Читать книгу Those Other Days - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 3
ОглавлениеOnly a few days ago, whilst turning over a musty collection of aged volumes, I came across an old philosophical treatise—a translation from the German—and as I carefully turned over its pages, preparatory to throwing it aside, I stumbled across an idea which struck me forcibly. The writer, for the purpose of following out some argument, was ignoring the possibility of any future state, and was emphasizing the idea that in a human life happiness and unhappiness are far more equally balanced than the cursory observer would credit or imagine. If a man was afflicted with great trials, he was either gifted with great religious faith or fortitude of disposition sufficient to annihilate them, or they were followed or preceded by a period of corresponding happiness. Desires and dispositions were most often in accord with the local surroundings of the person, and that altogether the principles of happiness were founded upon a retributory basis, evil and good, happiness and unhappiness, existing in proportionate quantities, and giving place to each other at regular intervals.
As I close the volume, I half unconsciously applied this idea to my own life, and I saw at once how close was the correspondence. For I who write this tale am now one of the happiest men on earth, whereas not many years ago I was assuredly one of the most miserable. Is it not a feasible idea that the calm happiness which now fills my life has come to me as compensation for a period of utter and intense misery; so intense that, even now, after many peaceful years have passed away, I can scarcely look back upon those other days without a shuddering remembrance of their hideous wretchedness?
This is the story of my great unhappiness. I had left college but two years, and had flung myself into my profession with all the energy and devotion which youth and love of my following could inspire. I was an artist, member of a profession which above all others can fan the impetuous zeal of youth into the blazing fire of ambition, such dazzling prizes it offers, so easy appears to the sanguine temperament of youth their acquisition. As I bent over the easel in my tiny studio, its narrow precincts would oftentimes expand before me, the brush would fall from my hands neglected to the floor, and I would pace the room with flashing eyes and swelling heart, without a glance at my deserted work, full of bright visions and daring hopes, which soon became to me precious food for my imagination, fondly cherished and jealously kept to myself, while day after day I worked with unremitting toil at the masterpiece which was to be the stepping-stone to my fortunes.
I was well-nigh alone in the world, for I was an orphan. My father died when I was still quite young, and him I cannot clearly remember; but my mother lived until I was eleven years old, and faint memories of her I can and do often recall. She had many trials, poor woman, but never once do I remember seeing a frown on her face or hearing an angry word from her lips. She bore all her troubles with a fortitude and cheerful resignation rare indeed in women, and which still command my wondering admiration whenever I reflect upon them.
Ours was an unhappy childhood. My father, though of good family, and, I believe, of high attainments, was not a successful man, and at the age of forty, when he died, was only the vicar of a small country village, out of the living of which—barely three hundred a year—he had not been able to save a single penny. Disappointment and poverty had soured his once sweet temper, and the latter years of his life were years of discomfort and unhappiness to us all, particularly to his long-suffering wife, who had to bear, and did bear, without a murmur the exacting whims and fretful disposition of a disappointed and, I fear, selfish man.
With his death ceased our only regular income, and henceforth life became a perpetual struggle to my poor mother, who nevertheless—partly by her own efforts and partly by the aid of her brother-in-law, our only surviving relation—managed to bring us up in respectability and even in comfort; so much so, indeed, that the dim memories which I still have of this period of my childhood are far from unhappy ones. I had only one sister, a year younger than myself, and when—worn out with her struggles, but peaceful and cheerful to the end—my mother died, we felt what it was to be alone in the world.
My uncle, with whom we went to live, was a student, and almost a hermit, and took but little notice of us children, who grew up under the care of a nurse with better results than might have been expected, for she was a conscientious and good woman. Then one day our increasing heights seemed to remind him of the necessity of some change in our mode of living, and all that evening, contrary to his custom and greatly to our discomfort, he remained with us in the sitting-room, silent and absorbed as usual. Just as our bed-time was approaching an idea occurred to him, and he started up from his easy chair, from the depths of which he had been silently contemplating us for the last hour and half, to our infinite wonder and embarrassment.
"Children, it is time you went to school," he declared solemnly. "I wonder I never thought of it before;" and the knotty problem solved, he retired to his study to resume his accustomed labours, leaving us to discuss eagerly this coming change in our lives.
We went to school—Lizzie to London, I to a public school of no secondary standing. I have nothing particular to say about those days. I did not distinguish myself particularly either in the class-room or the cricket-field, and the only study which really interested me was drawing, the rudiments of which I rapidly acquired. When I had reached the age of eighteen, I received the following characteristic letter from my uncle:—
"ELMHURST, October 22.
"MY DEAR VERNON—I see by the family Bible that you are now eighteen years old, and it occurs to me that you are of an age to form some definite idea as to your future. I reproach myself that I have not seen more of you, especially at the present time, for I begin to feel my strength leaving me, and though I have been for a long while ailing, the doctor's as well as my own reason tells me that the end is at hand. The little property I have is left to you, and out of it you will have to provide for your sister—at any rate, until she marries. It is not much I have to leave you, barely three hundred a year; but you will be able to live on it, and that you may do so profitably is my sincere wish. It is time for you now to leave school, and I should wish you, whatever profession you may choose to follow, to spend the next two years, at least, at college. I am but little competent to advise you as to your future, for my own life has been in many ways a failure. But I remember always that you come of an old family, whose name has never been sullied by trade, and do not seek to amass wealth by unworthy means, or by pursuing an unworthy avocation. You will, doubtless, be sought after by many at college; for, from reports I have of you, I gather that you possess no little of your father's good looks. But do not waste your time there in sports and the other pursuits of the rich; for remember that you have your own future to carve out and your way to make in the world. Follow out the course of reading which you may deem the most serviceable to you in the avocation which you decide to embrace, and let it be not too strict, but let there be a due, not undue, admixture of recreation, lest you become merely a useless bookworm like myself. Be careful of your health, and do not share the dissipations of those who will perforce be your associates; and, above all things, be careful with whom you enter into friendship. Be not too ambitious at this early stage of your life, lest in grasping at the shadow you lose the substance. Do not decide hurriedly upon your future, but when you have fully made up your mind in what direction your abilities and desires lead you do not be tempted by initiatory failure to try some other career, but persevere; and may the blessing of an old man, who might have been a better guardian to you, assist you.
"Your affectionate uncle,
"ANTHONY HARPENDEN."
When I had read this letter I determined to travel down into Wiltshire on the very next day and see my uncle, for those few words concerning his illness convinced me that unless I did so at once I should not see him again. But by the next post came another letter in a strange handwriting and with an ominous black seal, and a few days later Lizzie and I, the sole mourners, stood beside the grave of well-nigh the only relation we had in the world.
After the funeral we held a brief discussion as to our plans for the future. Lizzie was four years older than I, and we were at that time as different both in appearance and manners as brother and sister could well be. She possessed to the full extent her mother's evenness of temper and unselfishness of disposition, and she was quite content to stop on at Elmhurst, my uncle's old home, now ours, with an old housekeeper, her sole companion, whilst I went up to Oxford for the two years which my uncle had prescribed.
Those two years passed, at any rate, harmlessly for me, if without any special benefit. I increased my classical knowledge considerably, but the greater part of my time was given to the prosecution of the hobby which was fast becoming a passion with me. I looked eagerly forward to the time of my leaving college, when I should have a studio of my own; for I had determined, it is needless to say, to become an artist, and with my thoughts so engrossed it was a matter of wonder to me that I succeeded in taking my degree.
