Dawn

  CHAPTER LXIX

  And so on the following day Angela and Pigott returned to the AbbeyHouse, but they both felt that it was a sad home-coming. Indeed, ifthere had been no other cause for melancholy, the sight of Philip'sface was enough to excite it in the most happy-minded person. Not thatAngela saw much of him, however, for they still kept to their oldhabit of not living together. All day her father was shut up in hisroom transacting business that had reference to the accession of hisproperty and the settlement of George's affairs; for his cousin haddied intestate, so he took his personalty and wound up the estate asheir-at-law. At night, however, he would go out and walk for miles,and in all weathers--he seemed to dread spending the dark hours athome.

  When Angela had been back about a month in the old place, sheaccidentally got a curious insight into her father's mentalsufferings.

  It so happened that one night, finding it impossible to sleep, andbeing much oppressed by sorrowful thoughts, she thought that she wouldread the hours away. But the particular book she wanted to find wasdownstairs, and it was two o'clock in the morning, and chilly in thepassages. However, anything is better than sleeplessness, and thetyranny of sad thoughts and empty longings; so, throwing on herdressing-gown, she took a candle, and set off, thinking as she wenthow she had in the same guise fled before her husband.

  She got her book, and was returning, when she saw that there was stilla light in her father's study, and that the door was ajar. At thatmoment it so happened that an unusually sharp draught coming down oneof the passages of the rambling old house, caught her candle andextinguished it. Making her way to the study-door, she pushed it opento see if anybody was there previous to asking for a light. At firstshe could see nobody. On the table, which was covered with papers,there stood two candles, a brandy-bottle, and a glass. She was justmoving to the candle to get a light, when her eye fell on what she atfirst believed to be a heap of clothes huddled together on the floorin the corner of the room. Further examination showed that it was aman--she could distinctly see the backs of his hands. Her first ideaswas that she had surprised a thief, and she stopped, feelingfrightened and not knowing what to do. Just then the bundlestraightened itself a little and dropped its hands, revealing to herwondering gaze her own father's face, which wore the same awful lookof abject fear which she had seen upon it when he passed through thehall beneath her just before Isleworth broke into flame on the nightof her marriage. The eyes appeared to be starting from the sockets inan effort to clearly realize an undefinable horror, the hair, nowdaily growing greyer, was partially erect, and the pallid lips, half-opened, as though to speak words that would not come. He saw her too,but did not seem surprised at her presence. Covering up his eyes againwith one hand, he shrank further back into his corner, and with theother pointed to a large leather arm-chair in which Pigott had toldher her grandfather had died.

  "Look there," he whispered, hoarsely.

  "Where, father? I see nothing."

  "There, girl, in the chair--look how it glares at me!"

  Angela stood aghast. She was alarmed, in defiance of her own reason,and began to catch the contagion of superstition.

  "This is dreadful," she said; "for heaven's sake tell me what is thematter."

  Philip's ghastly gaze again fixed itself on the chair, and his teethbegan to chatter.

  "_Great God,_" he said, "_it is coming._"

  And, uttering a smothered cry, he fell on his face in a half faint.The necessity for action brought Angela to herself. Seizing thewater-bottle, she splashed some water into her father's face. He cameto himself almost instantly.

  "Where am I?" he said. "Ah! I remember; I have not been quite well.You must not think anything of that. What are you doing down here atthis time of night? Pass me that bottle," and he took nearly half atumbler of raw brandy. "There, I am quite right again now; I had a badattack of indigestion, that is all. Good night."

  Angela went without a word. She understood now what her father hadmeant when he said that he was "accursed;" but she could not helpwondering whether the brandy had anything to do with his"indigestion."

  On the following day the doctor came to see her. It struck Angela thathe came oftener than was necessary, the fact being that he wouldgladly have attended her gratis all year round. A doctor does notoften get the chance of visiting such a patient.

  "You do not look quite so well to-day," he said.

  "No," she answered, with a little smile; "I had bad dreams lastnight."

  "Ah! I thought so. You should try to avoid that sort of thing; you arefar too imaginative already."

  "One cannot run away from one's dreams. Murder will out in sleep."

  "Well, I have a message for you."

  "Who from?"

  "Lady Bellamy. You know that she is paralysed?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, she wants you to go and see her. Shall you go?"

