CHAPTER II
THE SWEARING OF THE OATH
Arthur Beach, Jane's brother, was standing in the hall waiting to speakto Leonard, but he passed without a word, closing the hall door behindhim. Outside snow was falling, though not fast enough to obscure thelight of the moon which shone through the belt of firs.
Leonard walked on down the drive till he neared the gate, when suddenlyhe heard the muffled sound of feet pursuing him through the snow. Heturned with an exclamation, believing that the footsteps were thoseof Arthur Beach, for at the moment he was in no mood for furtherconversation with any male member of that family. As it chanced,however, he found himself face to face not with Arthur, but with Janeherself, who perhaps had never looked more beautiful than she did atthis moment in the snow and the moonlight. Indeed, whenever Leonardthought of her in after-years, and that was often, there arose inhis mind a vision of a tall and lovely girl, her auburn hair slightlypowdered over with the falling flakes, her breast heaving with emotion,and her wide grey eyes gazing piteously upon him.
"Oh! Leonard," she said nervously, "why do you go without sayinggood-bye to me?"
He looked at her awhile before he answered, for something in his hearttold him that this was the last sight which he should win of his lovefor many a year, and therefore his eyes dwelt upon her as we gaze uponone whom the grave is about to hide from us for ever.
At last he spoke, and his words were practical enough.
"You should not have come out in those thin shoes through the snow,Jane. You will catch cold."
"I wish I could," she answered defiantly, "I wish that I could catchsuch a cold as would kill me; then I should be out of my troubles. Letus go into the summer-house; they will never think of looking for methere."
"How will you get there?" asked Leonard; "it is a hundred yards away,and the snow always drifts in that path."
"Oh! never mind the snow," she said.
But Leonard did mind it, and presently he hit upon a solution of thedifficulty. Having first glanced up the drive to see that nobody wascoming, he bent forward and without explanation or excuse put his armsaround Jane, and lifting her as though she were a child, he bore herdown the path which led to the summer-house. She was heavy, but, soothto say, he could have wished the journey longer. Presently they werethere, and very gently he laid her on her feet again, kissing her uponthe lips as he did so. Then he took off his overcoat and wrapped itround her shoulders.
All this while Jane had not spoken. Indeed, the poor girl felt so happyand so safe in her lover's arms that it seemed to her as though shenever wished to speak, or to do anything for herself again. It wasLeonard who broke the silence.
"You ask me why I left without saying good-bye to you, Jane. It wasbecause your father has dismissed me from the house and forbidden me tohave any more to do with you."
"Oh, why?" asked the girl, lifting her hands despairingly.
"Can't you guess?" he answered with a bitter laugh.
"Yes, Leonard," she whispered, taking his hand in sympathy.
"Perhaps I had better put it plainly," said Leonard again; "it mayprevent misunderstandings. Your father has dismissed me because _my_father embezzled all my money. The sins of the father are visitedupon the children, you see. Also he has done this with more than usualdistinctness and alacrity, because he wishes you to marry young Mr.Cohen, the bullion-broker and the future owner of Outram."
Jane shivered.
"I know, I know," she said, "and oh! Leonard, I hate him!"
"Then perhaps it will be as well not to marry him," he answered.
"I would rather die first," she said with conviction.
"Unfortunately one can't always die when it happens to be convenient,Jane."
"Oh! Leonard, don't be horrid," she said, beginning to cry. "Where areyou going, and what shall I do?"
"To the bad probably," he answered. "At least it all depends upon you.Look here, Jane, if you will stick to me I will stick to you. The luckis against me now, but I have it in me to see that through. I love youand I would work myself to death for you; but at the best it must be aquestion of time, probably of years."
"Oh! Leonard, indeed I will if I can. I am sure that you do not loveme more than I love you, but I can never make you understand how odiousthey all are to me about you, especially Papa."
"Confound him!" said Leonard beneath his breath; and if Jane heard, atthat moment her filial affections were not sufficiently strong to induceher to remonstrate.
"Well, Jane," he went on, "the matter lies thus: either you must putup with their treatment or you must give me the go-by. Listen: in sixmonths you will be twenty-one, and in this country all her relations puttogether can't force a woman to marry a man if she does not wish to, orprevent her from marrying one whom she does wish to marry. Now you knowmy address at my club in town; letters sent there will always reach me,and it is scarcely possible for your father or anybody else to preventyou from writing and posting a letter. If you want my help or tocommunicate in any way, I shall expect to hear from you, and if need be,I will take you away and marry you the moment you come of age. If, onthe other hand, I do not hear from you, I shall know that it is becauseyou do not choose to write, or because that which you have to writewould be too painful for me to read. Do you understand, Jane?"
"Oh! yes, Leonard, but you put things so hardly."
"Things have been put hardly enough to me, love, and I must beplain--this is my last chance of speaking to you."
At this moment an ominous sound echoed through the night; it was noneother than the distant voice of Mr. Beach, calling from his front-doorstep, "Jane! Are you out there, Jane?"