When the two years had elapsed, I easily persuaded Lizzie to let Elmhurst, and come to live with me near London. We took a small house near Sydenham, and then at last my impatient longings were gratified—I commenced work in a studio of my own. For twelve months we lived here quietly, I gaining fresh hopes every day, only to despair again when I wandered in to gaze at the masterpieces exhibited at the Academy and at the National Gallery, and compared them with my own poor work. And yet when I was back again, and alone in my little studio, hope would return with all its vigour, flinging fresh fuel on the fire of my imaginings, and I would deem again that all was within my reach, and that work, hard, unceasing work, could not fail in time to bring me the success I coveted.
Alas! the work in which I trusted to bring me fame brought me instead a terrible misfortune—the misfortune to which I have already referred. I fell ill, almost to death, and then, with scarcely any warning, the fairest gift of life was taken from me. For, after weeks of half-unconscious pain and suspense, there came upon me in the night a sudden darkness, which the light of day could not dissipate, and there crept upon me a horrible suspicion that I was blind. I could not believe it at first. I cried out in my anguish that it must be some terrible nightmare, a passing faintness—anything but the horrible truth. I besought them, with my voice choked with sobs, to tell me that it was not true, but I heard no encouraging voices bid me hope, only the sound of a woman sobbing quietly by my bedside, and answering my piteous appeals with evasive tenderness. Then I fell back on my pillows worn out and miserable, and prayed to God that I might die.
For many weeks afterwards my life hung upon a thread, and I felt that I cared no longer whether it should snap or no. What was there now which could make life precious to me? Nothing, absolutely nothing! Longing visions and fond dreams of success in my art, these had been the sole thoughts of my existence, the end and aim of all my exertions. The world had held no attraction which could win my thoughts for one moment from them, no happiness save in dreams of their consummation. As a blind man, I had no desire to live.
Nevertheless, Fate decreed that I should recover from the fever which had brought me to the very verge of death, and slowly there came back to me my strength and faculties; all save the one I most coveted—my sight. Ah! the misery of those re-awakening hours, when every day I felt strength mustering in my body, and still that horrible darkness before my eyes. I fear that in that first period of my convalescence I acted little like a man, for I often turned my face to the wall, and first wept, then cursed and swore at all who sought to comfort me.
Then there came over me a dull lethargy—a passive resignation, which from its very contrast to my former state made my nurses uneasy. The doctor, too, seemed disturbed at my slow progress, and counselled an immediate change of scene. So that, in about a week's time, despite my petulant protestations, we removed to a quiet little watering-place on the Norfolk coast. I was woefully ill and weak, and every little incident of the journey impressed upon me my utter impotency to such an extent that I cried aloud in the carriage, and when we reached our journey's end I was very nearly in a relapse. Contrary to my expectations, however, almost to my wishes, the air of the place soon had a wonderful effect upon me. At the end of the first week the bath-chair was dispensed with, and, leaning on Lizzie's arm, I could walk down the crazy narrow street, and along the esplanade, on to the cliffs, where the strong sea-breeze blowing full in my face brought strength and vigour, which, alas! I felt I cared little for now.
At first I could not be persuaded to take any interest whatever in my surroundings; I would do nothing more active than sit and brood, in gloomy silence, on my ruined hopes and cheerless future. Those must have been very dull days for Lizzie, poor girl, but she never complained, and seldom left me for an hour. I was anything but a cheerful companion, for often during a whole morning we would sit at the end of the little pier (to which the sea comes occasionally) without speaking a word, she intent on her book or embroidery, I apparently dozing, but really nursing my bitter thoughts of a future which, from a fairyland of promise, had suddenly become a cheerless and dismal blank.
Several weeks we spent in this fashion, while I slowly mended in health, and by degrees with the bodily improvement came some slight improvement in my spirits. I knew that I should please Lizzie if I appeared to take some slight interest in our surroundings; and one morning, for her sake, I asked some questions and exhibited some curiosity about the little place, and by the tone of her answer I knew that she was pleased. She laid down her knitting (we were sitting at the end of the little pier) and described the place minutely; told me of its little cluster of grey stone houses with red tiles, quaintly built, and nestling, as if for protection from the ever-encroaching sea, round the fine old church, which reared its lofty spire from amongst them like a veritable tower of protection. She told me of its narrow streets, without footway; of the rude flights of steps which led from the little town on to the pier or beach, and of the unpretending esplanade, with the green bank behind covered with daisies and dandelions. And then she spoke of the high cliffs with growing enthusiasm, stretching away on either side, covered with soft springy turf, and here and there with bracken, along which one could walk for miles, meeting full the strong salt breeze, and getting many pleasant views of the sea, wondrously blue, rippling in the little coves below. And she told me too of the white lighthouse, built on a hill of green turf, which swept its strong light at nighttime far away over the glistening waters below.
And as she spoke of all these places I conjured up to myself fancies as to how they really looked, and amused myself by arranging them together in my thoughts, like a picture, until I almost fancied, leaning idly against the end of the jetty and turning my sightless orbs towards the town, that I could really see it stretched out before me just as she had described it; and, strange to say, from my well-nursed fancies of it the place seemed to grow familiar, and a sort of affection sprang up within me for it. Almost I fancied, as I stood there, that I could in truth see as she had described them—the dingy-looking building exactly opposite me, with the words Hotel de Paris sprawling along the front; the little plot of deserted lawn in front of it, with a few easy chairs and camp-stools placed carelessly about for the old people to repose in while they dozed, and blinked, and read their papers; and the wicket-gate leading from it unto the esplanade; and the crazy wooden steps which led down to the sands. From frequent and vivid description all these dwelt in my memory, and I built up for myself in my mind ideas as to their appearance and effect, until the whole became as a familiar picture to me, in which I took a keen and almost childlike interest. Ah, well I many and many a time have I visited Cromer since those few months of my convalescence. I have stopped at that old-fashioned but comfortable hotel, and spent many happy days upon those bracken-covered cliffs, drinking in the strong, exhilarating sea-breeze, than which there is none purer in England. I have climbed up the steep little hill to the lighthouse, and admired from its summit over and over again the picturesque little town nestling in the hollow below, with the blue sea stretching up to its very feet, and laughed at the old wooden jetty dignified with the name of pier, most useful as a protection from the sun's rays to the loungers on the sands below. Also have I joined in the little crowd who at half-past ten block up the narrow little street opposite the post-office, awaiting the morning papers; and I have been one of the old fogies who have sat on the neglected lawn in front of the hotel, and have read my paper, and dozed, and blinked, and gazed at the blue sea stretching out before me, steeped in a quiet, passive enjoyment incomprehensible to the younger spirits. A quiet, dull hole I have heard the place often called, and no doubt with a certain amount of reason; but I love it, and am blind to its imperfections, partly because it was here I first found consolation from my terrible trouble, partly because the place itself is pleasant to me, and partly—but I must reserve my other reason until my story is told.
