and furthermore there rushed upon her remembrances of his unhappiness, a story as often heard from Mrs. Neville. Her heart throbbed violently. As the spellbound feeling slowly died away, leaving her free to move and speak, she crossed the groom towards her father, and stood by his side, with one hand tremulously laid upon his shoulder, gazing up into his stern face appealingly, waiting—waiting for some responsive action, before she dared put her arms around his neck, and claim from him a father's love. But, as if unconscious of her gentle touch, or even of her presence, he stood with half-averted face until gradually the tears came into her eyes, and a pained look chased the smile from her face.

Was this the meeting which she had so often pictured to herself? Was it thus she was to find the father of her dreams? He would not speak to her, not even look at her, but kept his eyes averted as if the sight of her was painful. Her hand slipped from his shoulder, and she receded a step.

"Will you not speak to me, father?" she pleaded, with a sob escaping at the last word.

Slowly he turned his face towards her, and he opened his lips as if about to speak, but there was no need for words now, for her first glance had shown her that this silence was from no indifference, or embarrassment. It was purely the cloak of an emotion too deep for utterance. In the next moment, with a glad cry, she was in his arms, strained to his heart in a passionate embrace, and he now was sobbing.

After a time he disengaged himself and led her gently across the room, placing her in the armchair, drawn up to the fire, whilst he, still holding one of her hands, stood on the rug eyeing her.

"You are wonderfully like your mother, child," he said at last, in a low tone.

His mournful gaze and the tremor in his voice brought the tears again to Eva's eyes, and she could scarcely answer him.

"I am glad," she whispered. "I never saw her, you know, that is to remember her, but I have her picture, and people tell me that it is like me."

There fell a long silence: Eva feared to speak, since she could see that her father was strongly agitated, and so she sat still, leaving her hand in his, and waiting for him to recover. On his part, he was scarcely conscious of her presence, for memories of the woman whom he had loved so fervidly, revived by this fair daughter, had seized him, and carried him many years back into other scenes, amongst other people. Again he was standing on the lawn before that ivy-covered cottage on Thames banks, drinking in the intoxication of one who had been the single sweet dream of a wasted life. He almost fancied that he could hear again Mr. Wakefield's cheery voice, and the merry ripple of the river flowing a few yards off; the night breeze, too, gently disturbing the leaves. The faint perfume of mignonette and roses seemed wafted again towards him. He thought of his beloved as seen then, in her light summer dress floating about with careless grace, and flashing upon him glances from those unrivalled eyes of which the reflected glories even now made his heart beat fast. But next there came a frown upon his face, and its lines grew harder, until the watching Eva could see that unpleasant reminiscences were stirring him. Growing full of fear, she tightened her grasp upon his arm, and drew him towards her. With a start he recovered himself, and the frown cleared off.

"Forgive me, child, forgetting you for a moment."

He smiled down on her so lovingly, that she forgave him freely. After all it was something to remind him so sharply of her mother. That alone, she felt, would in time gain her his love.

The door opened, and Mrs. Neville and the lawyer entered. The interview between father and daughter was over. Mrs. Neville was looking forward with pleasure to meeting her nephew again, whom she had not seen since his seventh year, hence her greeting was a cordial one. He saluted her courteously, but did not respond in the slightest degree to the warmth of her welcome. She would have been disappointed but for the kindness, even the heartiness, with which he thanked her for her care of Eva.

They talked pleasantly enough for a time, before the two ladies retired, Eva taking leave of her father with an affection which, to her distress, seemed almost to cause him embarrassment.

Mrs. Neville, whom it would be impolite to allow thus cavalierly to be dismissed by us, was the younger daughter of the country clergyman whose elder daughter had married Harold Mornington's father. She had been sought and won by a well-to-do country gentleman in Warwickshire, whose early death had left her a childless widow with an ample fortune. She it was who volunteered to receive Eva as her child upon her mother's death. She was an ordinary person enough, with a good-humoured face, of weak will but sound heart, no uncommon combination. Under her care, Eva's life had been a singularly monotonous one. She had spent six years at a good, not fashionable, boarding-school in London, which she had left about two years since. During the interim, she lived with Mrs. Neville at a small villa, outside one of the large towns of Warwickshire, to which Mrs. Neville had removed for a time, in order that her charge might have the advantage of masters, to complete her education; an impossibility had they not quitted Mrs. Neville's quiet country home. She had been kind to Eva, and tried hard to make the motherless child happy, and in a certain measure she had succeeded. But she had never obtained from Eva that love which a mother or father could alone have gained. For Eva had a vein of romance in her character, deeper than the ordinary run of school-girl sentiment, and her best and truest affections were all engaged in a passionate pity and adoration for the homeless wanderer whom she knew her father to be. His sad tale, however toned down by her aunt, she was never tired of hearing, and his wanderings in foreign lands she often pictured to herself. Her brother she frequently saw, and although they were of exactly opposite temperament, and shared no two views alike, she loved him well enough in a placid way, quite sufficient, however, for Godfrey Mornington. To him effusive affection of any sort would have been affliction. When, therefore, the news arrived, in that short telegram from Mr. Woodruff, announcing the return home of her father, Eva was filled with hope that henceforth the void in her life would be filled, and that she would be able to lavish her affections on a living parent, rather than upon a shadowy ideal. Her one thought and anxiety, which showed themselves constantly during the journey to Mornington, was whether the father, on whom she was eager to bestow so much stored-up fondness, would reciprocate it, and appreciate her devotion. Her excitement on the way had been almost painful to so even-tempered a woman as Mrs. Neville; but her reproofs fell upon deaf ears, and all Eva could think of or discuss, was whether her father would really be one to her, and love her as fondly as she was prepared to love him, and did, for that matter. He was all she had pictured him, a noble looking man, with the stamp of good birth indelibly impressed upon him. Her who le womanly sympathies had been farther aroused by the intense sadness in his bearing and countenance. She had found him in all respects equal, in many superior, to the ideal she had worshipped, and yet, strange to say, at the bottom of her heart disappointment rankled. He had been agitated on seeing her; he had embraced her with warmth, and yet there was a latent sentiment, undefinable, yet none the less existent, in his greeting; his manner had cast a chill upon her impulsive nature.

