When Isobel returned from London, after the fancy-dress ball, at whichshe thought she had seen a ghost whilst sitting in the square with heryoung admirer who was dressed as a knight, she waited for a long whileexpecting to receive a letter from Godfrey. As none came, although sheknew from Mrs. Parsons that he had written home several times, shebegan to wonder as to the cause of his silence. Then an idea occurredto her.
Supposing that what she had seen was no fancy of her mind, but Godfreyhimself, who in some mysterious fashion had found his way into thatsquare, perhaps in the hope of seeing her at the ball in order to saygoodbye? This was possible, since she had ascertained from some casualremark by his father that he did not leave London until the followingmorning.
If this had happened, if he had seen her "playing the fool," as sheexpressed it to herself with that good-looking man in the square, whatwould he have thought of her? She never paused to remember that he hadno right to think anything. Somehow from childhood she acknowledged inher heart that he had every right, though when she said this toherself, she did not in the least understand all that the admissionconveyed. Although she bullied and maltreated him at times, yet toherself she always confessed him to be her lord and master. He was theone male creature for whom she cared in the whole world, indeed,putting her mother out of the question, she cared for no other man orwoman, and would never learn to do so.
For hers was a singular and very rare instance of almost undividedaffection centred on a single object. So far as his sex was concernedGodfrey was her all, a position of which any man might well be proud inthe case of any woman, and especially of one who had many opportunitiesof devoting herself to others. In her example, however, she was not tobe thanked, for the reason that she only followed her nature, orperhaps the dictates of that fate which inspires and rules very greatlove, whether it be between man and woman, between parent and child,between brother and brother, or between friend and friend. Suchfeelings do not arise, or grow. They simply _are_; the blossoms of aplant that has its secret roots far away in the soil of Circumstancebeyond our ken, and that, mayhap, has pushed its branches throughexistences without number, and in the climates of many worlds.
So at least it was with Isobel, and so it had always been since shekissed the sleeping child in the old refectory of the Abbey. She washis, and in a way, however much she might doubt or mistrust, her innersense and instinct told her that he was always hers, that so he hadalways been and so always would remain. With the advent of womanhoodthese truths came home to her with an increased force because sheknew--again by instinct--that this fact of womanhood multiplied thechances of attainment to the unity which she desired, however partialthat might still prove to be.
Yet she knew also that this great mutual attraction did not depend onsex, though by the influence of sex it might be quickened andaccentuated. It was something much more deep and wide, something whichshe did not and perhaps never would understand. The sex element wasaccidental, so much so that the passage of a few earthly years wouldrob it of its power to attract and make it as though it had never been,but the perfect friendship between their souls was permanent andwithout shadow of change. She knew, oh!, she knew, although no word ofit had ever been spoken between them, that theirs was the Love Eternal.The quick perception of her woman's mind told her these things, ofwhich Godfrey's in its slower growth was not yet aware.
Animated by this new idea that she had really seen Godfrey, and whatwas much worse, that Godfrey had really seen her upon an occasion whenshe would have much preferred to remain invisible to him, she wasfilled with remorse, and determined to write him a letter. Like that ofthe young man himself to his father, its composition took her a gooddeal of time.
Here it is as copied from her third and final draft:--
"My dear old Godfrey,--I have an idea that you were in the Square on the night of the fancy ball when I came out, and wore that horrid Plantagenet dress which, after all, did not fit. (I sent it to a jumble-sale where no one would buy it, so I gave it to Mrs. Smilie, who has nine children, to cut into frocks for her little girls.) If you _were_ there, instead of resting before your long journey as you ought to have done, and saw me with a man in armour and a rose--and the rest, of course you will have understood that this was all part of the game. You see, we had to pretend that we were knights and ladies who, when they were not cutting throats or being carried off with their hair down, seem to have wasted their time in giving each other favours, and all that sort of bosh. (We did not know what a favour was, so we used a rose.) The truth is that the young man and his armour, especially his spurs which tore my dress, and everything about him bored me, the more so because all the while I was thinking of--well, other things--how you would get through your journey, and like those French people and the rest. So now, if you _were_ there, you won't be cross, and if you were _not_, and don't understand what I am saying, it isn't worth bothering about. In any case, you had no right to--I mean, be cross. It is I who should be cross with you for poking about in a London square so late and not coming forward to say how do you do and be introduced to the knight. That is all I have to say about the business, so don't write and ask me any questions.