Time slipped quietly away, and every day my convalescence became more and more assured; and with my returning bodily strength I grew somewhat more reconciled to the fact of my existence. True, the future seemed still a hopeless blank; but I was content for the time to abandon myself to the luxury of breathing the fresh, pure air and feeling the strength stealing once more into my frame, and I spent the long summer days lying about on the cliffs, or beach, or sitting on the pier, while Lizzie would read to me such books as I approved. The daily papers I forbade. The world's events possessed but little interest for me, for I deemed myself outside it altogether. Neither did I care for novels, and for the first time in my life found pleasure in poetry, although Lizzie was at best but an indifferent reader; and in such manner the time passed away.
One morning there came a change into our quiet life. Lizzie had left me for a few minutes on the pier while she went into the little town to execute some trifling commission. She was gone longer than I expected, and I began to get impatient, for solitude was my bête noire, bringing, as it naturally did, reflection—reflection which could not fail to engender sad thoughts which I fain would banish and keep away. Just as I was growing fretful and uneasy, I heard her voice as she descended the steps, and, to my surprise, she was talking to some one who appeared to be accompanying her, and then I heard them turn on to the pier, and I knew without doubt that my sister had a companion. My first impulse was not of surprise—although it might well have been, for I knew that Lizzie was reserved and adverse to chance acquaintances—but rather of keen and selfish annoyance. Lizzie knew that I hated strangers, and, over-sensitive in those early days of my trouble, liked nothing so little as sympathy or condolence, however gently expressed. I had all the whims and tempers of a spoilt child then; and when I heard them coming towards me, I turned my head obstinately away, and, leaning over the wooden railing with folded arms, assumed an attitude of deep abstraction.
"Vernon," my sister said pleadingly, laying her hand timidly upon my shoulder, "I have met an old school friend;" and I was perforce bound to turn my head.
"My brother Vernon—Miss Ellis. You have often heard me speak of Margaret Ellis, Vernon; this is she."
I raised my hat, muttering some half-inarticulate words intended to convey my pleasure at so unexpected a rencontre. In reality, I was annoyed—sulky, she has since told me, laughingly. Then she spoke in a soft, musical voice, which, despite my ill-humour, gave me keen pleasure to listen to; for since my blindness every day my hearing seemed to grow more sensitive.
"I was quite delighted to meet your sister just now, Mr. Harpenden," she said, "for I am almost alone here, and Cromer is such a very quiet place isn't it?"
I assented, but not in words; and she continued rather nervously—
"Liz has been telling me of your illness, and of its effect. I am very sorry."
I muttered something conventional, and then we all three sat down and talked, rather constrainedly at first; but soon my ill-humour vanished, and I began to find it very pleasant to listen to that low, melodious voice—so pleasant that I was actually sorry when lunch-time came; and when we parted at the top of the steps, with arrangements to meet in the afternoon, I was in better spirits than a few hours before I could have believed possible.
Margaret Ellis, my sister's old school friend was, like us, an orphan, and, like us, a poor one. She had come to Cromer with an aunt, who was a confirmed invalid, seldom leaving her room: to whom we were, indeed, introduced, but whom we seldom saw. And as she, Mrs. Ellis, preferred the attentions of her maid, who had lived with her all her life, to her niece's nursing (execrable taste I), Margaret had a great deal of time on her hands, most of which she spent with us. And we welcomed her—Lizzie because they were old friends, and I because her coming was a pleasant change, so pleasant, indeed, that my worst and most irritable days soon became those on which we saw her least often. As a rule, she would join us soon after breakfast, and then would come the question, "Pier, sands, or cliffs?" Generally in the morning we chose the latter; and as I lounged on the soft turf, and bared my head to catch the pure, sweet breeze, listening the while to Margaret's musical voice as she read aloud to us, I began to feel that life might still, under some circumstances, be endurable. What those circumstances involved I did not pause to think. I had had enough of thought and misery for a while, and I gave myself up to the enjoyment of the present without a single thought of the future, without caring to realize fully the consciousness, which now and then faintly troubled me, that it was an unseen presence which made the days go by so happily.
One day I startled Lizzie by asking her to describe her friend. She laid down her knitting and considered for a moment.
"Well, I scarcely know how to describe her," she began.
Of course not. How is it, I wonder, that a woman can never describe another woman? If she does attempt the task, she gives it you disconnectedly and without enthusiasm, until it all sounds like a police description of a missing person. I had not the slightest desire to listen to such.
"I only want to know the colour of her hair and eyes," I told Lizzie. And these I soon learnt: soft grey eyes and lightish-coloured hair.
"You could scarcely call her beautiful," Lizzie continued, "but she is certainly interesting."
I turned away to hide a smile. Not call her beautiful! I knew better, and could positively describe her better than Lizzie. True, I was blind; but the blind, to make up for their loss of sight, have generally a keen development of the other senses, enabling them to lay hold of trifles which would escape an ordinary person, and by piecing them together to arrive at conclusions mostly correct. I knew that Margaret was tall by her voice, and I could tell that she was graceful by her regular, even movements. Then her voice was in itself a charm, and fell always like music upon my sensitive ears, lulling me into a strange repose at times, and at others fiercely quickening my weak pulse. It possessed for me a curious fascination, which I cannot and never could describe—a sort of animal magnetism which drew me to her, and when it ceased still seemed to haunt me, and render me as conscious of her presence as if she was still speaking. In my imagination I drew her portrait with scrupulous exactitude, and so I carried always in my fancy a distinct and vivid idea of her personality. It amused me to discover each day by careless questionings what she wore, and then, when she had left us, to lean back, and, dosing my eyes, to clothe my fancy portrait of her as she had appeared that day; and in time I grew to prefer one style of dress for her, and laughingly she would humour my whim and adopt the style which pleased me best. And so the days passed away with us, bringing little change or variation; as, indeed, we needed none, for I believe the quiet life satisfied us all.
One morning Margaret came down to us on the pier earlier than usual, and from her excited manner it was not difficult to surmise that something had happened. A great oculist had come down to Cromer for a day or two, and was stopping at the Hotel de Paris; and Margaret, who had heard of his arrival, was eager for me to consult him, for my own doctor had counselled me to seek some more competent judge than he directly I was strong enough to bear the excitement.
Dr. Holdsworth was a specialist of great renown, and directly Margaret mentioned his name I determined to seek him at once, although I had but little hope of any good coming from it. Silently we all three walked down the pier and up the steps to the door of the hotel, and there they left me. My hand touched Margaret's for a moment as we parted—only for a moment—but I felt that she was trembling, and a sudden, strange thrill of joy passed through me, and made me for a short while almost forgetful of my errand; and then there followed with a rush a fierce intense longing to know my fate, and somehow I felt that a new interest depended upon the verdict I had come to gain. The hall-porter who appeared to answer my ring conducted me into a tiny apartment called the smoking-room, and, carefully placing a chair for me by the open window, took my card and a message and left me to seek Dr. Holdsworth. The minutes that elapsed before the door again opened seemed like long hours to me, waiting with feverish excitement to know my fate. I heard merry voices from the room above me, and through the open window came laughing speeches and quick retorts, to which I listened eagerly, with straining ears, leaning out of window and grasping the stone sill with my moist hands till they were all bruised and cut. Then my attention was diverted to a child playing on the lawn with battledore and shuttlecock, and I counted earnestly the number of times the shuttlecock fell with dull thud upon the racket, beginning again each time that a cessation of the sound and a burst of childish laughter announced that the feathered ball had fallen outside the player's reach. My brain seemed on fire. I wondered where I was, what I was waiting for, whether it was not all a dream, and in nervous desperation I struck myself a blow, and pinched my arms until they were black and blue, feeling at the time no pain. Then a horrible idea crept over me. I thought that I was a criminal in a prison cell, waiting to be led forth to die, and I put my hands up to my neck, almost fancying that I could feel the rope around it, and then, just as with an effort I smothered a shriek, the door opened, and with it my self-possession returned like a flash. I rose and bowed. I apologized to Dr. Holdsworth for intruding upon him, and stated my case with all the calmness of a third party, although I felt that he was watching me keenly. He listened courteously, and then, turning me towards the light, examined both my eyes with a small instrument. Then he moved away and rested the instrument upon the table, returning slowly to my side; and though I knew that the examination was over, my quivering lips refused to frame the question I fain would ask. He did not keep me very long in suspense, though, but said, in tones which seemed to me almost brutally matter-of-fact—
"I am sorry, but I can do nothing for you. Your case is perfectly hopeless."