  Angela thought a little, and answered,

  "Yes, I think so."

  "You must be prepared for some bitter language if she speaks at all.Very likely she will beg you to get her some poison to kill herselfwith. I have been obliged to take the greatest precautions to preventher from obtaining any. I am not very sensitive, but once or twice shehas positively made me shiver with the things she says."

  "She can never say anything more dreadful to me than she has saidalready, Dr. Williamson."

  "Perhaps not. Go if you like. If you were revengeful--which I am sureyou are not--you would have good reason to be satisfied at what youwill see. Medically speaking, it is a sad case."

  Accordingly, that every afternoon, Angela, accompanied by Pigott,started off for Rewtham House, where Lady Bellamy still lived, orrather existed. It was her first outing since the inquest on GeorgeCaresfoot had caused her and her history to become publicly notorious,and, as she walked along, she was surprised to find that she was theobject of popular sympathy. Every man she met touched or took off hishat, according to his degree, and, as soon as she had passed, turnedround and stared at her. Some fine folks whom she did not know--indeed, she knew no one, though it had been the fashion to send and"inquire" during her illness--drove past in an open carriage and pair,and she saw a gentleman on the front seat whisper something to theladies, bringing round their heads towards her as simultaneously asthough they both worked on a single wire. Even the children coming outof the village school set up a cheer as she passed.

  "Good gracious, Pigott, what is it all about?" she asked, at last.

  "Well, you see, miss, they talk of you in the papers as the 'AbbeyHouse heroine'--and heroines is rare in these parts."

  Overwhelmed with so much attention, Angela was thankful when at lastthey reached Rewtham House.

  Pigott went into the housekeeper's room, and Angela was at once shownup into the drawing-room. The servant announced her name to a black-robed figure lying on a sofa, and closed the door.

  "Come here, Angela Caresfoot," said a well-known voice, "and see howFate has repaid the woman who tried to ruin you."

  She advanced and looked at the deathly face, still as darkly beautifulas ever, on which was fixed that strange look of wild expectancy thatit had worn when its owner took the poison.

  "Yes, look at me; think what I was, and then what I am, and learn howthe Spirit of evil pays those who serve him. I thought to kill myself,but death was denied me, and now I live as you see me. I am an outcastfrom the society of my kind--not that I ever cared for that, except torule it. I cannot stir hand or foot, I cannot write, I can scarcelyread, I cannot even die. My only resource is the bitter sea of thoughtthat seethes eternally in this stricken frame like fire pent in thewomb of a volcano. Yes, Angela Caresfoot, and like the fire, too,sometimes it overflows, and then I can blaspheme and rave aloud tillmy voice fails. That is the only power which is left to me."

  Angela uttered an exclamation of pity.

  "Pity--do not pity me; I will not be pitied by you. Mock me if youwill; it is your turn now. You prophesied that it wou
ld come; now itis here."

  "At any rate, you are still comfortable in your own house," saidAngela, nervously, anxious to change the subject, and not knowing whatto say.

  "Oh! yes, I have money enough, if that is what you mean. My husbandthreatened to leave me destitute, but fear of public opinion--and Ihear that he has run away, and is not well thought of now--or perhapsof myself, cripple as I am, caused him to change his mind. But do notlet us talk of that poor creature. I sent for you here for a purpose.Where is your lover?"

  Angela turned pale and trembled.

  "What, do you not know, or are you tired of him?"

  "Tired of him! I shall never be tired of him; but he has gone."

  "Shall I tell you where to find him?"

  "You would not if you could; you would deceive me again."

  "No, oddly enough, I shall not. I have no longer any object in doingso. When I was bent upon marrying you to George Caresfoot, I lashedmyself into hating you; now I hate you no longer, I respect you--indeed, I have done so all along."

  "Then, why did you work me such a bitter wrong?"

  "Because I was forced to. Believe me or not as you will, I am notgoing to tell you the story--at any rate, not now. I can only repeatthat I was forced to."

  "Where is Arthur?"

  "In Madeira. Do you remember once telling me that you had only to liftyour hand--so--ah! I forgot, I cannot lift mine--to draw him back toyou, that no other woman in the world could keep him from you if youchose to bid him come?"

  "Yes, I remember."

  "Then, if you wish to get him back, you had better exercise yourpower, for he has gone to another woman."