"There is no news here--there never is--except that I haven't been into that church since you left, and don't mean to, which makes your father look at me as sourly as though he had eaten a whole hatful of crab-apples. He hates me, you know, and I rather like him for showing it, as it saves me the trouble of trying to keep up appearances. Do tell me, when you write, how to explain his ever having been _your_ father. If he still wants you to go into the Church I advise you to study the Thirty-nine Articles. I read them all through yesterday, and how anybody can swear to them in this year of grace I'm sure I don't know. They must shut their eyes and open their mouths, like we used to do when we took powders. By the way, did you ever read anything about Buddhism? I've got a book on it which I think rather fine. At any rate, it is a great idea, though I think I should find it difficult to follow 'the Way.'
"I am sorry to say that Mother is not well at all. She coughs a great deal now that Essex is getting so damp, and grows thinner and thinner. The doctor says she ought to go to Egypt, only Father won't hear of it. But I won't write about that or we should have another argument on the fourth Commandment. Good-bye, dear old boy.--Your affectionate Isobel.
"P.S.--When you write don't tell me all about Switzerland and snow-covered mountains and blue, bottomless lakes, etc., which I can read in books. Tell me about yourself and what you are doing and thinking--especially what you are thinking.
"P.P.S.--That man in armour isn't really good-looking; he has a squint. Also he puts scent upon his hair and can't spell. I know because he tried to write a bit of poetry on my programme and got it all wrong."
When she had finished this somewhat laboured epistle Isobel rememberedthat she had forgotten to ask Godfrey to write down his address.Bethinking her that it would be known to Mrs. Parsons, she took itround to the Abbey House, proposing to add it there. As it happenedMrs. Parsons was out, so she left it with the housemaid, who promisedfaithfully to give it to her when she returned, with Isobel's messageas to writing the address on the sealed envelope. In order that shemight not forget, the maid placed it on a table by the back door. Byill luck, however, presently through that door, came, not Mrs. Parsons,but the Rev. Mr. Knight. He saw the letter addressed to Godfrey Knight,Esq., and, though he half pretended to himself that he did not, at oncerecognized Isobel's large, upright hand. Taking it from the table hecarried it with him into his study and there contemplated it for awhile.
"That pernicious girl is communicating with Godfrey," he said tohimself, "which I particularly wish to prevent."
A desire came upon him to know what was in the letter, and he began toargue with himself as to his "duty"--that was the word he used. Finallyhe concluded that as Godfrey was still so young and so open to badinfluences from that quarter, this duty
clearly indicated that heshould read the letter before it was forwarded. In obedience to thishigh impulse he opened and read it, with the result that by the time itwas finished there was perhaps no more angry clergyman in the BritishEmpire. The description of himself looking as though he had eaten ahatful of crab-apples; the impious remarks about the Thirty-nineArticles; the suggestion that Godfrey, instead of going to bed as hehad ordered him to do that evening, was wandering about London atmidnight; the boldly announced intention of the writer of not going tochurch--indeed, every word of it irritated him beyond bearing.
"Well," he said aloud, "I do not think that I am called upon to spendtwopence-halfpenny" (for Isobel had forgotten the stamp) "in forwardingsuch poisonous trash to a son whom I should guard from evil. Hatefulgirl! At any rate she shall have no answer to this effusion."
Then he put the letter into a drawer which he locked.