I had told myself that I would be prepared for the worst, but, despite my efforts, hope had lingered strong within me. With whom does it not linger, I wonder, however desperate their strait? The criminal, condemned to die, even on the morning of his execution is not without lingering vestiges of hope. A reprieve may come at the last moment, the rope may break, something may happen to delay the dread finale; and who would grudge him the consolation of this faint but precious hope? There are men whom we meet in every-day life carrying behind a smiling face and placid exterior burdens utterly disproportionate to their strength, and only one thing keeps them alive and gives them strength to do it—hope, hope: to us human beings who, like myself, have passed through a furnace of trouble, the greatest gift, the one inestimable boon vouchsafed us by a considerate and merciful dispensation. The hard-worked man of business, the student, the politician, the invalid, the anxious mother, have each their trouble lessened and their lot made endurable by this most precious gift. Even if the hope be fallacious, its realization impossible, for pity's sake tell them not so; still with weary hearts but smiling faces they will struggle on, if not with equanimity, with their sufferings allayed and chastened by the fond hopes they cherish.
Oh, the misery with parting with that hope, of having it torn away by ruthless hands, and being left unaided to fight with a terrible, overmastering misfortune! That one ray of light extinguished, all seems dark. Without hope, life, a thing of light and promise to others, to us becomes a meaningless chaos, devoid of interest, and which we feel may pass around us and over us, but in which we have no participation.
Alas for me when I heard those fatal words! For the hope which, despite myself, had lingered within me, and which only one hour ago had been fanned into a blaze, was now utterly crushed and extinguished, and I also was one of those from whom the light of life had been taken.
Slowly I rose, pressed upon Mr. Holdsworth a fee, which he declined, and groped my way towards the door.
"One moment, Mr. Harpenden," said the doctor, and I paused on the threshold. "I have told you that your case is hopeless, and so, in truth, I believe it. But I think that it is only right to inform you that there is a German, Herr Dondez, who professes to be able to cure cases of glaucoma, such as yours. Frankly, I tell you I don't believe it," he continued; "but if you have plenty of money to throw away, you might go over and see him. It would do you no harm, at any rate."
"His treatment involves considerable expense, then?" I asked.
"It does. His fees are enormous, and his course of treatment necessitates heavy expenditure. It would probably cost you a thousand pounds."
The gleam of returning hope was but transitory and at the doctor's words it fled. I thanked him and dismissed the subject from my mind at once. A thousand pounds was as far out of my reach as one hundred thousand. For even had I been able, which I was not, to touch the principal of our little fortune, and had the chances of success been much greater, I should have hesitated long before I risked so large a share of our income on an issue so doubtful.
Dr. Holdsworth followed me from the room, and guided me down the hall to the steps of the hotel, and outside in the street I found Lizzie and Margaret waiting for me. They asked no questions, so I suppose my face told them as much as they wished to know; and, slipping my arm through Lizzie's, we all three turned silently away and walked down the esplanade towards the cliffs. Lizzie was crying quietly, and once I fancied that I heard a low sob from the other side; but though I strained my ears I heard no repetition of it, so it might have been fancy. When we turned on to the cliffs I was glad to lie down and rest for a while; but we none of us cared to break the silence, and slowly the morning passed away with scarcely a word from any one. Woman is a consoling angel, no doubt; but when there is no hope, what consolation can she whisper? And with such a terrible trial as mine staring me in the face, what could they say to comfort me? So silently and sorrowfully the morning passed away, and after lunch, for the first time since Margaret had commenced to spend all her time with us, I did not propose starting to meet her; and Lizzie, seeing that I made no movement, stayed in also. Sorrows seldom come alone, and side by side with mine loomed another, almost as hard to bear as the loss of sight; for I knew now that I loved Margaret Ellis, and my love must be buried. Not for worlds would I have made her unhappy by telling her of my folly; and besides, what would be the use? That she did not know it as yet I was assured, for until I had gone in to learn my fate from the famous specialist I had not known it myself. It had come upon me like a sudden revelation as I felt her trembling hand, and for the moment had made me madly happy, then wildly excited, as I had realized that the verdict which I went in to hear would decide whether or no I might try to win her; and the verdict had been given against me, and I had come out from that interview with crushed hopes and with my heart well-nigh broken, for in those few moments the happiness of my life had been staked and lost.
Henceforth I must exist—living I could no longer call it—without sight, without my beloved art, and without Margaret. Could man's lot be harder? I asked myself bitterly. To lose the woman I loved and the art I worshipped, to be left without either hope for the future or consolation for the present, to pass through life an outsider, never participating in its joys and pleasures, a hindrance and encumbrance to others, a miserable man myself! Ah! who can depict or realize the wretchedness, the utter misery, of the prospect before me?
Towards evening I roused myself a little and called Lizzie to me. I told her what Dr. Holdsworth had said about the German specialist, and for a moment she brightened up and urged me to sell out our little fortune and make a bold bid for happiness. But I argued with her that in case of failure, and failure was almost certain, we should be poverty-stricken for life, which, in justice to her, must not be; and I told her Dr. Holdsworth's opinion of this man's capacities, and in the end she was convinced, as also was I against my will, that it would be money thrown away to no purpose. Then I came to the most difficult part of what I had to say, but unwittingly she helped me.
"And Margaret?" she whispered timidly. Then I knew that she had divined my secret.
"I must not see her," I said hoarsely, turning my head away; for, man though I was, the horror of that day had all unwrought me, and there were tears in my eyes. I was ashamed that Lizzie should see them, and I motioned her away; but I was too late, and I felt her little hand steal into mine, and her arm around my neck, as with her voice all unsteady with sobs she tried to comfort me.
"Oh, Vernon, it is cruel!" was all that she could falter out; and then she burst into tears, while I—why should I be ashamed to acknowledge that the tears which fell into her handkerchief were not all hers, for I, too, was weeping like a child?
By degrees I recovered myself, and after the fit was over I felt more like myself than I had done since the final blow had fallen. I drew Lizzie to me, and took her hand in mine.