  "Who is she? What is she like?"

  "She is a young widow--a Mrs. Carr. She is desperately in love withhim--very beautiful and very rich."

  "Beautiful! How do you mean? Tell me exactly what she is like."

  "She has brown eyes, brown hair, a lovely complexion, and a perfectfigure."

  Angela glanced rapidly at her own reflection in the glass and sighed.

  "Then I fear that I shall have no chance against her--none!"

  "You are a fool! if you were alone in the same room with her, nobodywould see her for looking at you."

  Angela sighed again, this time from relief.

  "But there is worse than that; very possibly he has married her."

  "Ah! then it is all over!"

  "Why? If he loves you as much as you think, you can bring him back toyou, married or unmarried."

  "Perhaps. Yes, I think I could; but I would not."

  "Why? If he loves you and you love him, you have a right to him. Amongall the shams and fictions that we call laws, there is only one true--the law of Nature, by virtue of which you belong to each other."

  "No, there is a higher law--the law of duty, by means of which we tryto curb the impulses of Nature. The woman who has won him has a rightto consideration."

  "Then, to gratify a foolish prejudice, you are prepared to lose himforever?"

  "No, Lady Bellamy; if I thought that I was to lose him for ever, Imight be tempted to do what is wrong in order to be with him for atime; but I do not think that. I only lose him for a time that I maygain him for ever. In this world he is separated from me, in theworlds to come my rights will assert themselves, and we shall betogether, and never part any more."

  Lady Bellamy looked at her wonderingly, for her eyes could stillexpress her emotions.

  "You are a fine creature," she said, "and, if you believe that,perhaps it will be true for you, since Faith must be the measure ofrealization. But, after all, he may not have married her. That will befor you to find out."

  "How can I find out?"

  "By writing to him, of course--to the care of Mrs. Carr, Madeira. Thatis sure to find him."

  "Thank you. How can I thank you enough?"

  "It seems to me that you owe me few thanks. You are always foolishabout what tends to secure your own happiness, or you would havethought of this before."

  There was a pause, and then Angela rose to go.

  "Are you going. Yes, go. I am not fit company for such as you. Perhapswe shall not meet again; but, in thinking of all the injuries that Ihave done you, remember that my punishment is proportionate to my sin.They tell me that I may live for years."

  Angela gazed at the splendid wreck beneath her, and an infinite pityswelled in her gentle heart. Stooping, she kissed her on the forehead.A wild astonishment filled Lady Bellamy's great, dark eyes.

  "Child, child, what are you doing? you do not know what I am, or youwould not kiss me!"

  "Yes, Lady Bellamy," she said, quietly, "I do, that is, I know whatyou have been; but I want to forget that. Perhaps you will one day beable to forget it too. I do not wish to preach, but perhaps, afterall, this terrible misfortune may lead you to something better. ThankGod, there is forgiveness for us all."

  Her words touched some forgotten chord in the stricken woman's heart,and two big tears rolled down the frozen cheeks. They were the firstAnne Bellamy had wept for many a day.

  "Your voice," she said, "has a music that awakes the echoes from atime when I was good and pure like you, but that time has gone forever."

  "Surely, Lady Bellamy, the heart that can remember it can also striveto reach another like it. If you have descended the cliff whence thoseechoes spring, into a valley however deep, there is still anothercliff before you that you may climb."

  "It is easy to descend, but we need wings to climb. Look at me,Angela; my body is not more crippled and shorn of power than my darkspirit is of wings. How can _I_ climb?"

  Angela bent low beside her and whispered a few words in her ear, thenrose with a shy blush upon her face. Lady Bellamy shut her eyes.Presently she opened them again.

  "Do not speak any more of this to me now," she said. "I must havetime. The instinct of years cannot be brushed away in a day. If youknew all the sins I have committed, perhaps you would think too thatfor such as I am there is no forgiveness and no hope."

  "Whilst there is life there is hope, and, as I once heard Mr. Frasersay, the real key to forgiveness is the desire to be forgiven."

  Again Lady Bellamy shut her eyes and thought, and, when she drew uptheir heavy lids, Angela saw that there was something of a peacefullook about them.