"Oh! heavens!" she said, "there is my father calling me. I came outby the back door, but mother must have been up to my room and found megone. She watches me all day now. What _shall_ I do?"
"Go back and tell them that you have been saying good-bye to me. It isnot a crime; they cannot kill you for it."
"Indeed they can, or just as bad," replied Jane. Then suddenly she threwher arms about her lover's neck and burying her beautiful face uponhis breast, she began to sob bitterly, murmuring, "Oh my darling, mydarling, what shall I do without you?"
Over the brief and distressing scene which followed it may be well todrop a veil. Leonard's bitterness of mind forsook him now, and he kissedher and comforted her as he might best, even going so far as to minglehis tears with hers, tears of which he had no cause to be ashamed. Atlength she tore herself loose, for the shouts were growing louder andmore insistent.
"I forgot," she sobbed, "here is a farewell present for you; keep itin memory of me, Leonard," and thrusting her hand into the bosom of herdress she drew from it a little packet which she gave to him.
Then once more they kissed and clung together, and in another moment shehad vanished back into the snow and darkness, passing out of Leonard'ssight and out of his life, though from his mind she could never pass.
"A farewell present. Keep it in memory of me." The words yet echoed inhis ears, and to Leonard they seemed fateful--a prophecy of utter loss.Sighing heavily, he opened the packet and examined its contents by thefeeble moonlight. They were not large: a prayer-book bound in morocco,her own, with her name on the fly-leaf and a short inscription beneath,and in the pocket of its cover a lock of auburn hair tied round withsilk.
"An unlucky gift," said Leonard to himself; then putting on his coat,which was yet warm from Jane's shoulders, he also turned and vanishedinto the snow and the night, shaping his path towards the village inn.
He reached it in due course, and passed into the little parlour thatadjoined the bar. It was a comfortable room enough, notwithstanding itsadornments of badly stuffed birds and fishes, and chiefly remarkable forits wide old-fashioned fireplace with wrought-iron dogs. There was nolamp in the room when Leonard entered, but the light of the burning woodwas bright, and by it he could see his brother seated in a high-backedchair gazing into the fire, his hand resting on his knee.
Thomas Ou
tram was Leonard's elder by two years and cast in a morefragile mould. His face was the face of a dreamer, the brown eyes werelarge and reflective, and the mouth sensitive as a child's. He was ascholar and a philosopher, a man of much desultory reading, with refinedtastes and a really intimate knowledge of Greek gems.
"Is that you, Leonard?" he said, looking up absently; "where have youbeen?"
"To the Rectory," answered his brother.
"What have you been doing there?"
"Do you want to know?"
"Yes, of course. Did you see Jane?"
Then Leonard told him all the story.
"What do you think she will do?" asked Tom when his brother hadfinished. "Given the situation and the woman, it is rather a curiousproblem."
"It may be," answered Leonard; "but as I am not an equation in algebrayearning to be worked out, I don't quite see the fun of it. But if youask me what I think she will do, I should say that she will follow theexample of everybody else and desert me."
"You seem to have a poor idea of women, old fellow. I know little ofthem myself and don't want to know more. But I have always understoodthat it is the peculiar glory of their sex to come out strong on theseexceptional occasions. 'Woman in our hours of ease,' etc."
"Well, we shall see. But it is my opinion that women think a great dealmore of their own hours of ease than of those of anybody else. Thankheaven, here comes our dinner!"
Thus spoke Leonard, somewhat cynically and perhaps not in the best oftaste. But, his rejoicing over its appearance notwithstanding, he didnot do much justice to the dinner when it arrived. Indeed, it would becharitable to make allowances for this young man at that period of hislife. He had sustained a most terrible reverse, and do what he might hecould never quite escape from the shadow of his father's disgrace,or put out of his mind the stain with which his father had dimmed thehonour of his family. And now a new misfortune hung over him. He hadjust been driven with contumely from a house where hitherto he was themost welcome of guests; he had parted, moreover, from the woman whom heloved dearly, and under circumstances which made it doubtful if theirseparation would not be final.
Leonard possessed the gift of insight into character, and more commonsense than can often be expected from a young man in love. He knew wellthat the chief characteristic of Jane's nature was a tendency to yieldto the circumstances of the hour, and though he hoped against hope,he could find no reason to suppose that she would exhibit greaterdetermination in the matter of their engagement than her general lackof strength might lead him to anticipate. Besides, and here his commonsense came in, would it be wise that she should do so? After all,what had he to offer her, and were not his hopes of future advancementnothing better than a dream? Roughly as he had put it, perhaps Mr.Beach was right when he told him that he, Leonard, was both selfish andimpertinent, since was it not a selfish impertinence in him to ask anywoman to link her fortune with his in the present state of his affairs?
Let us therefore make excuses for his words and outward behaviour, forat heart Leonard had much to trouble him.
When the cloth had been cleared away and they were alone again, Tomspoke to his brother, who was moodily filling his pipe.
"What shall we do to-night, Leonard?" he said.