As a consequence, naturally, Isobel did receive "no answer," a factfrom which she drew her own conclusions. Indeed, it would not be toomuch to say that these seared her soul. She had written to Godfrey, shehad humbled herself before Godfrey, and he sent her--no answer. Itnever occurred to her to make inquiries as to the fate of that letter,except once when she asked the housemaid whom she chanced to meet,whether she had given it to Mrs. Parsons. The girl, whose brain, orwhatever represented that organ, was entirely fixed upon a young man inthe village of whom she was jealous, answered, yes. Perhaps she hadentirely forgotten the incident, or perhaps she considered the throwingof the letter upon a table as equivalent to delivery.
At any rate, Isobel, who thought, like most other young people, thatwhen they once have written something, it is conveyed by a magicalagency to the addressee, even if left between the leaves of a blotter,accepted the assurance as conclusive. Without doubt the letter had goneand duly arrived, only Godfrey did not choose to answer it, that wasall. Perhaps this might be because he was still angry on account of theknight in armour--oh! how she hoped that this was the reason, but, asher cold, common sense, of which she had an unusual share, convincedher, much more probably the explanation was that he was engagedotherwise, and did not think it worth while to take the trouble towrite.
Later on, it is true, she did mean to ask Mrs. Parsons whether she hadforwarded the letter. But as it chanced, before she did so, that goodwoman burst into a flood of conversation about Godfrey, saying howhappy he seemed to be in his new home with such nice ladies around, whoit was plain, thought so much of him, and so forth. This garrulityIsobel took as an intended hint and ceased from her contemplatedqueries. When some months later Mr. Knight brought her Godfrey'sepistle which announced his inheritance, needless to say, everythingbecame plain as a pikestaff to her experienced intelligence.
So it came about that two young people, who adored each other, wereestranged for a considerable length of time. For Isobel wrote no moreletters, and the proud and outraged Godfrey would rather have died thanattempt to open a correspondence--after what he had seen in that Londonsquare. It is true that in his brief epistles home, which were alladdressed to his father, since Mrs. Parsons was what is called "a poorscholar," he did try in a roundabout way to learn something aboutIsobel, but these inquiries, for reasons of his own, his parentcompletely ignored. In short, she might have been dead for all thatGodfrey heard of her, as he believed that she was dead--to him.
Meanwhile, Isobel had other things to occupy her. Her mother, as shehad said in the letter which Mr. Knight's sense of duty compelled himto steal, became very ill with lung trouble. The doctors announced thatshe ought to be taken to Egypt or some other warm climate, such asAlgeria, for the winter months. Sir John would hear nothing of thesort. For years past he had chosen to consider that his wife washypochondriacal, and all the medical opinions in London would not haveinduced him to change that view. The fact was, as may be guessed, thatit did not suit him to leave England, and that for sundry reasons whichneed not be detailed, he did not wish that Isobel should accompany hermother to what he called "foreign parts." In his secret heart hereflected that if Lady Jane died, well, she died, and while heavengained a saint, earth, or at any rate, Sir John Blake, would be noloser. She had played her part in his life, there was nothing more tobe made of her either as a woman as a social asset. What would itmatter if one more pale, uninteresting lady of title joined themajority?
Isobel had one of her stormy interviews with Sir John upon this matterof her mother's health.
"She ought to go abroad," she said.
"Who told you that?" asked her father.
"The doctors. I waited for them and asked them."
"Then you had no business to do so. You are an impertinent andinterfering chit."
"Is it impertinent and interfering to be anxious about one's mother'shealth, even if one is a chit?" inquired Isobel, looking him straightin the eyes.
Then he broke out in his coarse way, saying things to his daughter ofwhich he should have been ashamed.
She waited until he ceased, red-faced, and gasping, and replied:
"Were it not for my mother, whom you abuse, although she is such anangel and has always been so kind to you, I would leave you, Father,and earn my own living, or go with my uncle Edgar to Mexico, where heis to be appointed Minister, as he and Aunt Margaret asked me to. As itis I shall stop here, though if anything happens to Mother, because youwill not send her abroad, I shall go if I have to run away. Why won'tyou let her go?" she added with a change of voice. "You need not come;I could look after her. If you think that Egypt or the other place istoo far, you know the doctors say that perhaps Switzerland would do hergood, and that is quite near."