  "Stand so," she said to Angela, "there where the light falls upon yourface. That will do; now shall I tell you what I read there? On yourforehead sit resolute power to grasp, and almost measureless capacityto imagine; in your eyes there is a sympathy not to be guessed bybeings of a coarser fibre; those eyes could look at Heaven and not bedazzled. Your whole face speaks of a purity and single-mindednesswhich I can read but cannot understand. Your mind rejects theglittering bubbles that men follow, and seeks the solid truth. Yourspirit is in tune with things of light and air; it can float to theextremest heights of our mental atmosphere, and thence can almost gazeinto the infinite beyond. Pure, but not cold, thirsting for a widerknowledge, and at times breathing the air of a higher world; resolute,but patient; proud, and yet humble to learn; holy, but aspiring;conscious of gifts you do not know how to use, girl, you rise as nearto what is divine as a mortal may. I have always thought so, now I amsure of it."

  "Lady Bellamy!"

  "Hush! I have a reason for what I say. I do not ask you to waste timeby listening to senseless panegyrics. Listen: I will tell you what Ihave never told to a living soul before. For years I have been astudent of a lore almost forgotten in this country--a lore which oncefully acquired will put the powers that lie hid in Nature at thecommand of its possessor, that will even enable him to look beyondNature, and perhaps, so far as the duration of existence is concerned,for awhile to triumph over it. That lore you can learn, though itbaffled me. My intellect and determination enabled me to find the cuesto it, and to stumble on some of its secrets, but I could not followthem; too late I learnt that only the good and pure can do that. Muchof the result of years of toil I destroyed the other night, but Istill know enough to empower you to reconst
ruct what I annihilated;you can learn more in one year than I learnt in ten. I am grateful toyou, and, if you wish it, I will show you the way."

  Angela listened, open-eyed. Lady Bellamy was right, she was greedy ofknowledge and the power that springs from knowledge.

  "But would it not be wrong?" she said.

  "There can be nothing wrong in what the ruling Wisdom allows us toacquire without the help of what is evil. But do not be deceived, suchknowledge and power as this is not a thing to be trifled with. Toobtain a mastery over it, you must devote your life to it; you mustgive it

  "'Allegiance whole, not strained to suit desire,'

  "No earthly passion must come to trouble the fixed serenity of youraspirations; that was one, but only one, of the reasons of my failure.You must leave your Arthur to Mrs. Carr, and henceforward put him asmuch out of your mind as possible; and this, that you may be able toseparate yourself from earthly bonds and hopes and fears. Troubledwaters reflect a broken image."

  "I must, then, choose between this knowledge and my love?"

  "Yes; and you will do well if you choose the knowledge; for, beforeyou die--if, indeed, you do not in the end, for a certain period,overcome even death--you will be more of an angel than a woman. On theone hand, then, this proud and dizzy destiny awaits you; on the other,every-day joys and sorrows shared by all the world, and an ordinaryattachment to a man against whom I have, indeed, nothing to say, butwho is not your equal, and who is, at the best, full of weaknessesthat you should despise."

  "But, Lady Bellamy, his weaknesses are a part of himself, and I lovehim all, just as he is; weakness needs love more than what is strong."

  "Perhaps; but, in return for your love, I offer you no empty cup. I donot ask you to follow fantastic theories--of that I will soon convinceyou. Shall I show you the semblance of your Arthur and Mrs. Carr asthey are at this moment?"

  "No, Lady Bellamy, no, I have chosen. You offer, after years ofdevotion, to make me _almost like an angel_. The temptation is verygreat, and it fascinates me. But I hope, if I can succeed in living agood life, to become altogether an angel when I die. Why, then, shouldI attempt to filch fragments of a knowledge that will one day be allmy own?--if, indeed, it is right to do so. Whilst I am here, Arthur'slove is more to me than such knowledge can ever be. If he is married,I may learn to think differently, and try to soothe my mind by forcingit to run in these hidden grooves. Till then, I choose Arthur and mypetty hopes and fears; for, after all, they are the natural heritageof my humanity."

  Lady Bellamy thought for awhile, and answered,

  "I begin to think that the Great Power who made us has mixed even Hismost perfect works with an element of weakness, lest they should soartoo high, and see too far. The prick of a pin will bring a balloon toearth, and an earthly passion, Angela, will prevent you from soaringto the clouds. So be it. You have had your chance. It is only one moredisappointment."