"I want to say a few words about Margaret, Liz. You won't ask me any questions, there's a dear girl, but just do as I ask you? We must get away from this place as soon as possible. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"To-morrow morning you had better go to meet her as usual, and say that I am not well, that I preferred remaining indoors—anything. You can leave her soon and come back to me. You can easily make some excuse not to meet her in the afternoon; and, above all, Liz, be careful not to let her guess at the real reason why I wish to avoid her. Promise me that."
She promised, but not in words, for her eyes were still wet with tears. After that we had tea, and in the evening she read to me, and from her reading I derived little pleasure. After Margaret's wonderful voice hers seemed harsher and more uneven than ever, and I was glad when she laid the book down and proposed going to bed. I slept little that night, and on the morrow, after breakfast, felt no inclination to go out, so, as we had previously arranged, Lizzie started out alone. Before she left I made her write a telegram to my doctor in London, asking him his opinion of Dr. Holdsworth as an eye specialist, and also asking him whether he knew anything of the German, Dondez. Then I got her to write a few lines to a distant connection of my father's, an old bachelor, whom we had never seen, telling him the circumstances of my case, and asking him for the loan of a thousand pounds. Needless to say, I scarcely expected an answer to this last letter.
Long before Lizzie returned came the answer to my telegram:—
"Holdsworth first in Europe on eye; believe other man a quack."
Damning confirmation this of my own conclusions.
At lunch-time Lizzie returned, and, having nothing to conceal from her, I asked eagerly whether she had been with Margaret.
Yes, she had been with her, was all she told me at first; and when I questioned her further she did not immediately reply, but throwing her arms around my neck sobbed out:
"Oh, Vernon! are you sure that you are doing right?"
"Quite," I answered firmly. "Tell me, what did she say?"
My sister dried her eyes slowly.
"She said nothing, Vernon; but I think that she was hurt. We need not hurry away, after all, unless you like, for she is leaving this week."
Leaving! The news was like a stab to me; and yet I knew that it was best so, and, in my calmer moments, I prayed that we might not come across her again during our rambles. Fate decreed otherwise, however; for a few mornings later Lizzie left me for a few moments by the low railing above the pier while she went into the post-office to get some stamps. She had scarcely been gone a moment when I heard a light footstep crossing the esplanade towards me, and my heart stood still for a moment and then beat madly. The footsteps stopped, and I knew then full well who it was stood beside me, but I affected ignorance and toyed carelessly with my stick. But it slipped out of my trembling fingers and rolled out of my reach.
She picked it up and gave it to me.
"Good-morning, Mr. Harpenden." And then I pretended a little start, as if just aware of her presence, and held out my hand.
"Good-morning, Miss Ellis." Not long ago I had called her Margaret without reproof; and when I had wished her good-morning, for the life of me I could think of nothing else to say, and so we stood for nearly a minute in silence.
"Just in time to wish me good-bye," she said lightly, though I fancied that there was a tremor in her tones. "We are going away in half an hour."
"Indeed!" and I ventured to hope that she had enjoyed her visit, feeling all the time as though I were playing with the words.
"Yes, I enjoyed the first part," she said frankly, "I have been very dull the last day or two. Have I offended you, I wonder, Mr. Harpenden?" she said hesitatingly. "If so, I am sorry."
"Offended me? Of course not!" I answered, leaning forward and listening eagerly for Lizzie's returning footsteps. "I have not been in the humour for any one's society but my own the last day or two. I am sorry if I have kept Liz away from you."
"There was no other reason why you wished to avoid me?" she asked in a low tone; and I felt that if Lizzie did not come back at once I was lost.
"Of course not," I answered brusquely. "What a time my sister is buying those stamps!"
I could tell in a moment that it was she who was offended now, but I did not care so long as she left me without discovering my secret.
"Shall I find her for you?" she asked coldly; and, as I bowed my head, she turned and left me. Soon they came up together to where I stood, and after a minute or two's desultory conversation, a messenger from the hotel summoned Margaret. The omnibus was waiting, she must come at once; and so, with a hurried good-bye, she left us, and we heard the omnibus roll away. She was gone, and silently, hand in hand, Liz and I returned to our seat on the cliffs.
Three weeks after Margaret had left Cromer, we also packed up our things and returned to London. So long as she had been there the place had possessed a sort of fascination for me, and although the last few days had been spent in planning to avoid her, I had no wish to leave. Directly she had gone, however, I began to find the place intolerable, and longed to get away. The weather, too, turned colder, and afforded a good excuse, and so we went back to our cottage at Sydenham. Margaret lived with her aunt near Manchester, so there was no chance of meeting her in London; and for my part I was glad, for, although she was seldom absent from my thoughts, I carefully impressed upon myself the fact that our meeting again could bring me nothing but keener unhappiness. She wrote to Lizzie occasionally, but Lizzie never read the letters to me; indeed, by mutual, though unspoken, consent, we avoided even the mention of her name. None the less, however, did she dwell in my thoughts, nor could any effort of mine drive away the remembrance of those happy days at Cromer. Perhaps the first month or two after our return to London was the most unhappy period of my life, for from the moment that Dr. Holdsworth had pronounced his verdict I had lost all hope, and my existence became a trial to myself, and also, I fear, to Lizzie. Every day was but a stereotyped repetition of the preceding one, the only thing to look forward to being its close, that I might retire and console myself with the morbid reflection that another twenty-four hours of my wretched existence had passed away. My sole wish was to die as quickly as possible. With every pleasure in life denied me, was it any wonder that such was my great desire? I believe that in those days nothing but cowardice, springing from absolute exhaustion of body and mind, kept me from by my own hand terminating my weary existence. I was too spiritless to make the attempt, or I verily believe that I should have done it; and I believe, too, that Lizzie feared something of the sort, for she watched me closely, and seldom left my side. Thus the time dragged wearily on, every day finding me more apathetic and brooding, and, if possible, more miserable. I had given up taking exercise, and my appetite began to fail me. Like Job, I turned my face to the wall and prayed that I might die. I grew pale, my clothes commenced to hang loosely about me, and Lizzie begged hard that I would see a doctor; but I refused, for my wish was to die, and my weakness increasing every day, I began to have hopes the end was drawing near. Then one morning came a wonderful surprise, which roused me of a sudden from my sullen torpor, and brought the colour again to my cheeks and the light to my eyes. There was a letter addressed to me, which, as usual, Lizzie opened, but she had scarcely read it through when she jumped up with a cry of joy and amazement, calling out, "Listen, Vernon!" and then she read:—
"LINCOLN'S INN, February 2, 18—
"DEAR SIR—We are instructed by a client, who desires to remain anonymous, to hand to you the enclosed cheque for #1,000, and our client further wishes us to state that this sum is to be applied by you to seeking the advice of a certain Dr. Dondez, of Utrecht, with reference to a malady of the eyes, with which you are afflicted.
"Any further expenses which a temporary residence in Utrecht or fees to Dr. Dondez may necessitate will be paid by us on a personal application from you, the only stipulation being that you do not attempt to discover our client's personality.
"A receipt for the cheque by return of post will much oblige
"Your obedient servants,
"COLES & GREEN."
The letter slipped from her trembling fingers, and with a low, choking cry of joy she flung herself into my arms.
"Read it again!" I gasped, for I was bewildered and could scarcely believe my ears; and recovering herself a little, she dried her streaming eyes, and with broken voice and in disjointed sentences read it through again to me. There could be no possible mistake; it was all plain enough, and the solicitor's cheque for #1,000 lay on the table, as Lizzie over and over again assured me.