He caught hold of this suggestion, and exclaimed, with a sneer:
"I know why you want to go to Switzerland, Miss. To run after thatwhipper-snapper of a parson's son, eh? Well, you shan't. And as for whyI won't let her go, it's because I don't believe those doctors, who sayone minute that she should go to Egypt, which is hot, and the next toSwitzerland, which is cold. Moreover, I mean you to stop in England,and not go fooling about with a lot of strange men in these foreignplaces. You are grown up now and out, and I have my own plans for yourfuture, which can't come off if you are away. We stop here tillChristmas, and then go to London. There, that's all, so have done."
At these insults, especially that which had to do with Godfrey, Isobelturned perfectly scarlet and bit her lip till the blood ran. Thenwithout another word she went away, leaving him, if the truth wereknown, a little frightened. Still, he would not alter his decision,partly because to do so must interfere with his plans, and he was avery obstinate man, and partly because he refused to be beaten byIsobel. This was, he felt, a trial of strength between them, and if hegave way now, she would be master. His wife's welfare did not enterinto his calculations.
So they stopped in Essex, where matters went as the doctors hadforetold, only more quickly than they expected. Lady Jane's complaintgrew rapidly worse, so rapidly that soon there was no question of hergoing abroad. At the last moment Sir John grew frightened, as bulliesare apt to do, and on receipt of an indignant letter from LordLynfield, now an old man, who had been informed of the facts by hisgrand-daughter, offered to send his wife to Egypt, or anywhere else.Again the doctors were called in to report, and told him with brutalfrankness that if their advice had been taken when it was first given,probably she would have lived for some years. As it was, it wasimpossible for her to travel, since the exertion might cause her deathupon the journey, especially if she became seasick.
This verdict came to Isobel's knowledge as the first had done. Indeed,in his confusion, emphasized by several glasses of port, her fatherblurted it out himself.
"I wonder whether you will ever be sorry," was her sole comment.
Then she sat down to watch her mother die, and to think. Could there beany good God, she wondered, if He allowed such things to happen. Poorgirl! it was her first experience of the sort, and as yet she did notknow what things are allowed to happen in this world in obedience tothe workings of un
alterable laws by whoever and for whatever purposethese may be decreed.
Being ignorant, however, and still very young and untaught of life, shecould not be expected to take these large views, or to guess at theHand of Mercy which holds the cup of human woes. She saw her motherfading away because of her father's obstinacy and self-seeking, and itwas inconceivable to her that such an unnecessary thing could beallowed by a gentle and loving Providence. Therefore, she turned herback on Providence, as many a strong soul has done before her,rejecting it for the reason that she could not understand.
Had she but guessed, this attitude of hers, which could not beconcealed entirely in the case of a nature so frank, was the bitterestdrop in her mother's draught of death. She, poor gentle creature, madeno complaints, but only excuses for her husband's conduct. Nor, savefor Isobel's sake did she desire to live. Her simple faith upbore herthrough the fears of departure, and assured her of forgiveness for allerrors, and of happiness beyond in a land where there was one at leastwhom she wished to meet.
"I won't try to argue with you, because I am not wise enough tounderstand such things," she said to Isobel, "but I wish, dearest, thatyou would not be so certain as to matters which are too high for us."
"I can't help it, Mother," she answered.
Lady Jane looked at her and smiled, and then said:
"No, darling, you can't help it now, but I am sure that a time mustcome when you will think differently. I say this because somethingtells me that it is so, and the knowledge makes me very happy. You seewe must all of us go through darkness and storms in life; that is if weare worth anything, for, of course, there are people who do not feel.Yet at the end there is light, and love, and peace, for you as well asfor me, Isobel; yes, and for all of us who have tried to trust and torepent of what we have done wrong."
"As you believe it I hope that it is true; indeed, I think that it mustbe true, Mother dear," said Isobel with a little sob.
The subject was never discussed between them again, but although Isobelshowed no outward change of attitude, from that time forward till theend, her mother seemed much easier in her mind about her and her views.
"It will all come right. We shall meet again. I know it. I know it,"were her last words.