Long after her maid had left her, Eva sat in her dressing-gown, leaning back, and gazing mournfully into the fire, deep in thought. She was trying, all in vain, to transfer the affection lavished on her cherished ideal, to its incarnation; her substantial father who at last was found.

"What do I expect more?" she mused. "He met me with kind words and ardent greetings. What more can I expect? I was wrong, nay, unreasonable to imagine that at one meeting all the love I treasured up so long could leave me. It will in time, I know it will! When he grows to love me more for my own sake and less for my mother's, he cannot help but win it. How he must have loved her," she continued dreamily. "When he looked up as I entered the room, I felt, even then, that the glow in his eyes was for the memory I recalled, and not for me. Even when he was kissing me, and that strange absent look glazed his eyes, I knew he was trying to imagine that mine were her lips. Well, be it so," with a little sigh—"I must be content to be loved as my mother's counterpart until he shall grow to love me for myself. He will some day," she concluded, "and then I shall love him with all my heart." Tired out with her journey, she fell asleep with this consolation.

In the meantime, the two gentlemen sat up for only a short time longer, Mr. Mornington responding to the lawyer's questions in monosyllables, and making no attempt to renew the conversation begun on the balcony. As soon as he correctly appreciated his companion's mood, Mr. Woodruff bade him good-night, and soon afterwards the host followed his example.

When he gained his chamber he did not immediately make preparations for sleep. He had passed through a day which, now it was over, seemed more like a long dream, though every particular was engraven deeply in his memory; and he was not sorry it was ended, to judge by the sigh of relief he gave, as, closing the door, he found himself alone at last. He opened the window to gaze on to the gardens beneath, glorious now in the silver light of the harvest moon.

Upon the rugged grey stone of the balcony beneath its carvings standing out in bold relief against the darker shades on the turf, and down the steps, to the smooth lawns and flower beds of curious shapes, filled with rare plants, and blooms of brilliant hue, all now blurred together in an uncertain medley by the twilight. Here and there, dotted about the gardens, rose scantily draped statues of the same material wherewith the house was built, holding up marble basins, round which ivy had wound itself, and with the moon's rays falling upon them—to cover up their ruggedness and imperfections, they looked like living creatures, or at least like the shades of another age—spectres of former generations of Morningtons, risen from their graves to confront the latest of their line leaning out of the window.

And then, a little farther, rows of tall yew trees bordered the gardens, like a gigantic black palisade of defence for the fair scene which they enclosed; while through them, shining like glass with the moon's reflection, were streaks of the lake extending along the southern boundary.

Pleasant thoughts passed through Harold Mornington's mind as he revelled in the delightful spectacle. Visions of happiness arose. He reckoned the many years he still might live, and determined to enjoy to the utmost, now that he had every facility. He thrust from him regrets of the past which sought to vex him. Eva's face was mixed up with all his prospects; with that appealing look of affection, which had touched him most intimately, surcharged as it was with a reminder of the past. He looked above at the cloudless sky glittering with stars, an every-night sight though it be which few can contemplate without emotion. It brings to the lovers sentiment, to the enthusiast awe, and on the scoffer imposes reflection. On Harold Mornington it showered rays of ambition. The shooting stars seemed by their luminous paths to link him with highmost things. Projects, long torpid in a heart numbed by the purgatory of misery and remorse. Proud imaginings filled his brain, and he pictured himself as a statesman, honoured and revered. He remembered his triumphs at college debating societies; and convictions of success, based on his great wealth and the influence of his name, took the place of fancies. Glancing below, as his eyes rested upon the statues, a strange thought came upon him. Life was on a sudden breathed into them, and they slowly dilated into majestic proportions, each in dress of bygone years, but all with the Mornington features; with one same dark frown and a threatening finger pointed to him. As if with one voice came a low whisper from all, borne to his ears with horrible distinctness:

"Thou wert thy brother's keeper. Where is the man?"

Three times, he was assured, the fingers were raised, and the dread whisper uttered; thereupon they returned to their former shapes, and all the vision faded away. Still he leant forward spell-bound, shuddering; involuntarily his thoughts went back to scenes less fair: the lonely cabin in the desolate north, upon which indeed the stars shone even more brightly in a clearer air, but, as he had seen it last in midwinter, no picturesque landscape. Snow everywhere; lofty pines and cedars laden with icicles, through which the Arctic gale pealed demoniac chimes. The hut was transparent to his searching gaze, so that he beheld himself—in exact similitude—crouching over a dying fire and beside a comrade whom he had readily abandoned at the cry of Fortune for him to come out of exile and enjoy tens of thousands. But that hunger-bitten, despairing visage—was that ever his? He shrank from it and dashed down the blind to shut out the English view which had dissolved into so ghastly a delusion. All night through, his sleep was perturbed and his brain busy with an interminable train of imaginings which ghostly whispers suggested.