"Whom can it be from?" she cried in wondering tones as she laid the letter down; but I scarcely heard, and certainly did not answer her. I had risen to my feet, and was pacing with unsteady footsteps the little room. "Whom was it from?" In those first few moments of reawakened hope, what cared I whom it was from? One grand idea filled my whole understanding, and I had no room for other thoughts. Within my grasp lay the means of making a glorious effort for the recovery of my lost sense, and the very possibility of success was such wild and rapturous happiness that it turned me dizzy, intoxicated with a wild delirium of hope. It was possible that I might be once more like other men, that this eternal darkness might be rolled away from my eyes. To see! Ah, who can realize the maddening exhilaration of that thought who have not themselves been blind! No parched traveller in the desert longs so eagerly for water, no starving man craves so fiercely for bread, as longs the blind man for his sight. Imagine, if you can, the wild, unutterable joy which those feel who are blind to whom comes a sudden ray of hope that they may escape from their miserable blindness, and gaze once more upon the light of heaven and the faces of those whom they love. Several times Lizzie spoke to me during my restless perambulation, but in vain, for I was in a world of my own, and her voice troubled me not; for the first time since my illness, I was living indeed, and living thoughts were crowding in upon me—thoughts of what I might yet accomplish in my art, and wild dreams of winning Margaret surged madly into my brain. The colour came back to my cheeks, and the energy returned to my frame as I paced recklessly to and fro. Ah, how sweet life might yet be to me could I but return to it; for I had ceased to regard myself as living in my helpless state, and had prayed often and often for death to relieve Lizzie of her burden and me of my misery. And now again hope lifted the curtain which I had kept resolutely down, and showed me life in its most glowing and alluring colours, until I panted to join in it and be once more a unit, however insignificant, in the world of my fellow-men.
The remainder of that day seemed like a strange dream to me now, of which I can only recollect fragmentary parts, but I know that it was hours before I could collect my glowing thoughts and bring them down to the present. When at last exhausted, I sank into a chair, Lizzie came and sat beside me.
"Whom can it be from?" she exclaimed again in wondering tones, the prevailing instinct of her sex overcoming even her joy; and for the first time I also troubled myself to consider. We both came to the conclusion that it must be from my eccentric relation, who had not even answered my letter from Cromer. There was no one else, and his eccentricity would account for the strange way in which he had conveyed his gift; and so we blessed him together, the while we determined to respect his whim and refrain from thanking him.
Early on the morrow we called on Mr. Coles, but our hopes of extracting any information from him proved futile, for he was impenetrable. One thing we did ascertain, that Mr. Rowland (our relation) was a client of his, and this we accepted as proof positive that he was my mysterious benefactor. It was some time before I could reconcile myself to the idea of leaving England without even writing him a letter of thanks. But Lizzie and I talked the matter over well, and we decided that, since he had taken such pains to remain unknown, we ought, however incongruous and ungrateful it might appear, to fall in with his whim and not let him know that we had divined his generosity. And so in less than a fortnight we left England, having promised Mr. Coles to let him have news of my progress every week to transmit to my unknown friend.
That anonymous gift was indeed a godsend to me, for in less than twelve months my sight was fully restored. A weary time of probation I had, 'tis true, but it was rendered less tedious by the sustaining influence of hope which had sprung up strong within me, for Herr Dondez from the first expressed his conviction that my case, although a grave one, was not incurable, and after a month or two's careful nursing I was pronounced strong enough for the operation. It was a successful one, and when I came to my senses after it, the chaos in front of my eyes was somewhat changed; and when on a sudden impulse I lifted my hands, I found that I had on an enormous pair of green spectacles, through which, it is true, I could not distinguish objects, but nevertheless, I could tell that there was a change, for the thick, black, impenetrable darkness had given way to a milder obscurity, not half so dense, and I knew that I had entered upon the first stage of my recovery.
Slowly the weeks passed away, Lizzie full of exuberant happiness, and I full of a calmer but none the less deep joy. We were in lodgings at Utrecht, on the third floor of a tall, old-fashioned house. We were very comfortable, but had the place been a veritable dungeon we should scarcely have grumbled, for the great happiness which loomed in the immediate future absorbed all our thoughts. Every day we would descend the narrow stairs and either walk for an hour or two in the square, or drive, according to the weather; and every third day we paid a visit to Herr Dondez, who was full of unqualified approval of my progress and encouraging assurances of my approaching recovery.
In due course the second stage came, and, confined to my chamber, with the blinds drawn closely down, and every chink which could let in the light stopped up, my glasses were changed for less thick ones, and a day or two later, waking up as usual one morning, I startled Lizzie, who slept in the next room, by calling for her loudly, and when she hurried in to me, I welcomed her with a passionate cry, of joy.
"Liz! Liz! It has come at last!—the armchair, the walls, the table—I can see them all; and you too, Liz! Thank God!" And, overcome, I sobbed and laughed in a paroxysm of childish delight, while she stood by and joined in my hysterical happiness.
From that day I passed rapidly through the remaining stages of my recovery, and in a few weeks Lizzie and I left for England, I helpless no longer, and wearing only a pair of ordinary spectacles, with the assurance of being able to dispense with these even before long; and on the homeward voyage Lizzie told me a secret, which more than ever filled me with love and gratitude to her who had been for so long my gentle and patient nurse. Just at the time when my blindness had come upon me, a new happiness had commenced to dawn before her, but for my sake she had given it up, and, making a sacrifice which only a woman, and a true, faithful woman, could have made, she had answered "no" to the man whom she loved, and instead of seeking happiness with him, she had devoted herself to the hard and thankless task of being my nurse and companion. And what a dull, tedious life hers must have been during that weary while, every moment of which was spent in ministering to my wants, listening to my fretful complaints, and cheering me through my despondent and sulky moods! I know that I was a troublesome charge and a bad patient, but she (Lizzie) bore all without a complaint and cheerfully. She, too, is happy now; and I know that her happiness is none the less deep and perfect because she risked it all without a murmur that she might lighten my misery.
He whom she had loved was a poor man, a curate in a suburb of London; but very soon after our return from abroad they were married. They would have had me live with them, but I preferred solitude and my art, and I took rooms in a quiet part of the metropolis, fitting the chief one up as a studio, and commenced again to follow with frantic zeal my beloved pursuit. Before we had set foot in England, Lizzie had slipped into my hand a newspaper many months old, with a whispered plea for forgiveness that she had kept it from me so long, and in it I read of Margaret's marriage to a Manchester millionaire; so there was no other object to fill my thoughts. Gradually my eyes grew quite strong, and I laboured without ceasing to make up for lost time, for with the recovery of my sight had come back to me the glowing dreams and wild ambition of my younger days. One sorrow still hung over me, and frequently diverted my thoughts for a while, and often the brush would slip from my fingers and I would think for hours together of those dreamy days at Cromer. That strange passion for my unseen enchantress I had never been able to stamp out, and it threw a tinge of sadness around my life, even after the wonderful joy of my recovery. I felt sometimes that I would have given everything to have looked for once into her face, and to have seen her whom my fancy so strongly depicted. And yet, cui bono? In all probability she had forgotten my very name; and was she not besides the wife of another man? It were better that I should banish from my memory every recollection, however sweet, of those happy days, and with such determination I would turn resolutely to my canvas and work with renewed energy.