"Go to bed, I suppose," he answered.
"See here, Leonard," said his brother again, "what do you say to havinga last look at the old place?"
"If you wish, Tom, but it will be painful."
"A little pain more or less can scarcely hurt us, old fellow," said Tom,laying his thin hand on his brother's shoulder.
Then they started. A quarter of an hour's walking brought them to theHall. The snow had ceased falling now and the night was beautifullyclear, but before it ceased it had done a welcome office in hiding fromview all the litter and wreckage of the auction, which make the sceneof a recent sale one of the most desolate sights in the world. Never hadthe old house looked grander or more eloquent of the past than it did onthat night to the two brothers who were dispossessed of their heritage.They wandered round it in silence, gazing affectionately at eachwell-known tree and window, till at length they came to the gun-roomentrance. More from habit than for any other reason Leonard turned thehandle of the door. To his surprise it was open; after the confusion ofthe sale no one had remembered to lock it.
"Let us go in," he said.
They entered and wandered from room to room till they reached thegreater hall, a vast and oak-roofed chamber built after the fashion ofthe nave of a church, and lighted by a large window of ecclesiasticaldesign. This window was filled with the armorial bearings of manygenerations of the Outram family, wrought in stained glass and placedin couples, for next to each coat of arms were the arms of its bearer'sdame. It was not quite full, however, for in it remained two blankshields, which had been destined to receive the escutcheons of ThomasOutram and his wife.
"They will never be filled now, Leonard," said Tom, pointing to these;"curious, isn't it, not to say sad?"
"Oh! I don't know," answered his brother; "I suppose that the Cohensboast some sort of arms, or if not they can buy them."
"I should think that they would have the good taste to begin a newwindow for themselves," said Tom.
Then he was silent for a while, and they watched the moonlight streamingthrough the painted window, the memorial of so much forgotten grandeur,and illumining the portraits of many a dead Outram that gazed upon themfrom the panelled walls.
"_Per ardua ad astra_," said Tom, absently reading the family mottowhich alternated pretty regularly with a second device that some membersof it had adopted--"For Heart, Home, and Honour."
"'_Per ardua ad astra_'--through struggle to the stars--and 'For Heart,Home, and Honour,'" repeated Tom; "well, I think that our family neverneeded such consolations more, if indeed there are any to be found inmottoes. Our Heart is broken, our hearth is desolate, and our honour isa byword, but there remain the 'struggle and the stars.'"
As he spoke his face took the fire of a new enthusiasm: "Leonard,"he went on, "why should not we retrieve the past? Let us take thatmotto--the more ancient one--for an omen, and let us fulfil it. Ibelieve it is a good omen, I believe that one of us will fulfil it."
"We can try," answered Leonard. "If we fail in the struggle, at leastthe stars remain for us as for all human kind."
"Leonard," said his brother almost in a whisper, "will you swear an oathwith me? It seems childish, but I think that under some circumstancesthere is wisdom even in childishness."
"What oath?" asked Leonard.
"This; that we will leave England and seek fortune in some foreignland--sufficient fortune to enable us to repurchase our lost home; thatwe will never return here until we have won this fortune; and that deathalone shall put a stop to our quest."
Leonard hesitated a moment, then answered:
"If Jane fails me, I will swear it."
Tom glanced round as though in search of some familiar object, andpresently his eye fell upon what he sought. A great proportion of thefurniture of the old house, including the family portraits, had beenpurchased by the in-coming owner. Among the articles which remained wasa very valuable and ancient bible, one of the first ever printed indeed,that stood upon an oaken stand in the centre of the hall, to which itwas securely chained. Tom led the way to this bible, followed by hisbrother. Then they placed their hands upon it, and standing there in theshadow, the elder of them spoke aloud in a voice that left no doubt ofthe earnestness of his purpose, or of his belief in their mission.
"We swear," he said, "upon this book and before the God who made us thatwe will leave this home that was ours, and never look upon it again tillwe can call it ours once more. We swear that we will follow this, thepurpose of our lives, till death destroys us and it; and may shame andutter ruin overtake us if, while we have strength and reason, we turnour backs upon this oath! So help us God!"
"So help us God!" repeated Leonard.
Thus in the home of their ancestors, in the presence of
their Maker, andof the pictured dead who had gone before them, did Thomas and LeonardOutram devote their lives to this great purpose. Perhaps, as one of themhad said, the thing was childish, but if so, at the least it was solemnand touching. Their cause seemed hopeless indeed; but if faith can movemountains, much more can honest endeavour attain its ends. In that hourthey felt this. Yes, they believed that the end would be attained by oneof them, though they guessed little what struggles lay between themand the Star they hoped to gain, or how strangely they should be bornethither.
On the morrow they went to London and waited there a while, but no wordcame from Jane Beach, and for good or ill the chains of the oath that hehad taken riveted themselves around Leonard Outram's neck.
Within three months of this night the brothers were nearing the shoresof Africa, the land of the Children of the Mist.