As the summer drew on and the heat in my little studio became unbearable, I began to long for a change and a whiff of sea air. The first place that suggested itself was Cromer, and hailing the idea as an inspiration, I went.
It was the first time that I had seen the place, but so accurately had Lizzie described it to me that everything seemed familiar, and I felt a keen interest in finding out the places to which I had been led—the little wooden jetty, the narrow streets, the bracken-covered cliffs, and the low railing in front of the hotel, leaning against which I had fought that battle with myself when Margaret's kind questions and low trembling voice had almost driven me mad. These all I quickly recognized, and found a curious pleasure in seeking out—a pleasure enhanced by the sweet subtle recollections they inspired. And yet there was pain in such recollections, and after the first day or two I began to wonder whether I had not been a fool to come.
One afternoon I sat on the cliffs, halfway between Cromer and Overstrand, sketching. I was absorbed in my work, and bending close over my canvas to introduce some delicate touches, so that, although I heard voices approaching, and stop quite close to me, I did not look up. A minute or two passed, and I was just regarding my work with a critical eye, when I was startled by a horrified cry of warning, followed by an agonized shriek. I sprang to my feet just in time to see a woman struggling for her balance on the very verge of the cliff, with her arms stretched out and grasping frantically at the empty air in a vain attempt to regain her equilibrium; then with a despairing cry she disappeared over the edge. A man, who had evidently been her companion, and I reached the spot together, and for a moment we stood looking at each other with blanched faces, dreading to glance downwards. Then lying flat, on my chest, I peered over the edge with a sickening throbbing of my heart, and I saw at once that something very extraordinary had happened. The unfortunate woman had been caught by a projecting mass of the cliff, scarcely thirty yards down, and was lying there all in a heap, apparently unconscious, whilst every moment the lump of earth on which she lay threatened to crumble away beneath her weight and plunge her down the whole awful distance. I scrambled to my feet. Her companion was standing a few yards back with his face buried in his hands, groaning.
"We may save her yet!" I cried. "Make for the lighthouse yonder and get a rope and help. Run, for God's sake, run, or it will be too late!" And with an answering gesture he sprang away up the hill.
Then, slowly and with caution, I commenced to descend the cliff from a point a few yards higher up, where just at first starting it was not so precipitous. It was a fearful task, and several times, as the loose soil crumbled away from beneath my feet, I closed my eyes and gave myself up for lost. For once fortune was on my side, however, and by a circuitous route I reached a mass of earth which afforded me footing for a moment or two, close to where she was lying. Then I ventured to look round and take in the prospect. She had evidently either fainted or was seriously hurt, for she lay there with closed eyes, all unconscious of her deadly peril, and I saw with horror that I was not a moment too soon, for the soil was giving way beneath her, and seemed to be about to immediately collapse. Between us, close to her, was a bush, and in that lay our only chance. How I was to reach it I could not at first imagine; it jutted out at right angles to the cliff, and was perfectly inaccessible to me except by a jump, and a jump I soon decided it must be. That was a horrid moment. Supposing I missed my footing or my grasp, where should I be? The former would avail me nothing unless at the same time I grasped the bush, for the frail platform of earth beneath was far too narrow and insecure to afford support of itself. Delay was of no avail, however, so, screwing up my courage, I jumped, and jumped to a hair's breadth where I had intended. The shrub was tough, and grasping it firmly with my left hand, I stooped down and passed my disengaged arm round her waist. She shivered as she felt my touch, and slowly opening her eyes, fixed them full on me with a bewildered, incredulous look slowly appearing in them, and then she murmured my name.
I knew her, and the start I gave nearly cost us both our lives. Thus it was, for the first time I saw her, halfway between life and death, with only my arm to protect her from a fearful fate and like lightning flashed into my mind the sweet, maddening thoughts that if we died we should die together. Our awful position, which but a moment before had absorbed my every thought, was forgotten like magic. I forgot that unless help came we should surely die. I forgot everything save that we were together, Margaret and I, cut off, as it were, from the world; and I drew her closer to me, and covered her face with passionate kisses. And with her arms around my neck, half-fainting, half-sensible as she was, I laughed aloud in reckless disregard of the peril which but a moment before had appalled me.
It seemed to me a lifetime that we hung on there together, and yet they told me afterwards that it could have been only a quarter of an hour. Then shouts from above roused me from my passionate contemplation, and I saw a rope with a sort of noose at the end descending, and knew that in all probability we were saved. Carefully I fastened the rope around her, and then, bending down once more, I kissed her unrebuked.
"Good-bye, Margaret," I whispered; and then I shouted to the men above, and slowly she was drawn away from me.
"You too!" she called out anxiously, as she felt herself moving; and I nodded.
"In a moment; I'm quite safe here," and breathlessly I watched her being drawn away from me, until at last she reached the top and disappeared over the edge. Then the rope was sent down again, and, fastening it around my own waist, I scrambled up the cliff.
Margaret, ghastly pale and apparently again unconscious, had been placed in a Bath-chair; and from amongst the little group which surrounded it her husband stepped out, and hurried towards me with outstretched hand.
"You have saved my wife's life, sir," he said warmly, "and I can never thank you enough. My name is Hathern;" he handed me a card. "And yours?"
"Harpenden," I told him, and muttered that he exaggerated my services.
"Where are you stopping here?" he asked, glancing round at the Bath-chair, which was being wheeled away. I told him, and, shaking my passive hand heartily, he hurried off, promising to look me up.
The few loiterers whom the commotion had brought together soon moved away, and I was left alone on the scene which had well-nigh witnessed a tragedy. Mechanically I gathered up my sketching apparatus, and was moving off, when my eyes fell upon something white lying near the edge of the cliff. I crossed over to the spot, and found a handkerchief and a letter addressed to Mrs. Hathern. The writing on the envelope was familiar, and as I turned it over an enclosure dropped out and fluttered to the ground. I stooped to pick it up, and with a start recognized my own writing. I held it in my hand—the last letter that I had written to Messrs. Coles & Green, announcing my complete recovery, and begging them to try and induce my unknown benefactor to declare himself. For a moment I was stupefied, and then the truth burst in upon me like a flash. It was Margaret who had sent me the thousand pounds. It was Margaret to whom I owed my sight.
My first impulse was one of overpowering joy. I remembered her low, trembling tones, suggestive of an emotion which her words did not express, when we had parted at this very place two years ago. In my hand was proof of her great interest in me, and I remembered that but a few minutes ago she had lain in my arms unresisting, and suffered me to kiss her unchidden; had looked at me with a glad smile on her face when death stared us in the face. Surely it must be that she loved me. For a moment I revelled in the ecstasy of the thought, and then, like the awakening from a dream, came the bitter consciousness that the love of Margaret Hathern was a vain thing. The Margaret whom I had, whom, alas! I still, loved must be a memory, and a memory only. The wife of the Manchester millionaire could be nothing to me.
I returned to my lodgings, and, leaving word that if any one called to see me I was out, I sat down and wrote to Mrs. Hathern. I returned to her the letters I had found, acknowledging that I had discovered her secret, and imploring her to tell me why she had done this thing. Then I packed up my few belongings, and prepared to start for London on the morrow; for with the remembrance of those few moments of exquisite, delirious joy strong within me, I felt that I dared not meet her again. Three times Mr. Hathern called to see me, and as he paid his last fruitless visit I watched him from behind the curtain, and marvelled to myself how he had been able to win the love of such a woman as Margaret. A plain, pompous-looking little man, with keen, almost cunning eyes, and unpleasant countenance, the very prototype of what he was—a successful financier. Bah! I let the curtain drop, and returned to my seat in a weary disgust to moralize on the madness and iniquity of marrying for money.
Early on the morrow I left for London, and on the following day came the letter I was longing to receive. With trembling fingers I tore it open—
"Vernon," (there was no orthodox commencement), "you bid me tell you all the truth, and now that I am married I may do so. To begin, then: When we met at Cromer, I pitied you for your trouble, and sympathized with you in your great misfortune, and before I left I had begun to care for you. I fancied sometimes that you cared for me, but I was never sure. I went as near telling you my secret as a woman may and still preserve her self-respect, on the morning of my departure. You answered me coldly; and I went away in anger, determined to forget you. I did not succeed. Often I thought of you, and often I longed to have it within my power to aid you towards the recovery of your sight. But I was poor, and as far off possessing a thousand pounds as you were. Then John Hathern was introduced to me at a friend's house near Manchester, and from that moment I was persecuted. He wanted me to marry him, and my aunt and all my friends pressed and implored me to accept him until I was driven nearly mad. Just as I grew desperate, an idea occurred to me. I cared little what happened to me, for life seemed cheerless and dull; so I told John Hathern that I would marry him on one condition—that he would give me a thousand pounds to do exactly as I pleased with, and ask no questions as to its disposal. Eagerly he consented; so I, caring little what became of me, sold myself for a thousand pounds, and sent you the money through a solicitor. Now you know all. I am a miserable woman, but I have a great, consolation in the thought that the price of my bondage has brought you back your sight. And, Vernon, God forgive me if it is wrong; but I have now another consolation, although it is a sad one—I have seen you, and I know that you love me. I knew it when I felt your arms around me, hanging on those terrible cliffs; and I would have been content at that moment to have died, for I would sooner die than live as I am living now. So, Vernon, I cannot thank you much for saving my life; though since it was to be saved, I am glad that it was you who saved it. Good-bye! Try and forget me; and, if we should ever meet, don 't speak to me. I could not refuse to see you if you came, or to speak to you if you addressed me, but, oh, Vernon, remember my one request to you—keep away from me. You know why; but let me tell you once more, for I hope and pray that I shall never see you again, I love you!
"Good-bye.—MARGARET."
That same night I left England, and for more than three years I wandered all over Europe, a miserable, unhappy man, carrying with me and nursing my bitter grief. I had no interest in life; I did nothing. If there had been war in any quarter of the globe, I should have enlisted; but there was none, and I could find no occupation to drown my sorrow. I stayed at Monaco, and lost in one evening every penny I had in the world at the tables; and all that night, instead of bemoaning my losses, I was lying awake thinking of Margaret. The next day, with a borrowed coin, I won all back, and broke the bank; but the flush of success was as powerless as were my losses to win me forgetfulness of my grief. Then I moved on to Rome, and here I found the first spark of relief. Love of my art came back to the rescue, and I sought an outlet for my sorrows by frantically hard work. My pictures began to sell, and I advanced rapidly. In little over a year I was able to return to my "unknown benefactor," through Messrs. Coles & Green, the thousand pounds by means of which I had regained my sight. I moved to Paris, and success advanced to fame. Then, after three years' absence, I came back to England, and exhibited my masterpiece in the Academy. Success was at my feet now that I cared little for it. My picture was the picture of the season; it became the fashion, and people flocked to gaze upon it. I was pressed to accept for it sums which a few years back would have seemed a fortune; but I was well off now, and grimly declined all offers. I had made up my mind to keep that picture, and nothing would tempt me to sell. It hangs in my dining-room now, and few people enter the room without stopping for a moment to examine it more closely. There are the cliffs at Cromer, and, lying in midair, supported by a loose mass of stones and earth, and evidently in deadly peril, a woman is lying with her face upturned. It is that face which is the charm of the picture. Whose face it is I need scarcely say.
I was not vain of my success, but simply out of pure love for the picture I used to go in and look at it for a few minutes every day, regardless of the crowds who hustled me and peered over my shoulder to look at the hit of the season. One, morning I arrived early, and, save for one woman, the space in front of it was deserted. As usual, I lingered there for nearly a quarter of an hour, deep in memories which that face and that scene never failed to awaken; and then, recalled to myself by the pitching of the people who were commencing to crowd around, I turned to go. As I withdrew myself from the group, I noticed that the lady who had forestalled me was still intently regarding the picture, and it struck me at once that there was something familiar in her attitude and figure. At that moment she turned slightly round, and then, over the heads and shoulders of a well-dressed mob of fashionable men and women, all engaged in criticism of my picture, I caught the gaze of the woman who had Inspired it, and Margaret and I stood face to face for the second time. I took a hasty step towards her, and then drew back; but her glad smile of welcome reassured me, and, faltering out some conventional greeting, I extended my hand. We stood for a moment in silence; then she pointed to the picture.
"You have not forgotten, then?"
"I shall never forget," I answered sadly, and, as if by mutual accord, we turned away and passed out into the street, I half-dazed by so sudden a rencontre, and scarcely believing that it was she indeed who walked by my side. Often had I pictured to myself such a meeting, and had imagined what I should say to her, and what she would reply; but now that it had actually come to pass my ideas had flown, and speech had deserted me.
She paused when we reached the street, and so did I, embarrassed.
"Shall I look for your carriage, Mrs. Hathern?" I stammered, glancing down the line of vehicles; but she laughed a little, and then grew suddenly grave.
"Perhaps you have not heard that my husband is dead?" she said softly. "He died nearly two years ago, and I can scarcely afford a carriage now," she added, with a broken little laugh.
"Dead!" I echoed, and stood on the pavement by her side speechless, while the vague possibilities called up by that word rushed into my brain, and a sudden thought made my heart beat wildly. "Margaret!" and, seizing her hand, I gazed down into her face, unable to say more. She was blushing, but looked up for a moment; and when her eyes met mine I knew that my years of probation were over, and that my happiness had come at last.
A few hours later, seated by her side in her humble lodgings, I heard of her husband's bankruptcy and death; and how since then she had had a hard fight with poverty, as, indeed, her surroundings showed me. The thousand pounds which Messrs. Coles & Green had handed to her from me had been a godsend, for it had enabled her to pay all her own bills, and had kept her in London until she had been able to find a little work to do. And then she told me, laughing through her tears, how she had heard of my dicture, and had determined to go and see it, although shillings were scarce with her; and what came of her going we know.
Very soon we were married. Lizzie's husband performed the ceremony, and Lizzie, now a happy mother, was present. Then we left England for a while, visiting many places which Margaret had long wished to see; and on our return we finished our honeymoon at Cromer, and I think we enjoyed that last fortnight as well as any part of it. We seldom miss visiting it now every summer; and although we—Margaret and I—are growing older, and our children are beginning to rebel, and hint at the superior attractions of the Continent, I don't think that she and I will ever tire of it, any more than we could tire of one another.